cuffs bit into my wrists. The legs of the chair I was in scraped the floor as I struggled. I snarled and tried to lash out with my feet. They wouldn’t move. Metal ankle cuffs dug into my skin.
When I looked down at my shackled ankles, my long, tangled black hair fell over my eyes. Blood dripped from my nose onto my Dior pale cream blouse and slacks. My clothing was torn, bloody, filthy. My Pradas were missing, leaving my feet bare.
When I fisted my hands, the tension caused me to fully take in the fact that they’d beaten me while I was out cold.
My first shot at controlling the elements told me that the handcuffs that bound me were treated with elemental magic. My second attempt just reaffirmed that fact.
The specially made cuffs weren’t supposed to affect Trackers. They’d all been altered to recognize every Tracker in New York City so that our magic wouldn’t be affected. How had these Metamorphs been able to contain me? I couldn’t use the elements at all.
I frowned in concentration. Maybe I had to shift into my Drow half before the cuffs would have no effect on me and I could use my elements again. I was Nyx Ciar, paranorm PI during the day. After sundown I would be Nyx of the Night Trackers.
It wouldn’t be long now, though. I sensed that nightfall would be soon—none of them would be getting out of this place alive once I was through with them.
My hair was in my eyes and stuck to the blood on my cheeks when I raised my head.
Instead of some windowless interrogation room, we were in a large kitchen with peeling wallpaper and cracked and chipped laminated flooring. I was sitting in the middle of the cramped space. A dining table was shoved against one wall along with three brown wooden chairs, the varnish darkened with age and worn in places. Apparently I was in chair number four.
I almost smiled when I saw the stove three feet away on my right and the sink two and a half feet away on my left. Fire. