Series: Shifter Ops Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 30911 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 155(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30911 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 155(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
The only issue is the sour smell of our van-mates. Dopey, Mopey and Featherface. Mopey sits next to me, his hand steady on the wheel, a pensive look on his hat-shadowed face. He’s thinking sad thoughts. The scent is like overripe fruit.
Allison sits in the back, her orange-blossom scent cutting through the worst of it. Featherface, the owl shifter with the scent like a full moon on a winter’s night, sits stiffly beside her. His eyes are huge behind his birth control goggles. Every time he twitches, a few feathers fly out of his hair.
“What’s with the feathers?” I call to him. “Are you shedding?”
“Birds don’t shed feathers,” Allison says. “They molt.”
“Whatever. Another hour, and we could stuff a king-sized duvet.”
In the rear view mirror, Allison gives me a disappointed look. “She doesn’t mean it,” she whispers to Featherface.
I sniff and turn my glare on Dopey. The Irishman. Wolfhound crossed with a whole lot of other animals. His scent is a mystery, like Mopey’s, but soaked in hard liquor. He smells like staying up ‘til four a.m. and bad decisions.
I kinda like it.
I enjoyed it the first time I scented it, but my animal was too skittish to get close to anyone but Allison. Allison’s like Xanax for my senses. And I’m like Adderall. Between the two of us, we make one half-sane shifter.
It sucks being so broken you need a friend like a crutch. Allison’s never told me she resents it, and she would never. And it has to suck for her, living on the fringe of society. Never being able to be part of a pack.
My animal just can’t be around big groups of strong shifters anymore. Not after my last ‘pack’ sold me out to shifter slavers. Turns out they weren’t as loyal to me as I was to them because my animal didn’t match theirs.
Their loss, but I’m not signing up to be part of another pack any time soon. Not until Allison and I find a group of shifters who make us feel like we belong.
My stomach rumbles. Mopey gives me a glance but doesn’t comment. Dopey meets my gaze in the rearview mirror and holds up the flask, offering me whiskey for lunch. I shake my head and pat my shotgun in case he gets pushy.
“Ah, lass, ya know how to use that ting, do ya?” His Danny Boy accent is stronger when he speaks to me.
I shrug and turn away from him to look out my window. There’s a sign for my favorite burger joint, but then, I see something more disturbing. Three big black SUVs with tinted windows all in a line.
“Get off at this exit,” I tell Parker, a.k.a Mopey. In the backseat, both Declan and Laurie sit up straight.
“Now?” Parker goes to turn his head, and I hiss, “don't look. Just do it at the last minute. Now!”
He swings into the exit lane. The black SUVs barrel on past. Their opaque windows show me nothing but the reflection of our bus.
“Who was that?” Parker asks.
“No clue. New route.” I pull up the map on his phone. “Take a right at the stop sign…” I guide him through a series of turns that put us back on the highway. We can’t take back roads all the way to Taos.
My stomach’s growling in earnest now. My animal wants to hide behind a burger chain and disappear into a dumpster.
This time, when Declan offers his flask, I accept it and take a hit. The whiskey scorches my throat but spreads with a sweet melting heat in the pit of my belly. Surprisingly good.
I hand it back. “Thanks.”
“Think we lost them?” Parker asks.
I check the mirrors. It’s been almost a half an hour. I’m about to give the all clear when they appear, marching like ants, one by one. Three black SUVs. Tinted windows and all.
“It’s official.” I sink back in my seat. “We’re being followed.”
Chapter Three
Declan
As if they know we’ve spotted them, the line of black cars surges closer, cutting off a painter’s truck and a soccer mom in a blue minivan. In another half mile, they’ll be up our arses.
I try to focus, to see if I can make out any shapes beyond the illegally tinted glass, but I keep getting distracted. The wee goth chick in the front seat smells like a juicy hamburger with a side of chips. Just like me mam used to fry up. It’s driving my wolfie wild.
Her waving around a shotgun doesn’t help. It’s sexy as hell. “I got this.” She opens a window.
“Not so fast,” Parker hisses. His caution fecking annoys me, but in this case, it’s warranted.
“Ya can’t just go shooting off in public,” I tell Fiona. She bares her teeth at me. She’s got little canines, more blunt than sharp. What exactly would her animal be? Usually blunt teeth mean prey animal, but I don’t see her running and hiding like one. Then again, maybe all her bluster is because she’s scared as hell. There’s a heat to her scent, like someone poured pepper on a slice of Monterey Jack and put it on the burger patty.