Page 91 of Werewolves and Witches AU

Ignoring the partner, I speak directly to Matt. “Pete said that tonight’s shift would be unpaid, that I’m here to shadow and learn only, and that pending a review, I’d then be able to get an interview with Jackal Security. I was told to be on time and bring my best attitude, because ‘Matt wouldn’t want to feel like he was babysitting.’”

Matt looks me over from head to toe. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five, sir.”

He rubs his jaw as he works it from side to side. “Stop that saluting stuff would you—that’s not even a recognisable action. Two tours in the sandbox and this is where I end up.”

I stand as straight as I can, holding eye contact with Matt the whole time.

His partner pipes up, “We gotta get in for handover. The kid can sit at the desk and watch the monitors or something.”

Matt seems unsure, and I press harder because that’s a great fucking idea. “Is that the Operation Post? I’m excellent at watching screens, sir. I can play The Sims for five hours straight and not see double after. So I can definitely do that.”

Matt tilts his face skyward and mutters what I think might be a prayer for strength. “At least you came appropriately dressed… sorta. You borrow your dad’s jacket?”

I glance down then, and smooth my hand over the soft leather of the sleeve. It’s Rowan’s jacket: the one he’d draped over me like a blanket when I napped in the truck yesterday… two days ago? I’ve lost track of time a bit because of the crazy schedule the Dogs have been keeping. Those guys can just go and go—like the bunny from the battery advert.

But I must have taken it up to my room from the truck at some point, because it was in there when I got dressed earlier, and while Ranger is very much not my boyfriend, his jacket is larger and cosier than mine.

“Hey, kid? Y’okay?”

I blink. “Huh?”

“You spaced out there a bit. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned your dad.”

“Oh, erm, yeah. He’s dead.”

Matt nods and puts a hand on my shoulder. He steers me around the truck and toward the closed bank doors.

I can’t quite suppress the small smile that tugs at my lips. Dead parents… kills the conversation every time. But that wasn’t whose loss I’d been mourning.

Tucking my neck, I shrug my shoulders high up about my ears, and inhale Rowan’s earthy, spiced scent that’s worked its way into the leather over time.

Matt pulls out a chain of keys from an expanding cable attached to his utility belt and unlocks the door. “So, what do we call you?”

I keep the lower half of my face buried in the collar of Rowan’s jacket when I answer. “Magpie.”

Matt scoffs, but doesn’t speak otherwise. He directs me toward the other two security staff, who stand to greet us, and addresses the man who steps out from behind the desk. “Morning, Manny.”

Manny gives Matt a tight smile, spares a cursory glance for the others, then turns dark eyes set deep under brows that are as bushy as his moustache my way. “¿Quién es esta persona?”

“Manny, this is Magpie. He’s joining us tonight on a work placement. Sent by Pete. His skill set includes playing The Sims for multiple hours straight, so he’s gonna sit right there…” Matt nudges me toward the seat Manny just vacated.

“Can I use the bathroom before I start?” I add a little bounce to help sell it. “I was too nervous about being on time and making sure I was alert, so I had a few coffees, but then I stood waiting on the corner for like twenty minutes, and now—”

Matt shoots his right arm out in a sudden straight line towards the sign that reads “staircase” and “public restroom.”

“Go.”

Not needing to be told twice, I jog across the expansive marble-floored lobby and through the heavy fire door. Only when it swings shut behind me do I breathe out in relief.

Stage one: clear.

Likely, I only have a few minutes before Matt gets suspicious and comes to find me—I need to be long gone when he does. Focusing, I count five closed doors immediately in front of me: three are for the restrooms, one cleaning supplies, and the other is a fire exit.

Pushing through that door, I enter a cold and empty concrete stairwell. Craning my neck, I look straight up the middle of all twelve floors, then question my life choices in Scottish. “Bollocks.”

With a resigned sigh, I ascend at a speed somewhere between a fast walk and a jog. I have to get out of this stairwell before anyone’s sent to find me, but also, I’m not a werewolf, and the idea that I could simply run up all the fifty billion steps between me and the roof is laughable.