Chapter 21 #3
Something like appreciation flashes in his eyes. "Yes, you can." He steps closer, the electrical sensation between us intensifying again until it's almost visible, like heat waves rising from summer asphalt.
I catch myself before I lean close enough to touch him, though every cell in my body seems to be straining toward him, as if we're two halves of a broken whole seeking reunification.
"But you don't have to handle it alone."
"Are you offering to help?" I ask, skepticism clear in my voice. "A wolf-shifter helping a GUIDE agent?"
"I'm offering to help you, Astrid." The distinction hangs between us, significant in ways I'm so not ready to examine. "There's a difference."
Before I can respond, he reaches out, his fingers barely grazing my cheek—the lightest touch, but it sends warm sparks cascading through my system like a live wire touching water. My skin tingles where his fingers were, the sensation lingering like an echo.
"I'll be watching," he says softly.
"Is that supposed to be comforting or creepy?" I manage, despite the electricity still dancing beneath my skin where he touched me.
His laugh is low and warm, washing over me like velvet. "Both? Neither? You decide."
Then he's gone, melting into the morning fog, leaving me alone with the echo of his touch on my skin and a thousand questions spinning in my mind.
By the time Sutter and Mendez reach my position, I've composed myself. Outwardly, at least. Inside, I'm a riot of conflicting emotions. Duty warring with desire. Training battling instinct.
"Ma'am, what happened?" Sutter asks, frustration clear in his voice. "We almost had one cornered."
"No, you didn't," I correct him. "What we're dealing with isn't what we thought."
"They weren't really dogs, were they?" Mendez has always been the sharper of the two, her dark eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"Not exactly. And not our primary concern anymore." I begin packing up my surveillance equipment, movements precise and efficient despite the lingering buzz under my skin. "I believe there's something else happening at this complex that requires further investigation."
"Like what?" Sutter looks skeptical, his face still flushed with exertion and frustration.
"I'm not sure yet," I admit. "But I intend to find out. Let's head back. I need to speak with Director Hayes."
As we leave the warehouse complex, I feel eyes on me—not hostile, but watchful. Protective, even. I don't turn around. I don't need to.
I know he's there, just as I know the hellhounds are there, too. Both hunting in their own way, both inevitable.
And for the first time in years, I'm not sure which side of the hunt I'm truly on anymore. The line between hunter and hunted, between duty and desire, blurs a little more each time he appears in my life.
Hayes looks up from his desk as I enter his office, his expression carefully neutral. "Agent Mathieson. I trust the mission was productive?"
"Informative," I reply, standing at parade rest before his desk. The fluorescent lights overhead cast harsh shadows across his face, highlighting the lines of strain that have deepened since Rome.
His eyebrow raises slightly. "Explain."
"The canines reported at the Ellison Holdings complex exhibit behavior consistent with non-standard entities," I say, choosing my words carefully. "Their movement patterns, ability to seemingly phase through solid objects, and selective visibility suggest they're not ordinary animals."
I deliberately avoid using the term "hellhounds" that Fen used.
GUIDE has its own clinical taxonomy for magickal entities, and dropping supernatural folklore terms in an official report would only raise questions about where I got my information.
"Non-standard entities" is the kind of sanitized bureaucratic language Hayes expects—specific enough to justify further investigation but vague enough not to reveal my source.
"And your rookies?" Hayes asks, moving on.
"Performed as expected given their experience level," I answer diplomatically. No need to throw them under the bus when they were chasing creatures they had no hope of seeing clearly, let alone capturing.
Hayes leans back in his chair, studying me. "You're suggesting these are magickal dogs."
"Yes, sir."
"Based on?"
"Their eyes, sir. Red. Glowing. And the fact that they seem to be hunting something specific." I keep my expression professional, detached, though my heart pounds with the knowledge that I'm walking a dangerous line. "I believe there may be more happening at that complex."
"Such as?"
"I suspect magickal criminal activity. Something that should be investigated further." The electrical hum beneath my skin persists, a constant reminder of Fen's presence earlier, of his warning about evil lurking in that place.
Hayes's fingers drum against his desk, the only sign of his contemplation. "And you want to lead this investigation."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes, sir. I'd like to conduct surveillance over the next seventy-two hours. See if I can determine what's really happening there."
"Without the rookies?"
"Yes," I answer, keeping to myself that they'd only be a liability. And witnesses to whatever I might need to do.
"Three days," he says. "Surveillance only.
No engagement without explicit authorization.
" He leans forward, his expression hardening.
"And Mathieson? If this turns out to be nothing but rabid dogs after all, you can forget about returning to the chimera case when your time with the rookies is up.
You'll be stuck on training duty indefinitely. Clear?"
"Crystal, sir." I keep my face carefully neutral despite the spike of anxiety his threat causes.
A week into my punishment detail, and he's already dangling the possibility of extending it.
This surveillance assignment is both a test and a temporary reprieve from babysitting duty—one I can't afford to waste.
"Dismissed."
I'm halfway to the door when a sharp knock interrupts. Hayes motions for me to wait as his assistant, Pearson, steps in, face grim.
"Sir, urgent transmission from Paris headquarters." Pearson's voice is clinically detached, but his pallor speaks volumes. "We've lost another team. All agents down. Chimera were tracked to the Catacombs."
The room temperature seems to drop ten degrees. My hand instinctively moves toward my weapon.
"Confirmed?" Hayes asks, his face hardening into granite.
"Yes, sir. A recovery team just retrieved the bodies. Surveillance footage shows two distinct creatures on screen before the feeds went dark."
"I should help," I interject, stepping forward. The hellhounds can wait. "I can be on a plane within the hour—"
"Your assignment stands, Mathieson." Hayes doesn't even look up as he types rapid commands into his console.
"Sir, we just lost—"
He cuts me off again, "You have your orders, Agent. Or have you forgotten how to follow those as well?"
The barb lands precisely where intended. Once, I would have been the first call for a situation like this. Now I'm barely an afterthought.
"No, sir," I reply, voice professionally neutral despite the heat crawling up my neck.
"Dismissed."
I leave as Hayes orders Pearson to secure a direct line to Paris. The door clicks shut behind me with the soft finality of another opportunity lost.
As I walk down the sterile hallway, relief has curdled into a bitter mix of resentment and grudging acceptance.
Three days watching a warehouse while more of my colleagues hunt Chimera in the Paris Catacombs.
Three days to discover what's really happening at the complex.
Three days to find out if Fen's warnings about "evil" are justified.
Three days where I might see him again, whether I should want to or not.
The electrical sensation hums beneath my skin at the thought, persistent and undeniable as the pull of gravity. Like a compass needle finding north, something in me seems to orient toward him, a recognition beyond rational thought.
The hunter in me says it's dangerous. The woman in me wonders if danger might be exactly what I've been missing all these years of careful control and isolation.