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“I’ve got a call in to a guy in Chicago. Derek’s partners, the Knight brothers have family there. Shifter connections.”
“Dogs.”
“Actually, a mix. Their sister is a cat.”
Unusual. The only time you get mixed shifters among siblings is when shifters of different types mate. Like Mercy and I would have… Another flinch of nerves.
“We’re running out of time.”
He’s quiet, and I can hear the sound of computer keys clicking in the background. ?
??I’m seeing what I can find under the Strong name. Also seeing if I can get any photographs of the body. An autopsy might provide a loophole of some kind. Something we could leverage in the High Council for a pardon.”
“Would they do an autopsy on an immortal?”
“No, which is why I’ve requested photos. They did one in this case.”
“They took photos that long ago?”
“They did, actually, but it was the kind that took hours — the small box on three legs with the photographer under a black cape.” He exhales, and I can hear him leaning back. “I’m hoping we’ll find something.”
For the first time in forty-eight hours, I feel hope. “Really?”
“Don’t get excited. Something as ongoing as the type of pact you’re up against will require concrete verification to get it revoked.”
“What’s on your mind?”
He exhales in the phone, and I hear the sounds of movement. “Only thing that might save her would be a mistake. Some way to prove it wasn’t murder.”
“Accidental death?”
“Involuntary manslaughter got you a reduced sentence.”
I wince at the reference. Still… “Immortals don’t follow human rules. They’re vengeful bastards.”
“It’s the best chance we’ve got of freeing Mercy.”
Not encouraging. “Keep me posted.”
Disconnecting the phone, I have to fight the urge to throw it across the room. My jaw tightens as I think.
Jealous rage I can understand. I’m ready to rip Hayden Cross limb from limb when he comes for her. It still might come to that, only I know it would be a death sentence for me.
At the same time, we’re talking about an immortal. As time passes, the sting of rage and grief dulls in our minds. After a century, holding onto this tribute system feels more like pride… or spite.
I’m out the door, descending the wooden stairs when I see my little landlady standing in the driveway. Her stick is propped against her hip like a kickstand, and she’s dressed in pink polyester pants and a cream shirt with large, burgundy flowers on it. Her white halo of hair is also pink.
“Doris,” I say, intending to pass her and head into town to find Mercy. I don’t want her working anymore. I’m desperate to hold her in my arms.
“Where are you going, Kona?” She squints up at me before pulling out the biggest pair of sunglasses I’ve ever seen and putting them over half her face.
“Headed into town.”
“Going to find that little girl who’s been spending the night?” She adjusts the cane on her hip. “Back in my day, they’d have you two at the alter with a shotgun for all this shacking up.”
That makes me grin. “Mercy’s parents died when she was young. I don’t think her older sister is the shotgun type.”
“Dylan Strong.” The old lady nods, and I pull up short.
