Every beast in the Noah’s Ark of my shifter ancestry growled jealously.
Roux made his way toward us, wiping his hands on a rag. Then he slowed, stopped, and turned back toward the stables.
My first thought was,Did he forget something?
My second thought was,Great ass. Maybe even better than Clement’s.
“What’s that?” Bene pointed into the distance.
I adjusted my focus, spotting the flash of red and blue lights over by the caretaker’s cottage.
“Uh-oh,” Bene murmured.
Roux jogged a few steps toward them, then broke into an all-out sprint. Bene and I followed. Several long minutes later, we reached the caretaker’s house where Henrik lived. Decades ago, that building had been carved out of the grounds and soldto raise funds to maintain the rest of the estate, a decision my grandmother had quickly regretted. Now it was owned by a stranger — the absentee landlord who rented the neglected place to Henrik.
I caught a whiff of Clement’s scent and assumed he was inside. But why?
“What’s going on?” I blurted to the police officer standing guard by the door. Not Clem’s usual partner, Monsieur Blanchet.
This guy was slimmer. Bigger. Tougher. A bear shifter, judging by the scent.
“Keep back, please.” He motioned briskly.
I stepped back and repeated myself. “What’s going on?”
My breath swirled in the frigid morning air.
“Police investigation, ma’am. Keep back. You too,” the guy growled at Bene.
Roux pulled him back, and Bene whispered in alarm. “Looks like they called out the big guns.”
They, who? And what big guns?
The two vehicles parked outside were both sleeker and sportier than Clement’s boxy patrol car. Both were marked with the logo of the DGSI — the French equivalent of the FBI, though the color scheme appeared reversed.
“Supernatural unit,” Roux whispered.
Bene retreated another step.
“I told you Clement isn’t regular law enforcement,” Roux hissed.
My heart nearly stopped. If so, this was bad. Very bad. For all of us, not just Henrik.
Voices carried down the stairs, one angry, one steady.
“This is ridiculous,” Henrik protested.
“Keep moving,” Clement grunted, sounding grimmer than I’d ever heard him.
“And keep those fangs retracted,” a third man ordered — another DGSI agent, I saw when they all emerged.
Not a bear shifter, I decided. A low-level warlock, judging by the shimmer around his shoulders.
“What’s happening, Clem?” I asked, though the handcuffs locking Henrik’s hands behind his back made that obvious.
“Not now, Geneviève.” Clem barely glanced at me, the way one ignored a pest or a child.
Every illusion I’d ever entertained about Clement shattered and rained down around me like shards of broken glass. Hurt — a lot of it — bubbled up in my soul. Then anger muscled in and took over.
