Rick’s eyes were still glowing greenish. I realized that he was too catty to lead a meeting and was still having trouble controlling his wereleopard. I had done the best I could to heal the magical attacks on his soul and his body, but I feared I had tied him to Soulwood. Or to me. And despite what Occam thought about my derring-do, I was too chicken to read Rick and see what was happening inside him.
Soul came to the room, standing in the doorway where she could watch us all. Or catch us if we tried to leave. Her eyes went back and forth between the werecats, evaluating. Neither cat glanced her way, ignoring her. She looked ignorable in human form but she had big teeth in dragon form. I hope the kitties remembered that.
JoJo gave the time and date, and every head turned to the second in command. JoJo was wearing black from head to toe today, topped by a black turban with a couple dozen braids hanging beneath it, her natural dark hair interwoven with blond and brown and red weaves. She was wearing three big earrings in each ear and none of them matched. One was a scarlet feather. She looked striking, stylish, self-assured, and amazing. Her eyes were on the cats as she spoke, evaluating but unconcerned. She also looked as if she could take on the cats and come out unscathed and still looking trendy.
Jo stated the name of every person present, but she didn’t type anything. We were still using, or testing, Clementine, the voice-to-character software. A silence fell on the room. And grew. Waiting. Rick should have said something, but he stood against the wall, his French-black eyes greenish and unfocused. Jo looked to Soul, who ignored her, her own black eyes on the cats. Jo’s mouth tightened and the skin at the corners of her eyes wrinkled. She looked annoyed, or maybe cantankerous was the correct term.
The others shot furtive looks at Rick. The grindys stopped playing and crouched. One was staring at Rick, the other at Occam. A feeling of discomfort grew in the room, and JoJo seemed to let it happen, the annoyed expression going vexed and stubborn.
I looked at Rick. At Occam. Occam was staring at me, golden eyes glowing. I gave him the back of my head, much as he had done on the hood of the C10. Cat insult back at him. He hacked in amusement and settled, the interaction seeming to calm him, to center him in his human side.
Slowly, Jo said, “Tandy and I found something.” JoJo pursed her lips and shook her head slightly as if arguing with herself. She took a slow breath and said, “But first, Rick. Report on the DNAKeys’ recon.”
Rick’s eyes tracked to her. He said nothing. The words came back to me. The urge to shift and to hunt waxes strong three days out, abides the three days of, and wanes three days after. Nine nights of pleasure and nine days of hell. And Rick had a nasty history with werewolves, who had tortured him. Had the visit to DNAKeys triggered something in him? I didn’t know what was about to happen but—
“Rick LaFleur!” Jo snapped, slamming her palm down on the tabletop. “Report!”
Rick blinked. A grindy whirled and leaped across the room, covering ten feet in an instant, and landed on Rick’s crossed arms, standing on them with her back feet and stretching up to meet him, muzzle to nose. She chittered at him, sounding mad. Rick blinked. The green glow of his eyes faded. He shifted position. Took the grindy in one hand and stepped to his chair. Sat. Moving like a human. We were all watching Rick, waiting to see what he would do.
He looked at Jo and said, “Thank you.” Then he placed the grindy on the table and continued, “Our reports will be detailed, but as a summation, Occam and I both scented werewolves and vampires.” His brows drew down and together, remembering or confused, I couldn’t tell. He petted the grindy. She rolled over and batted his hand, the cutest judge and jury and executioner ever envisioned.
“There were other scents too, human and non, things we didn’t recognize. There were cameras mounted in the trees at the periphery, and along a twelve-foot hurricane fence with razor wire coiled across the top. Inside the fence was a playground with balls and agility equipment. Just outside the fencing we saw lasers and other security measures, things human eyes might miss. Two guards, human, patrolled the grounds outside. There was something military in their bearing.” Rick blinked and sat back. The grindy scampered back to Tandy and the sunflower seeds, which she stuffed into her neon green cheeks like a chipmunk or a squirrel.
“Occam?” JoJo asked.
“He covered it.”
I didn’t look at Occam. I had a bad feeling he was still staring at me.
“Okay,” JoJo said. “Tandy. You’re up.”
Tandy punched a key on his tablet and said, “Just before shift change last night, JoJo found an unhappy DNAKeys employee on social media. One who has ties to two of the conspiracy theorist sites. She has a military background, a few documented mental issues in the past, and the skill set to target the owners and principle investors of DNAKeys.”
Rick focused on the empath and a faint smile appeared on his face, starting in his black eyes. He looked fully human now that his human attention had been captured. “The people at DNAKeys missed that in a background search?”
JoJo said, “They’re good. We’re better.”
“I had an interesting conversation with Candace McCrory during the course of the night,” Tandy said, “posing online as Shaundell Mason.” My head came up at that one. Tandy turned to stare at me, the overheads bringing out the reddish Lichtenberg lines in his white skin. He finished, “Shaundell and Candace McCrory have set up a meeting for six p.m. tonight when Candace gets off work.”
Shaundell Mason was me. Well, actually she was a fake identity set up with a full social media presence and a complete history, but all the photos in which Shaundell appeared were me, Photoshopped with red or purple or green hair and glasses and ripped black jeans and goth T-shirts. Shaundell was a member of the ASPCA and PETA, financially supported four rescue shelters, and fostered dogs, cats, and, once, a squirrel. She liked heavy metal music and had grown up in a restrictive, fundamentalist church.
“You want me to meet her?” I didn’t believe that they’d let a probie meet with a source.
“She’s your age, went to private school, father’s a pastor from a hellfire-and-damnation church,” Tandy said. “She’s rebellious. Mad at the world. Your persona is all that and more. You’re perfect for the meet. And you’ve been chatting for hours about saving animals that have been abused, closing down labs that use animal experimentation and exploitation.”
Thoughtfully, Rick said, “Nell, if you dress the part and put on that red and purple wig, turn on that local church-speak, and tell her how much you hate church authority? You’ll be perfect. You up for it, probie?”
I opened my mouth to say no, but instead I said, “Sure.” Sure? Since when did I say sure?