“What did he say?” Austin asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” Bishop insisted. “We don’t owe her any information.”
Vance rounded Bishop’s chair, stepping into their line of sight. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
“I report directly to Titus Alexander. You can explain the assault you just committed to me, or you can deal with him.” I frowned when I got no reaction. “Do you know who that is?”
“Alpha of the territory,” Austin said. “I assure you we’re neither green nor anarchists, no matter what Nolan Blake told you.”
“Yet you live in my zone, and we’ve never met.” As uncommon as that was, it was not unheard of. Many, many strays lived in the zone before our Pride was officially recognized, and despite all of our outreach efforts, we had no way of knowing that we’d actually found them all. Though once we did find them, we added them to the census, both to help form a better snapshot of the community and to help estimate our operational budget for the next quarter.
Titus was a businessman. He was generous with the necessary funds, but requests had to be officially submitted and properly formatted. Which meant there was way more paperwork involved in running a shifter zone than I’d anticipated.
“I wasn’t aware we were required to check in,” Austin said.
“We aren’t,” Bishop snapped.
“That’s true.” I nodded. “You aren’t. But you also aren’t allowed to attack people in the parking lot of the only shifter-friendly bar in the country. This is a safe place for strays, and I can’t let an incident like this disturb the peace and make people feel threatened.” Or rile up any territorial instincts among the locals. “So, let’s hear it. Why were you beating up Nolan Blake in my parking lot?”
Austin may not have thrown a punch, but they’d clearly come here together with a mutual goal.
When neither of them spoke, I shrugged and set my cell phone on my desk. “Or I can call Titus.”
Bishop and Austin looked at each other. Bishop shrugged. They turned back to me, and though neither seemed truly intimidated by the idea of meeting Titus Alexander, they did seem inconvenienced by it. As if they hadn’t allowed for the kind of time that would take, in whatever strategy they were executing.
“We didn’t come here to beat up Blake,” Austin finally said.
“We came here to kill him,” Bishop added, and it was the somber, dead-serious quality of his voice, as much as what he’d said, that shot chills up my spine.
I glanced at Vance, and he moved back in front of the door, just in case.
Both Bishop and Austin stiffened as their escape was blocked, but that could also be because of the double threat stationed at their backs. Out of their line of sight. But to their credit, as abrupt and matter-of-fact as Bishop was, neither of them seemed to have any particular bone to pick with me.
“I’m not sure how much you know about shifter justice, but just as in the human legal system, murder is against the law,” I began.
“No one said anything about murder.” Austin’s cadence was smooth and deliberate. He sat absolutely still, as if he were afraid that any movement might spook me and trigger violence from the men at his back. Which told me he’d been a shifter long enough to understand how instinct works. “We’re here toexecuteBlake, for crimes committed.” He glanced at Bishop in irritation before turning back to me. “But none of that was supposed to happen in your bar. This was just supposed to be recon.”
“Okay. Couple of points.” I held up one hand and ticked them off on my fingers as I spoke. “Nolan Blake hasn’t been charged with or convicted of any crimes that I know of.” Cats running from the local Marshal don’t typically take up residence on a stool at her bar. “And even if he had been, you’re not authorized to carry out sentencing.”
“We’re not operating on legal grounds,” Austin admitted. “This is more of a…moral imperative.”
“I see.” That was a first. Usually, shifter murders in my zone were crimes of passion. Tempers that couldn’t be restrained. And they were almost always committed by recently infected strays who hadn’t yet learned to control newly powerful bodies and newly chaotic emotions and impulses.
Austin and Bishop didn’t fit that mold. Parking lot brawl aside, they seemed rational and coherent, if recalcitrant. They were calm. Honest. Andabsolutelydetermined to carry out their violent…imperative.
“Well, if you have a criminal complaint, we can certainly handle that. But I can’t let you just murder—”
Bishop opened his mouth to object, and I rephrased.
“Excuse me,executea citizen of this territory without authorization. Nolan has the right to a trial, by virtue of his membership in the Mississippi Valley Pride.”
“We’re not interested in some kind of prolonged political circus,” Bishop insisted. “All we need is for him to admit what he did. Then he can pay for his crimes.”
“Be that as it may…” I waved Tucker forward, and he opened the recording app on his phone without being asked. “Tucker is going to take your statement, and we’ll forward it to Titus. I can’t promise you that the process will be fast, but if there’s any legitimacy to your complaint, Nolan will be taken into custody for the duration of the investigation and trial. And if he’s found guilty, youwillget justice.”
“Fuck this. Let’s go.” Bishop stood, and Tucker suddenly seemed to swell with what can only be described as defensive aggression. He suddenlyfeltbigger, as every muscle in his body tensed. As he prepared to launch into action.
To stop them from leaving.
