Bear This Heat (A BBW Shifter Romance) (Last of the Shapeshifters) (7 page)

- Excerpt from full transcript of
Interview with a Shapeshifter
by Circe Cole. Printed with expressed permission.

*

She
had been delectable, Dylan thought to himself. He was beginning to realize that he was wrong. He hadn’t quenched that thirst, never exhausted that drive. It had only been lying dormant, buried under more pressing, more immediate needs. The need to find answers. The need that had brought him to Salty Springs, that had introduced him to a woman that made him feel warm and fuzzy inside.

This D.I. Sasha Monroe… she had looked like a woman used to pressure, and had no problems being in control. The thought intrigued him in a variety of ways, none of them appropriate.

He turned around as he walked away, seeing the car still parked. He was certain she was looking at him in the rear-view mirror. She might even follow him for a while, or get one of her boys to, to see what he was up to. And that also intrigued him. What had them her so worked up that they would question a man in public like that? Granted, nobody else had been around, but the tactic smelled of desperation, and he was pretty sure was completely illegal.

Those two uniformed policemen as well, they had acted oddly, hands quickly to their guns as though they were expecting danger. And while Dylan could certainly see why he could be considered dangerous, only someone armed with the knowledge of what he truly was could make that call. And these police officers had no idea.

He did have one clue, though, and he didn’t doubt that it was spoon-fed to him by the lovely Sasha. Namedropping the street was definitely odd, and not something a seasoned police officer would do, and so he knew that, it wasn’t a mistake. He figured he’d take the bait – he had nothing to lose, and he might find out what all the fuss was about.

He was beginning to think that it couldn’t be a coincidence that just days after there had been wolf sightings in the greater area that he turn up at the only logical destination to find an antsy police force quick to their side-arms. Not to mention a rather unique interest in new folks in town.

“Lester Street,” he hummed to himself, pulling out a folded map from his back pocket. His arms glistened with sweat, but the heat was dry. He wasn’t dripping. It was just a sheen. The map of the small town was from the tourist office, and was one of those sorts of maps that were cartoon-like, off-scale and with little clipart images of the major attractions in and around Salty Springs.

He had indeed read in a brochure why the town was called that, and the answer was as benign as it was expected. The town had first been settled because there were generous springs, the only water source for miles. The town had, at first, been called Megan Springs, after the horse of the man who found the water source. Fresh water in the desert! Rarer – and more valuable – than gemstone.

But over time the water started to grow salty, and so the name of the town was changed to Salty Springs. But by then it had already been settled, and the people refused to move out, as people do. That was seventy years ago. Scientists had recently discovered a great underground lake sitting beneath the town, dozens of meters deep; the source of the springs. The lake was salt water, a long-lost sea caught by encroaching land, from a time when a world map would have been unrecognizable. What little fresh water had seeped through ground from the occasional rains over time had floated on the surface of the salt water, being less dense. The town of course used up the fresh water supply, and the spring water was no longer potable.

Read a fuckin’ brochure, Dylan replayed in his mine, grinning. That waitress at the café had certainly left an impression.

Lester Street was clear on the other side of town, and so he had a long walk ahead of him. Looking over his shoulder once again, he was a little surprised – and a little disappointed – to see D.I. Monroe’s car was gone. He had expected her to stick around just a little bit longer.

*

“Anything?” Superintendent O’Neill asked her as Sasha pushed through the revolving door to the police station. He seemed to always be at the front desk whenever she was getting in.

“He didn’t incriminate himself, if that’s what you mean.”

“Why didn’t you bring him in?”

“On what? A description from a person
you
told me was a known drunk? Yeah, you want to guarantee this guy gets off on a bogus arrest technicality?”

The superintendent puffed his chest out, and his face grew impossibly ruddier. “So you just let him go?”

“I’ve got a car keeping an eye on him.”

“You’re taking liberties with hierarchy today, Monroe.”

“Same car you gave me for the search. Let me have them for the day, okay?”

He relented. “Fine.

“So I’ll know anything he does.”

