I Kissed a Dog

chapter 30

The one benefit to the packed space was my ultra-close proximity to Zane.

With my back pressed firmly against his front, and his hands deviously teasing my fanny, I was in elevator heaven.

A woman leered at us through wired spectacles. She was focused on where his unseen hands were busily hiding. I decided to ignore her sardonic smile. She was probably just jealous. What woman wouldn’t be?

A man like Zane did more than attract attention. He demanded it. His artful caresses were demanding a response that I was unable to give. Had I responded with the level of passion I was forcing myself to ignore, Miss Nosy would have gotten an eyeful.

Not a moment too soon, the doors slid open revealing a long hallway on the tenth floor. The hotel housed its conference rooms on the upper levels. Our meeting was in the Mystic Mountain Suite. How appropriate. My life was about as mystical as one could be.

We exited into the hall leaving our snooty spectator behind. In less than ten steps, we were facing the only thing between me and a group of potentially adversarial board members. Muffled male voices drifted from behind the closed door, marked with a gold plaque. My stomach clenched, sending a swirl of butterflies through my midsection.

“Use our silent communi …” Zane started.

Well aware of what he was advising, I cut him off. “I know. And the recorder.” I pushed the elevated button on my new spy device. The minuscule recorder was secure, tucked in my purse’s outside pocket. “I need to count and take deep breaths.” I prepared to employ my usual calm-down-routine.

Zane instructed with patience, “You need to look at me.”

I glanced up. He gave me a look filled with unspoken confidence and admiration. “You’ll do great. Once Logan arrives, we’ll go in. He’ll introduce you. It’ll look better if you seem closer to him.”

I nodded.

Zane kissed my cheek. “You’ve got this, Princess.”

Hoping his confidence wasn’t misplaced; I smoothed my skirt for the hundredth time.

“Looking lovely, Mrs. Marshall,” Logan affirmed, as he appeared by my side. I jumped, still not used to people appearing from nowhere, and calling me Mrs. Marshall.

Logan summarized what I already knew too well. “Remember, three of the elders will have their dogs. One German Shepherd, a Lab, and a feisty young Doberman.”

Zane had located the canine companions’ photos for me to “study.” I’d never liked Dobermans. I was almost certain the dog that had sent me flying into the swimming pool, close to a decade ago, had been part dobby. I wasn’t ready to forgive the breed for its indiscretion.

“Ready?” Zane asked.

I managed a smile.

Logan entered the room like a Greek god striding into his celestial palace. I envied his distinguished composure.

The men in the room hurried to take their seats. Their reverence for the Pack Leader was evident. One man, his skin tanned and wrinkled like a well-worn hide, seemed unimpressed by Logan Sanders. I made a note to keep an eye on him.

“Here Boss!” the same man commanded while taking his seat at the far table’s far end.

I jerked back, when the largest Doberman I’d ever seen, trotted to his master’s side. The man flipped his grey-streaked ponytail over his shoulder and turned his piercing gaze on me. I felt like I was standing on a stage under the glare of a spotlight.

The remaining men, and one lone woman, had taken their seats during the few short minutes I’d been occupied by the ancient Indian and his ferocious hound.

Logan had referred to the beast as feisty. Feisty described Terrier pups, not this sleek, black, terror of a dog. I realized then that everyone was watching me expectantly. Talk about making a scene. Wanting to bolt from the room, I did the opposite and stepped toward an open chair next to Logan.

When people talk about things happening in threes, they’re right. One: mean man and vicious dog staring me down. Two: table of strangers watching me with eerily chilly expressions. Three: I trip over nothing, and in what feels like slow motion, tumble toward what I somehow notice is plush, mauve carpeting. I hope it’s as soft and springy as it looks. I hear several gasps before two super-sized hands drag me to my feet.

“Uh, thank you.” I try to smile like nothing happened and find myself looking up at the leathery face from the end of the table. “You …?”

“There now,” he soothed like the parent of a frightened toddler. “Are you all right all right?”

I allowed him to settle me into an expensive, high-backed chair. I was so far from feeling all right responding would have been blasphemous.

He patted my shoulder and returned to his end-of-the-table seat where his dog posed like a regal warrior.

Logan began, his voice firm and steady. “I guess this would be a good time to introduce my newest administrative assistant, Cassandra Carpenter.”

Still dazed, it took me another endless minute to realize I was Cassandra Carpenter. We’d altered my name just enough to keep anyone from putting together my true identity. “Hi?” I gave an awkward parade wave.

“Welcome,” several voices chorused.

“Glad you could join us,” the other woman said. Some nodded. A few smirked — so much for instant acceptance.

Unable to leave them with such a horrible first impression, I decided to make my own mini-speech. Something I’d later regret like everything else about the meeting.

“That’s me, Cassandra Carpenter. Please forgive my grand entrance.”

That earned a few strained chuckles.

“I’ll be taking notes and just want to thank you all for welcoming me into your group.” I took my seat again in what I hoped was a demure fashion.

