True Colors ( elder races ), Page 2

  He took a deep breath and bellowed, “NYPD! Stop!”

  Of course she didn’t stop. He wouldn’t have stopped either just because some dumbass stranger yelled at him. Damn it, was she headed for the subway?

  She was. In a move that was so suicidal it took his breath away, she plunged almost directly under the wheels of an oncoming truck as she raced across the street. Riehl didn’t think the driver even saw her because the truck never slowed.

  Riehl had no choice but to pull up for a few vital moments, which gave her an even greater lead. After the truck he kicked it in gear, kicked it as hard as he could. He blazed down the sidewalk like a heat-seeking missile, scattering pedestrians in his wake like so many squawking chickens. He listened to the sounds of his breathing, the sharp wind whistling in his ears. At the subway station, he didn’t bother with taking the stairs at a run. Instead he gathered himself and spanned the flight in one massive leap, but it wasn’t enough.

  Several yards ahead, the woman darted across the station platform and on to a train just as the doors closed. It was like something out of a goddamn made-for-TV movie. Unbelievable. Riehl spat out a curse as he came up to the closed doors.

  They stared at each other through the barrier. The woman was panting and her eyes were dilated black in a face that was chalky white except for two hectic flags of color in her cheeks. As she took in his expression, she stepped back from the door, only stopping when she bumped into people behind her.

  The train lurched. He raised his eyebrows, pulled out his badge and showed it to her. She stared at it and her eyes widened. As the train pulled away, she stepped forward again and put her hand to the glass, her gaze rising to his.

  He pointed to her. “Nearest police station,” he mouthed. “Go there.”

  The last sight he had of her was her peering at him as the train rattled away. He wondered if showing her the badge would get a better result than yelling at her in the street had.

  He had better go locate the nearest police station and find out.

  Chapter Two

  Law

  Alice got off the subway at the next stop and ran up the stairs to street level. She was a total wreck, spooking at the slightest thing while she tried to think past the incredulous shout still echoing in her head.

  Had he experienced the same epiphany when he looked at her?

  Mate. Killer.

  Police?

  Be smart, be safe now. Could the badge have been fake? Rattled though she was, that seemed like an awfully unlikely stretch—unless impersonating a police officer was how he had gotten inside Haley’s apartment in the first place. Haley’s door had been open, not broken. Many crimes had been committed by people posing as police officers, including one of the most famous in the twentieth century, the St. Valentine’s Day massacre in the 1920s.

  But he’d told her to go to the nearest police station. That sounded authentic—unless he hoped to grab her before she actually got inside. Why would he do that? Now she was sounding paranoid and irrational—except she had left the normal boundaries of reality behind two days ago when she heard that Peter had been killed.

  Their group was small and tight-knit for a reason. The shock waves of Peter’s death had barely begun to reverberate through the circle when Alex Schaffer, the group’s leader, had emailed everyone yesterday to tell them he couldn’t get in touch with David and had anybody else heard from him?

  Nobody had. Alice and Haley had planned that very evening to huddle together and grieve for Peter and fret over David’s disappearance. Alice had been ready to coax Haley into packing a bag and coming to stay with her for at least the weekend, and not fifteen minutes ago she had realized that the dark red hollow at the midsection of Haley’s sprawled body was in fact the inside of Haley’s body.

  If that man was the killer and he had come back to Haley’s apartment to clean up something, if he thought she could identify him and tie him to the crime, he would want to do anything he could, even risk proximity to the police station, in order to get rid of her.

  She ran into a small piece of luck as a taxi drove down the street with its light on. She waved at it and when it stopped, she jumped in and locked the doors. “Drive around,” she told the cabby.

  “Okay,” said the cabby. He was an intelligent, anemic-looking Wyr in his mid-forties, with a dry, dusty scent and fingernails bitten to the quick. He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Anywhere in particular you want to go?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute,” she said. “Just get moving.”

  “Fabulous,” the cabby said with a shrug. “It’s your dime.”

  Alice pulled out her cell phone and finally dialed 9-1-1. For a wonder, an operator picked up after only a few rings. “I need to report a murder,” Alice said.

  The cab slowed, and her driver gave her a sudden sharp look in the rearview mirror. She glared at him and he ducked his head. The cab picked up speed again.

  The snowfall had thickened. Alice watched the passing streets through the windshield wipers while she gave the operator Haley’s address, and what details she knew. “When I left the building, a man chased me,” she said. “He had been in the apartment. I managed to get on to a subway train as the doors closed so I got away from him, but he had time to show me a badge through the window. He said he was a police officer and he ordered me to go to the nearest station. I need to verify his identity if I can.”

  “Ma’am, I can’t do that for you over the phone,” said the operator. “You need to go to the nearest police station.”

  “Look, I’m a teacher,” Alice said. Her voice unraveled along with her composure. “I’m not some tough soldier or cop-type that deals with crime scenes and death every day—I teach first-grade kids, okay? Usually the worst part of my day is trying to get the glue and glitter off my jeans after craft-time and preparing for parent-teacher conferences. Now I’ve had three friends killed in the last three days. Today it was one of my best friends, and her body is in pieces. I’m shaken and I’m really scared. What if this man’s waiting for me outside the station and he’s not actually the police?”

  “All right,” said the operator, her voice gentling. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You said you’re in a cab, correct?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Have your driver pull over and give me your location. I’m going to get a unit dispatched to you. Make sure you wait in the cab with the driver until they arrive. Then you’ll have a police escort to the station. Okay?”

  Alice’s world stopped spinning just a little. She whispered, “Yes, okay.”

  Less than ten minutes later, a cruiser pulled up behind the cab, lights flashing, but siren off. Alice paid the cab driver as one of the officers, a policewoman, walked up to them. Alice climbed out of the cab.

  The policewoman said, “Alice Clark?”

  “Yes,” Alice said.

  “I’m Sergeant Rizzo. My partner is Officer Garcia. We’re here to escort you to the 94th Precinct.”

  “Thank you,” Alice said. She had cooled down after her headlong run through the streets, but her clothes were still clammy with sweat and the temperature was plummeting fast. The winter storm had definitely arrived. She wrapped her coat tight around her as she started to shiver.

  “You’re welcome.” The policewoman walked with her to the cruiser.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you,” Alice said. “I don’t even know if this was necessary.”

  “Not at all,” said Rizzo. The Sergeant opened the back door and gestured for her to climb in. “From what I understand, you might have been facing a smart, violent killer. You can’t be too careful.”

  As Alice settled gingerly into the backseat, Garcia twisted around to smile at her through the protective grille. “We’ve got a message for you that might set your mind at ease. We just heard from the WDVC—the Wyr Division of Violent Crime. Detective Gideon Riehl has arrived at the 94th and is waiting for you there. He says to tell you he’s big and blond, and he’s sorr
y he scared you.”

  Alice sagged as Garcia’s words sank in. “Oh gods, thank you.”

  Reaction set in as Garcia drove through the thickening storm. Alice huddled in her coat and shook so hard she felt like she might fly apart at the joints. A succession of images from the past hour flashed through her mind with silent urgency.

  Haley’s expression had been blank, as if she had died overcome with surprise. Or perhaps her expression was blank only because she was dead, and she had suffered unimaginable fear and pain in her last moments. Had she looked into her killer’s face and known she was going to die?

  Had she looked into her killer’s face and known him?

  Alice wiped her face with the end of her scarf. Haley worked—had worked—at the same elementary school as she did. Someone was going to have to call Alex, who was not only the leader of their group but the principal of Broadway Elementary. Someone was going to have to contact Haley’s parents. She supposed the police had an established protocol for such things, but Haley was—had been—an only child. The news of her loss was going to be a crippling blow. Maybe the police would let Alice help.

  And Peter. They hadn’t released the details of his death, only that he had been attacked and killed. They might not have found David yet. But as early as two days ago, when Alice and Haley had talked of Peter in hushed voices in the teacher’s lounge, Alice had known.

  The nightmare had returned.

  Though the Friday evening was still young, traffic had thinned to a trickle as visibility was reduced to yards. A winter storm advisory urged emergency travel only and even the most determined holiday shoppers abandoned their pursuits.

  The world had turned barren and so treacherous it leached away the electric welcome of lights shining in the dark. The wind howled as though it was populated with invisible wolves on the hunt. It drove the snow with such force tiny needles of ice attacked any exposed skin.

  There were two kinds of storms, Alice thought. One was a friendly kind that you could enjoy watching out the window with a cup of tea. It crashed around in the sky with theatricality but no real malice.

  This storm was the other, the killing kind. There are horrors that exist in the night, the bitter wind said, horrors that only children and demons can see. There are horrors that exist in the mind as well, that only the individual can bear witness to. The winter wind sang of things that the mind did not quite remember but that fear never forgot, filled as people are with the haunts and tragedies that make up the shadows of their lives. We can’t endure them, the wind whispered, for when the light and warmth are truly taken we are left shivering naked in the dark. Then we hear a nearby husky chuckle that tells us we are prey.

  Not even the lights of the 94th Precinct could offer Alice any comfort as the square brick-and-stone building appeared suddenly, a great, hulking, shadowed mass in the gray-and-black night. Faceless evil destroyed her friends and stalked her community. The grief and fear were crushing.

  Then there was this, a different kind of reason to shake, an impossible sense of knowing about someone she didn’t know at all. The conviction invaded her bones and assaulted her skeptical, resisting soul.

  She didn’t want a mate. She didn’t even like to date. All of those questions everybody asked, the same ones, over and over. What do you do for a living? What do you do for fun? What do you like to eat? Are you seeing anybody else?

  Did anybody ever answer those questions truthfully on the first date?

  Alice’s tendencies followed her shy Wyr nature. She was a quiet person who liked solitary pursuits. She enjoyed reading, quilting, long walks and biking in parks, camping and books on tape. Her idea of going renegade was to make a radical departure from a food recipe. While she adored all fifteen of the quirky, rambunctious children in her classroom, she often spent her evenings at home recovering from the intense social interactions of the day. She got her social needs met by the routine get-togethers of her group, other teachers at lunch, periodic phone calls and letters to her parents and, oh gods, Haley.

  The gigantic menacing stranger—what had Garcia called him? Detective Gideon Riehl. He couldn’t be who she thought he was. She had to be suffering from some kind of internal system malfunction, a strange by-product from all the stress of the last few days.

  Wyr were deadly when they turned criminal. By definition, anyone who worked in the New York Police Department’s elite WDVC lived a violent, dangerous life. In order to bring down criminal Wyr, the members of the WDVC had to be better, more efficient killers than the Wyr they hunted. Alice couldn’t imagine anyone more unlike her. No wonder he had terrified her.

  Had he felt something when he’d first laid eyes on her? Did he share the same, insane conviction that she was his mate? If he hadn’t, she had to worry about herself. If he had, then she had a whole lot of other things to worry about.

  She caught sight of Detective Riehl’s unmistakable, immense figure as he paced in front of the precinct’s doors. He was bare-headed, his battered leather jacket unzipped. Apparently he was immune to the brutal blizzard shrieking around him. Riehl turned as Garcia pulled the patrol car over to the curb. He was already striding forward as the cruiser slowed to a smooth stop.

  A powerful insanity took over Alice as she watched him approach. He moved his massive body with athletic, sure fluidity, those impossibly long legs of his making short work of the distance between them. His light-colored gaze fixed on her with the same unnerving intensity as earlier, but instead of filling her with panic, this time she knew that he was her only shelter from the killing storm.

  Her gaze clung to him, her breath sawing in her throat as she groped for a handle, only belatedly remembering there weren’t handles in the back of a police car when Riehl reached out and gently opened the door for her. His icy gaze steady, he held out both powerful hands to her.

  Maybe she meant to run. The part of her that continued to be appalled wanted to. The greater part of her, the insane part, reached for his outstretched hands with both of hers. His palms were hot and calloused under her fingers. He supported her weight as she somehow got her trembling muscles to work and climbed out of the car. Her teeth were audibly clacking, her pride nowhere to be found. He gave her face one keen, searching glance then he simply enfolded her in his arms. His warmth and scent surrounded her, and the relief and comfort were indescribable.

  “Everything’s going to be all right now,” he rumbled quietly in her ear. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

  She gave up all thought of running, abandoned every sense of pride and propriety, and leaned against his broad, muscled chest. It felt like a strong and sturdy home.

  Now that they were up close and personal, Riehl found Alice Clark such a wee little thing, he could almost pick her up and put her in his pocket. He rubbed her slender back as she huddled against him. For some reason his heart had decided to do a jackhammer tempo. The wolf in him growled as she trembled, but he kept a stern hold on his beast. Now was not the time to go all Cujo on anybody and run the risk of freaking her out even further. But he angled his head and bared his teeth in silent warning as the two uniforms stepped out of the police car and approached a little too close.

  The male uniform held up his hands in a placating gesture. The female narrowed her eyes on him and said deliberately, “Ms. Clark, do you need anything else from us?”

  Riehl’s snarl deepened as Alice’s arms fell away from his waist. She would have turned away from him too except he refused to let her go. She turned her head instead. Her wild, adorable, gold-tipped corkscrew curls tickled his chin, and he wanted to rub his face all over her as she said, “No. Thank you for everything.”

  “You’re welcome,” said the female. She gave him an extra glare before turning away with her partner as they went back to their shift.

  Alice tilted her head to look up at him. He assessed her strained expression. Thin, gold, wire-rim glasses framed large hazel eyes, brilliant with flecks of blue and green, against cocoa-and-cream
skin so lustrous it made his mouth water with the urge to lick her everywhere. Her delicate, somewhat ascetic features were smudged with tearstains and lingering traces of fear. Standing out in the frigid cold, her shivering had increased.

  Those beautiful eyes of hers were stark with too much emotion and remembered horror. He came to another one of his quick decisions and told her, “I’m taking you home.”

  Surprise bloomed like an unfurling flower in her tense, closed-down face. She asked, “You’re not going to question me?”

  “Yes, but you’ve been through one hell of a shock. Anything we have to say to each other can be done in the comfort of your own place,” he said.

  He put an arm around her shoulders and steered her toward his vehicle, a black, unmarked, late-model Jeep Cherokee. She didn’t protest but moved at his side like an automaton. He unlocked the doors with the key fob and opened the passenger door for her. Once she was settled, he moved swiftly around to the driver’s side.

  With a quick sidelong glance, he made sure she had fastened her seat belt before starting the Jeep and pulling out. He could feel through the steering wheel how treacherously slick the road had become. The engine was still warm, so he turned the heater on full blast for her. If he had been by himself, he wouldn’t have bothered. In most instances, he generated enough body heat for his own comfort.

  Riehl had come to realize just how used he had gotten to roughing it since he had taken the new job. A recruit at age twenty, he had been in the army for longer than most human life spans. His wolf was still not comfortable with the decision to retire. Whenever he was in compact living quarters like the vic’s—like Haley Moore’s place—he often felt as if he might knock things over if he moved too quickly.