I was leaning toward the idea of toasting them.
“Hello, Tracker filth.” The male crouched in front of me. Instantly, from his powerful alyssum smell, I knew that he was a Metamorph. “I’m Tom Smith. I’m going to let you watch me cut your boyfriend into itty-bitty pieces.”
Fear for Adam along with instinct drove me to try to lunge for Smith’s throat. The chair rocked but I wanted to scream with rage as my bindings held me fast.
“Underworld sloth.” I glared at the Metamorph. “The pieces I cut off of you won’t be so tiny if you dare hurt him.”
Smith slapped my bruised face so hard that my head snapped to the side. The pain caused by gritting my teeth, to not cry out, was worth it as I turned slowly to glare at him again.
He scowled as he wiped his palm on his black jeans. “Detective Adam Boyd’s life is getting shorter every minute you mess with me, Tracker.”
“What. Do. You. Want?” My face hurt as I hurled each word at the Metamorph.
“I was misinformed about the whereabouts of tonight’s Paranorm Council meeting.” His question surprised me enough to cause me to blink. “The council gathers at sundown and my men are ready to greet them on my order.”
“What do Metamorphs care about the Paranorm Council?” Disgust edged every word I spoke. “Metamorphs don’t even have a representative.”
By the way his hands shook, I was pretty sure Smith was holding back his anger, trying to control himself this time. “That will change.”
“Yeah, right.” I gave a hollow laugh. “Like that’s going to happen.”
He lost a good portion of that control and slapped the side of my head so hard my ear rang from the force of it. “Tell me now or you die, Tracker. So does your boyfriend.”
I had to stall somehow. If I could keep him busy until sundown I would likely get my powers back. “How do you know if I’m a Tracker or not?”
“We have informants.” Smith gave a casual shrug. “We know you are a human PI for the paranormal world during the day. By night you become a Tracker.”
I narrowed my gaze. “Why me?”
“You are one of the very few paranorms who can come out in daylight.” He grinned. “And you’re predictable.”
Predictable? As a PI, maybe I was. That was going to have to change.
I said nothing, just stared at him. I didn’t know if he was bluffing about Adam, so I had to call his bluff. I almost groaned when he drew out his baton and snapped it to its full length.
“Carl.” Smith looked up, somewhere over my shoulder, and made a slight motion with his head. By the smell of alyssum, I knew it was another Metamorph who moved in front of me. Also dressed in an NYPD uniform, “Carl” looked and walked like a flesh-and-bone version of Robocop. Built like a muscle-bound weight lifter, he was slow to move. “Get Detective Boyd,” Smith said.
My heart pounded and my body radiated with tension. The bulky Metamorph headed through an archway of the place we were in, his boot steps loud against the tile floor before the sound finally faded.
Steps, sounding like high heels, came from the other side of the archway just moments after the Robocop Metamorph left. I continued to stare at the archway, and another Metamorph walked in.
With rich waves of mahogany brown hair and big gray eyes, this Metamorph was gorgeous—or at least the replica of the human or paranorm she mirrored was. And she knew how to dress. I’d give up my XPhone if she wasn’t tottering in Ferragamo pumps and carrying a matching satchel.
Despite her sophisticated, beautiful looks, the fake innocence in her eyes and her pouty lips made her look like a spoiled, pampered brat.
“Becky.” Smith went to the woman and hugged her in a way that made their relationship obvious. He kissed her before he pinched her ass cheek through the fine organza of her dress.