The Bear's Forbidden Wolf: A Hot Paranormal Fantasy Saga with Witches, Werewolves and Werebears (Weres and Witches of Silver Lake Book 4) (30 page)

“Jillian,” Camille said nudging her arm. While Renee wore her dark hair short, Camille preferred her light brown hair shoulder length. She claimed it softened her appearance and made it easier for witnesses to relate to her.

When Jillian glanced up, Sergeant McDirty was thrusting his tiny maroon pouch at her. Oh my. The women, who were packed into Camille’s tiny, but modern, living room apartment, clapped and cheered, waiting for Jillian to deposit the two dollars she’d been clutching for the last half hour into his
package
. She was thirty-two, much too old to be doing this sort of thing, especially with a guy who didn’t look old enough to drink. For Renee’s sake though, Jillian tossed him her best smile and jammed the bills inside careful not to let her fingers touch his skin while at the same time not dislodging the mass of bills already crammed into the tiny space.

“Thank you!” He graced her with his perfect smile and thankfully moved on.

Camille leaned over. “Dalia would have loved all the fanfare.”

“She absolutely would have.” During college, Dalia had been the wild one of the three, but ironically, she was living her dream of studying nature in Oregon. Nature, she claimed, calmed her right down. Jillian sucked in a breath. “Oh, shit. I told her I’d take pictures but I forgot. I’ve been distracted.”

“Haven’t we all?” Camille winked.

Jillian chuckled then whipped out her cell. Pressing the camera’s video button, she recorded the stripper gyrating and thrusting hips in front of his next victim. Jillian made sure to include the three egg tempera paintings above the teal blue sofa that Camille had painted. One of the smaller ones was of a richly colored iguana feasting on a plump red fruit. The one below it was the face of a wolf whose eyes glowed yellow. The delicate interweaving of the grays, tans, white, and black in his fur blended together to create a striking image. The last picture was as tall as the two together. It was a magnificent scene of a white polar bear with her two cubs floating on a slab of ice.

Jillian continued her slow pan to include several women who Dalia had never met. Even as she recorded the festivities, Jillian felt guilty coming to the party when Dalia had flown all the way in from Portland to attend Renee’s bachelorette party, only to have come down with the flu.

Jillian gladly would have stayed home and played nursemaid, but Dalia instead she attend—if for no other reason than to take pictures. With her eye on the screen, Jillian panned the crowd, making sure to include everyone.

“She’ll appreciate seeing Renee so happy,” Camille said.

“Definitely.” Renee, Dalia, and Jillian had roomed together freshman and sophomore year. “Dalia’s here for another few days, so I’m hoping the three of us can get together.”

“Renee would love that. She was so disappointed when she found out Dalia couldn’t make it.”

One of the ladies approached them, or rather staggered toward them, with a big bottle of champagne and refreshed everyone’s glass. Good thing Jillian’s shifter metabolism could handle this massive influx of alcohol. Otherwise, she’d have to call a cab to drive her home.

Mercifully, around one a.m., the hired hunk said his farewells. While Jillian had enjoyed watching the drunken women paw over Sergeant McDirty, she was increasingly worried about Dalia. Her friend hadn’t texted even once to ask about the party. Dalia’s fever had come down to almost normal before Jillian had left, but those kinds of things could change in a heartbeat.

Just as she was about to tell Camille that she was heading out, her friend jumped up and rushed over to Renee whose eyes had rolled back in her head. Clearly, the bride-to-be had partied way too hard. Good for her, though she’d be sorry tomorrow when the hangover hit.

Convinced no one would even remember she’d been the first to leave the festivities she helped organize, Jillian slipped out.

Fortunately, her house was only a fifteen-minute drive from there. As Jillian entered her neighborhood, she had to smile at how wonderful the get together had been. Camille, who dealt with crime all day, had been more relaxed than Jillian had seen her in months. Several of the other women at the party also worked in her same law office. Seeing another side of their uptight and ambitious personalities was something she would not soon forget.

As Jillian rounded the corner to her house, what sounded like gunshots came from her house! What the fuck?

Even though she lived was on the outskirts of Los Angeles, crime was rare in her upscale neighborhood. Pressing hard on the accelerator, she sped toward her driveway. As she neared, a man wearing a ski mask dashed out of her house through the front door. He looked straight at her before turning and charging fifty feet down the road. He then disappeared into a maroon sedan and peeled out of there, leaving burnt rubber in his wake.

Her heart raced so hard, she thought she’d shift—something she hadn’t done or considered doing in years. She couldn’t afford for anyone to find out what kind of freak she was. Hell, the world wasn’t ready to learn about shifters, especially her very rare kind of white tiger.

Her focus returned to her sick friend asleep in the house. Dalia! Oh my goddess. Had she been shot? That was the only plausible conclusion, but logic had failed her before.

Decision time: Follow him or check on her friend?

What am I thinking?
It’s a no brainer. Dalia comes first
.

Jillian could only hope that he’d left enough evidence for the cops to find the bastard. If he harmed her friend, she’d do whatever it took to find make him pay.

After cutting the engine, she jumped out of her Mercedes, not even bothering to pull into her driveway. Because it was so late, she used her Wendayan talent to sprint almost as fast as a speeding bullet, hoping no one noticed the super human feat.

The front door sat open. Acid burned in her stomach.

