Chapter One
Mocha, Murder, and the Most Unlikely Hitman
Elliot
“Leaving without saying goodbye?”
My feet freeze. I look at the door longingly. So close to making it out without being spotted. I thought the loud noises and laughter of Oliver's friends, or rather friends' in-law, were a good cover.
I turn to look at the brother-in-law Oliver will soon inherit, Nicholas Harper, the last guy I was hoping to run into right now. His sharp eyes focus on me, like he’s trying to dissect me into small, easy particles to study under a microscope.
I feel a weird sense of déjà vu wash over me from the Christmas party in the apartment across the hall six months ago. Matt and Oliver’s first joint venture at the whole playing the hosts thing. Now they're engaged. And Nicholas is still the biggest obstacle between me and the door.
With his five o’clock shadow, he looks like a mix between an Abercrombie model and a small-town cop, where the worst crime is missing candy at the fall festival.
There’s really no other reason for him to be smiling that much all the time. He’s a detective at LAPD, for fuck’s sake. A pretty good one from my research. As to why I was researching him, well, you can never be too aware of your surroundings in my line of work.
“Nicholas,” I nod.
“Elliot,” he nods back mockingly, a big smile on his face. “How very formal of you,” he adds, because he wouldn't be Nicholas Harper if he didn’t say whatever comes to his head.
I tamp down the urge to roll my eyes.
“Isn’t it rude to do the whole Irish goodbye thing when the party is this small?
” he asks, his tone teasing. The smile is still on with full force.
I would have doubted the genuineness of that smile, but no, it’s real.
Nicholas doles them out generously. He’s nice and sweet and reliable and oh…
a werewolf capable of killing anyone in point five seconds.
I look at Oliver on the couch with his new fiancé and the other werewolves. They’re all laughing. I still want to drag him away. But I begrudgingly admit he looks happy and safe. “Looks like the hosts will live,” I say.
Nicholas laughs. “Some urgent business to get to?” he tilts his head.
“Yup, have a standing appointment with my bed.”
“Oh, you don’t want to miss those,” he nods. “Always nice catching up, dude,” he salutes with the drink in his hand, walking backwards.
I rush out of there, hurry down the elevator, power-walk to my car, and enter the coordinates for my destination, which unfortunately is not my bed.
***
I love walking through empty streets at night.
Streetlights stretching long shadows across empty sidewalks.
My footsteps echo louder than they should, broken only by a trash can lid clattering somewhere behind me.
A sharp breeze slips under my jacket, cool against my neck, raising a line of goosebumps.
Today, I don’t take the time to savor it all.
No, I walk straight to the biggest house in the corner with intention.
The neighbors must be asleep, occasional porch lights the only sign of life, other than a cat peeking out from behind the trashcan cover.
I ignore the tiny, gleaming eyes and turn towards the house.
It’s on, I text Sam, my sidekick, or the main kick in the operation, depending on who you ask.
I unlatch the main gate without any problem and knock on the door. I don’t have to wait long. It opens instantly, revealing a tall, muscular man who completely blocks the view inside. Then again, it’s not difficult to be taller than me since I’m nothing to write home about in the height department.
But this one isn’t just strong and big. He’s dangerous. When Harold looks at me, his face frowns for a second before it breaks into a smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks again for coming all the way here.”
“I told you it’s no problem at all,” I give him with a smile of my own. “I brought coffee. Venti Iced White Mocha with almond milk, just how you like.” I hand him one of the cups and wink.
He takes it, smiling. “Good man,” he says.
Mickey peeks from behind the man’s legs, and Harold finally realizes we’re still standing on his porch.
He ushers me in, and I’m greeted by two paws on my chest and a happy dog right in front of my face.
I give the rowdy Rottweiler a scratch behind his ears while he tries to lick the coffee cup in my hand.
“Down boy,” Harold says.
Dutifully, Mickey climbs down on all fours and follows us into a spacious living room, which is clean and sterile. Cold, almost soulless.
I drop my bag on the coffee table.
Harold looks at the bag, his eyes narrow for a nanosecond. I flash him a soft, sugary smile. “I hope you don't mind if I make this the checkup area.”
His smile stretches wide, teeth showing, as he nods. He sits down on the couch and takes a sip of his coffee. I set mine down on the table.
Harold's eyes follow my movements, but I ignore him. I sit down on the other leather couch and pat beside me, looking expectantly at Mickey. He whines but doesn't come up. I look at Harold, mentally grinding my teeth.