“What if he does nothing?”

She looked at the square-shaped man. “There’s something odd about him, boss. I’m pretty sure he’s connected to all of this, but I’m not so sure he’s our guy.”

“Why not?”

Sasha shrugged. She wasn’t entirely sure. “Call it instinct. Anyway, I have a hunch he might do something soon that I can bring him in on. That way, we can hold him longer than just a day.”

“Be careful, Monroe. I don’t want this getting out of hand.”

“Yes, sir. Any news from the doc?” Sasha was still waiting on that autopsy report.

“No, he’s still down with food poisoning.”

“Great.”

“Says he’ll get on it when he can.”

“Push him, please, Sir?”

“I will.”

Sasha returned her thoughts to the darkly handsome Dylan Macready. “Sir, I need to borrow a car. Unmarked.”

“Why?”

“Suspect will recognize mine, and I need to go somewhere I think he’ll be.”

“You should have just brought him in, Monroe. We can sit on him for twenty four hours. You’ll be able to call the lab by then, and the doctor will have done his autopsy probably. Shit, he might have had something on his person that tied him to the scene! He reached down under the desk, and Sasha heard the jingle of keys.

“We can always bring him in anytime if that’s how you want to play it, boss. We don’t have to let him leave town.”

“Just don’t fuck up, Sasha.”

“Don’t worry, sir,” Sasha said, catching the keys he tossed underarm at her. “I’ll get him.”

“Blue five.”

Sasha looked at the car keys, and then back up at the superintendent. “Oh, come on, sir!” she cried. “Not blue five!”

“Take it, or walk.”

“Fine.” Sasha turned to leave, but was interrupted mid-step.

“Monroe.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The superintendent waddled around the front desk, and approached her. His nose, like prize strawberry, was redder than ever, and his balding crown matched its shade, perpetually sunburnt. He had a look in his eyes that informed her she should brace herself. His temper was legendary.

“What is it, sir?”

He pointed a finger at her. “Do you need any backup?”

“Backup? No, that would just alert him.”

“That’s not what I meant, Sasha. Do you want James to tag along?”

Sasha glared at him. “D.I. James? I don’t need his help, sir.”

“You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I do, sir.”

“Fine. Don’t disappoint me, Monroe. Give me a reason to take away your promotion, and I will.”

Sasha glowered at him. “I know…
sir
.”

He waved her off. “Then go.”

She went back out through the revolving door, trying not to let herself get angry. In the dusty, windswept parking lot of the police station, she saw the car she’d been given sitting out in the sun. She sighed. Blue five was the department’s worst car, dark, and equipped with a weak air-conditioner, and it meant she’d have to ride with the windows down if she wanted to stave off the heat.

But it would have to do. If she was right about her hunch, then Dylan would be snooping around the crime scene, either to check for evidence he had left behind, or because somehow he was connected. Even if he checked out the scene out of mere curiosity, it would be a big enough violation that she could hold him for the rest for seventy-two hours. She reaffirmed to herself that she didn’t believe in coincidences, not of this magnitude. Dylan was
definitely
connected. Even if he didn’t kill Charlie Kinnear, he’d probably lead her to the person who did.

And for now, it was all she had to go on.

*

He’s tall, dark, and handsome. A cliché rarely realized. His eyes smolder. His jaw cuts. There is always a space between his lips, as though ever inviting the kiss. That is how Sasha Monroe, retired Detective Inspector, describes him. She does so enthusiastically, as though the memory of the first time they properly ‘met’ is forever at the forefront of her mind.

She also says that he’s got a quite a head on his shoulders, an intelligence that is unusual. She’s quick to temper the statement, though, by reminding me that he’s no genius. Her smile indicates she’s being playful, teasing. It is an unsurprising truth, however, and is no indictment.

But the point is made. He was not an idiot stumbling in the dark. Sasha knows that he knew it was a trap, but she also knew that he was going to take the bait. When asked how she knew, she shrugs, and her eyes flicker sideways, breaking contact for just the briefest of moments. She cannot say for sure, and that bothers her more than she’s prepared to admit.