Looking to Zane for approval, I noted instead he appeared both puzzled and perplexed. Chloe, Princess, do you think you could draw any more attention to yourself? Check your recorder and get your notepad. He quickly looked away, but not before my latest savior noticed our discreet interaction.

What was with this guy? Friend or foe?

I organized myself while the board members took ten minutes to “check in”. According to Logan, he was practicing a new ice breaker to loosen things up.

For my benefit, everyone introduced themselves and gave me the opportunity to jot down their names. I drew a makeshift table and put the names in their proper order around the oblong shape, trusting this extra attention to detail would benefit me in the long run.

All dogs were in attendance as expected. The chocolate lab lounged by his owner’s feet, head resting on his front paws. The German Shepherd panted; his doggy mouth turned up in a canine grin. Like the Doberman, he sat stiffly next to his owner’s chair. The lab and the shepherd were very interested in Logan and Zane’s unseen lupine qualities. They stared at the two werewolves, who appeared unaware of their latest admirers. Only the Doberman remained indifferent to Zane and Logan.

The meeting started like any other board meeting. The last meeting’s minutes were reviewed. Old business was addressed, and then before I realized it, we were onto new business. I hadn’t even bothered to listen in on the pets. Nice work, I chastised myself.

Keeping my pen poised over a half-filled notebook page, I searched the lab’s mind. I trusted the mini-recorder would take care of anything I missed while nosing around in the canine minds.

The door to the dog’s thoughts swung wide open and I slipped in. His owner, Roger Ryker, a Native American male, in his fifties, and sporting cropped, graying hair, materialized in a majority of the dog’s visions. It was easy to see this was a good match. As far as I could tell, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Normal dog stuff was all the Labrador had on his mind.

Disappointed, but happy for the two of them, I moved on to the beautifully-marked German shepherd, saving the dreaded dobby for last.

The dog stiffened as I entered his thoughts. I probed as gently as I could, hoping he’d relax and reveal something of interest. I didn’t have to wait long.

I was yanked into a recognizable but unexpected landscape. The dog and his owner were walking through the strange medical facility that I’d seen in the cloaked creature’s mind. They stopped at the foot of one of many beds, providing a close up view of a male patient. He wasn’t resting on his bed.

He was strapped to it.

His body writhed from side to side like an animal caught in a trap, experiencing unspeakable pain. Perspiration glistened on his face, which was turning an odd shade of gray.

The shepherd stared up at his master, who during introductions had identified himself as Martin, one of the Makah Tribe elders. Martin leaned over the thrashing patient along with several men dressed in scrubs, and none other than the infamous redheaded woman.

He met her gaze from across the bed. She gave a slight nod.

“He’s not progressing. We all know what that means. But wait; make sure. We’ve been wrong before,” Martin instructed.

“Then?” another man asked, glancing at his clipboard.

“Kill him,” Martin said with a shrug. “We don’t need any more renegade baldies running around. We’ve caused enough problems cleaning up our mistakes.” He glanced sideways at the woman.

She glared at Martin. “I’m certain you’re not blaming me for your screw ups.” Her eyes flashed crimson. Martin flinched like he’d been stung.

“Of course not, Mistress.” He inclined his head.

“Blaming me wouldn’t be wise.” She moved around the table and behind Martin. Leaning over his shoulder, she whispered something that made the corner of his mouth rise.

Without further comment, she strode with hips swaying, down the corridor, making it her own personal runway, high heels clicking on the concrete.

The men gazed after her retreating figure, and then sighed in unanimous relief when she exited through the double doors. Martin was wearing a stupid little grin that gave him a slightly insane appearance. He’d been satiated by her whispered promise.

I started to pull away from the vision, when the dog whimpered, recapturing my attention. Martin and the others stared down at their patient, who was transforming into something not human.

He shriveled and shrunk, his skin becoming a railroad track of wrinkled lines and creases. His thick, blonde, mane-of-hair was falling out in clumps, making his head look like a shiny orb. I could almost see the veins pulsating beneath the thin cap of skin covering his skull. He looked like an alien featured on the Sci-fi Channel.

What had started out as a normal-looking twenty-something male, had become what I now referred to as one of the ugly creatures, minus its cloak.

Martin pulled a syringe from his pocket.

“Look out!” I warned, realizing my error too late.

Every board member was gaping — their eyes glued on me.

So much for my simple administrative duties.

By the strained expression on Zane’s face, it was evident I’d blown any opportunity to appear normal. As if I ever pulled off normal.

I hoped the information I’d gleaned from Martin’s German Shepherd would redeem me. I dared to take a quick unassuming peek in his direction. He was frowning.

The single person smiling was … I glanced down at my notebook —James McQuillen — the man who’d kept me from the face plant, and who owned Boss the Doberman, the dog I hadn’t had time to explore yet.

I know what you are. He sent the message telepathically, lifting his water glass in a mock toast.

***