He’s sipping his coffee comfortably. Doesn’t look like he intends to make things easy for me. So I kneel on the floor and get to work.
Mickey doesn't really need a checkup. He is healthy as can be, which is surprising considering his owner’s track record with living beings.
Harold's eyes track my every movement. It feels instinctive, like he’s so used to being on edge, he doesn't even realize he's doing it. I wouldn’t have noticed the scrutiny if I didn't know what he did. What he was.
He takes another sip and places the cup on the table.
I pause my inspection of Mickey’s coat and pick my cup off the table to take a small sip. “Everything looks good. I’ll just take a few more minutes, then you can bring him to the clinic in a few days,” I tell him.
He nods and grabs the cup again, taking a few more sips. I drop my cup back down to check Mickey’s eyes.
This time, when Harold sets the cup back on the table, it sounds empty.
I carry on with my work in silence. Too tired to make conversation. It’s not like I’ll be meeting Harold ever again anyway. Besides, he doesn’t really deserve the common courtesy of small talk.
“On second thought, I don't think you'll need to come to the clinic,” I say after ten minutes.
Harold tilts his head, frowning. “You said the annual check-up needs—” he stops when his body starts trembling with violent shakes. The couch rattles against the wall as his body jerks.
I pat Mickey to keep him calm. He doesn’t seem too bothered, though. Maybe he belonged to Harold’s wife and wasn’t too fond of his new dad. Well, I’m here for the rescue.
I pull out a treat that I know he loves and offer it to him. He munches away, watching Harold crumble.
Once the wave of confusion is gone, Harold's eyes narrow at me. “What is happening to me?” he demands.
I smile. “We don’t need you for the checkup, so you can carry on,” I wave him off. He looks confused for a second before his expression morphs into rage.
“What the fuck, you little bitch?” His voice comes out low.
“Honestly? Not at all surprised it took you just one drink to show your true colors. Sure, it was poisoned, but jeez, man. Where did all those manners go?”
“I will kill you,” Harold shouts, his voice turning unnaturally growly, his features becoming sharp. Suddenly, with a loud snap, his nails turn into claws.
He pushes his palm against the couch to stand up, but falls right back down, then slides to the floor.
I keep patting Mickey while he pants at me. Harold’s hands move around desperately, clawing at the floor, then the table.
I stand. Mickey whines at the loss of attention. “Come here, boy.” I walk him over to the other side of the room. Why should he suffer through watching this? He didn't choose his human.
Well, ‘human’ is a stretch.
“What did you do to me?” Harold yells.
“Oh, nothing, it's just a little bit of Valmeron with some Myocardiner that makes a werewolf go poof. Doesn’t do much to humans, but surprisingly lethal to werewolves. The research was a bitch, by the way, so you better appreciate it. It’ll only paralyze you, then make you die of a heart attack. Neat, right?”
It took Sam and me almost four years to find the perfect mix of drugs for our missions, and then another year to nail the doses and drink combos so no werewolf would be able to sniff it out.
“Which reminds me, where's your phone?” I ask him.
As I look at Harold’s stormy face, his body tries its best to shift, but it won’t. It can’t. With a snap, the claws go right back in just as quickly as they came out, and his face becomes human again, his eyes dark. Body too weak fighting against the infection to shift into another form.
Then he goes still.
I edge closer to him, careful of any after effects. Can’t have my eyes clawed out, wouldn’t be good for the business. I glove up, eyes trained on him to catch any possible movements. When I’m sure he’s completely paralyzed, I grab his phone out of his pocket.
Harold's eyes continue following me, like they have since I stepped into his house. Like watching me did anything to stop me from poisoning him in the first place.
Whatever, his funeral. Literally.
I’m done here. Time for the cleanup.
I call Sam. “What? You done already?”
That sounds like a trick question. “Umm, yes?”
Sam sighs. “This could be so much more fun! Where’s the drama, the flair?” he whines in my ear.
“My murders are not for your entertainment, thank you very much,” I tell Sam primly.
“Yeah, yeah. Is the phone connected to Wi-Fi?”
I point the phone towards Harold's face, and it unlocks. Then check the Wi-Fi status. “Yup.”
“Perfect,” Sam says.
I hear a lot of clicks on his end.
While he takes care of that, I walk over to Mickey, who is now happily snoozing in the corner, his breath loud but calm.
He woofs quietly in his sleep. My heart melts into a puddle.
I can’t take him with me, I remind myself as I kneel in front of him.