Gut instinct, she says. A feeling, she says. But it is clear these are just words that are unable to convey the depth or complexity of her meaning. Instinct. Feeling. That special type of precognition that all animal species depend upon for survival. In humankind, the talent is dulled and smudged by technology and cognition.

She elaborates a little. She says she always had it, and even in her youth, she learned to trust her gut instinct quickly, because she was mostly rewarded for doing so.

It is quite clear from her recounting of the Salty Springs incident, in which she and Dylan first met, that her capacity for precognition, that sixth sense, was telling her something. But it was her mind, her reason, her logic, that distorted it. She admits to not being entirely convinced that Dylan Macready was the killer, though she pursued that path anyway.

It so perfectly exemplified the dichotomy between reason and instinct. One could be honed, of course. But the other?

Sasha would remain unaware that she was the just the type of person to make the leap. To cross that bridge.

To return to animal.

- Excerpt from
Return to Animal: Unlocking Within
by Circe Cole. Printed with expressed permission.

*

Dylan consulted his map again, and drained his small bottle of water in one sip. Chucking the plastic into a rubbish bin, he listened to it rattle in as he looked at the tacky town map. He wasn’t far from Lester Street. At least, that was the best he could glean from the ridiculously off-scale illustration of the town.

Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was nearly three in the afternoon, and yet the sun above was showing no signs of relenting. It beat down on him, the buildings, the tarmac, and the desert, with equal force. Nature was indiscriminate.

He wondered what he would find when he got there. He wasn’t sure if he’d know it when he saw it. Possibilities raced through his mind. His greatest they seemed. He had already noticed a few uniforms who drove by, looking at him with hard eyes. But he was hope was that there had been a wolf sighting. But that wouldn’t explain why the police were as anxious as content with being a suspect if it got him closer to the wolf. They wouldn’t
prove
anything, one way or another, and so at most it would be an inconvenience. That was easily outweighed by the fact that it might lead him directly to what he sought. Risks were something he’d learned to shrug off. If experience was anything to go by, the bigger the risk, the bigger the payoff.

Of course, the way Sasha had dropped that tip told him that something had definitely gone down. He was almost certain that a crime had been committed, Dylan wondered if it was serious. Breaking and entering? Theft? Robbery? Murder? He couldn’t know, at least not yet. A doubt flitted into his mind: what if this was completely unrelated to the wolf? What if he was just following an incorrect thread blindly? All this attention he’d received from the police could be gang-related. The waitress at the café had said there were meth houses popping up in the area.

The possibilities were definitely diverse and numerous. He had to trust his instinct. Besides, it was his only lead. There was nothing else to go on. He’d been walking across town all morning, since before the sun was up, and hadn’t seen any signs of the wolf, hadn’t caught onto any odd, let alone canine, smells. And he certainly hadn’t seen any tracks, not that they’d stick around for long. The endless light breeze washed the desert town clean with sand.

Arriving at Lester Street, Dylan began to walk its length, looking at each house, searching for any indication that something was wrong, that something was going on. He was a few houses down, when he saw that yellow police tape cordoning off an entire house, he knew he had found what he was looking for.

He looked around, specifically for Monroe’s white car, but all the parked cars looked empty, so Dylan approached the taped-off house. Everything on the outside looked fine. There was no sign of forced entry; the door didn’t look like it had been busted open, and there were no broken windows.

It was strange, though, that there wasn’t a police guard, especially as this must have happened earlier today. If it had happened earlier than today, it would have been in the paper he picked up and read, the free one which had a picture of D.I. Sasha Monroe on the front at her promotion ceremony.

He thought about that article, remembering that he had read she had been meritoriously promoted. He wondered what exactly she had done to earn it. The details were sketchy at best. She was the first female Detective Inspector in the town, and only woman in her precinct, and so it must have been something pretty ballsy to force a higher-up’s hand with a political promotion, which was exactly what it smacked of. It aroused a strand of indignation in him to think that someone capable had been held down intentionally just because they lacked a set of testes.