“Dalia?” Jillian yelled as she rushed in. When she received no response, her legs nearly gave way. Mouth dry and pulse soaring, her stomach performed a million somersaults as she ran to Dalia’s bedroom. The stench of that man’s scent permeated the air and put a momentary block on her working brain. Memories came flooding back even though she tried to force them away. Something other than his scent overpowered her—something terrible. It was blood!

The door to Dalia’s room sat wide open, and while the light was off, enough moonlight snuck in through the window to show the devastation.

“No!” Jillian screamed then choked out a sob.

As much as she didn’t want to turn on the light, she had to see the extent of the injury. When she flicked on the lamp, Jillian gasped as one knee hit the floor. The side of Dalia’s skull had a hole in it, the blood staining her long blonde hair. Jillian’s heart stopped for a few seconds. While it appeared as if her friend was dead, she checked for a pulse anyway. Unfortunately, her own heartbeat was near to bursting, preventing her from detecting any signs of life.

Her instincts clicked in, and she fumbled in her purse for her cell to call 911. The words to describe what happened barely formed on her lips, but the operator assured her help was on the way.

This couldn’t be happening. Jillian’s front door had been locked, and she doubted Dalia would have answered if someone had knocked. Had he busted in? Or was he more sophisticated than that and had picked the lock?

Grief rocked her as tears streamed down her face. It was déjà vu all over again. Twenty-six years ago an unwanted shifter had broken into her home and shot and killed her father. She’d seen the killer then, and she’d sort of seen him now—or rather she’d smelled him again. The stress of both murders made her whole body feel as if a ten-ton truck was sitting on her, breaking her bones into tiny pieces.

The image of the man with the crescent-shaped scar that she’d seen this afternoon at the police station appeared in her mind’s eye. Jillian had spotted him when she’d stopped in to see Camille. Because Jillian had helped with the party preparations, she needed to discuss some last minute details with her friend. Halfway through her conversation, the same stench that permeated her house now registered. It had come from the man who’d killed her father. She’d been sure of it. Working hard not to let Camille know what was happening, Jillian had glanced around. Big mistake. The second she spotted the man’s crescent-shaped scar on his jaw, she’d almost shifted. Then reason intruded. The man was a cop for goddess sake.

It is the same man
, her tiger warned, angry at the quick dismissal.

It couldn’t be him
, she argued.

She didn’t have to be a lawyer to know that memories of a six-year old were never reliable. Because scars weren’t unique, she dismissed the thought that was the same man.

You’re wrong
, her tiger screamed.
You never forget a scent
.

Her tiger might be right. His smell was identical to what she remembered all those years ago. Or had spotting the scar brought up that memory and was fooling her now?

*

Frank Whitlaw slammed
his palm against the steering wheel. Seconds ago he’d been gloating that he’d finally tied up that loose end. He wouldn’t have to worry ever again about a six-year old’s memory returning.

He’d jammed the key into the ignition and floored his souped-up car. A quick glance in the review mirror assured him that Jillian hadn’t shifted. Even if she had chanced coming after him, she never would have been able to catch him.

How had he been so careless? For years, Frank had watched Jillian Garner—carefully. He knew where she lived, where she worked, who her friends were, and even where her relatives lived. Nothing escaped him. Then this afternoon when Jillian was visiting her friend Camille, he’d walked near, hoping to learn about her—or rather to find out if she’d figured anything out. The moment she glanced his way, recognition crossed her face. Even though barely a muscle moved, hatred had filled her eyes.

That mistake on his part sped up her demise. When he’d picked the lock to Jillian’s house, he’d made enough noise to waken any shifter. He expected her to come out and investigate. His plan was to then shift into his wolf and attack. Even though he didn’t know her species, it didn’t matter. He’d trained his whole to be a fighter. Jillian was destined to die.

He should have questioned why the blonde woman in the bed hadn’t stirred. Even more careless of him was the fact he hadn’t detected a shifter signature, and yet he didn’t stop to think why that was so. He was slipping, and that really pissed him off.

I’ll kill the right woman. Soon.

His thoughts jumped back to the night he’d broken into the Garner house. He never would have killed her father if the straight ass hadn’t suspected him of pilfering weapons and drugs from the evidence locker where he worked. Her dad said he was going to turn Frank in to Internal Affairs. No way could Frank couldn’t let that happen. The money was too addicting.

As he cleared the neighborhood, his shaking hands stilled. He’d fucked up tonight. Hopefully, the mask prevented Jillian from figuring out who he was. While he might have botched his attempt this time, it wouldn’t happen a second. That was a promise he’d keep.

*

“Ma’am?” someone asked
as he placed a hand on her shoulder. She looked up to find two paramedics in navy blue uniforms standing next to her.

She hadn’t even heard them come in. Jillian must be losing it since noises never escaped her notice. And how come their faces were so blurry? “Yes?”

“We need to check on your friend,” the one with the long face said.

Even though she was still holding her phone, she’d forgotten for a moment that she’d called for help. When she didn’t move, the second paramedic helped her up.

Pull yourself together
, her tiger demanded.

I’m trying, but it’s so damned hard
, she retorted.

Both men checked out Dalia, and then the one with the long face stepped over to her. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

So she was dead. Why would anyone want to kill her? “Thank you.”

Her heart nearly cracked. Or were those her bones, readying her to shift into her tiger?
I want to find the bastard
, her animal growled.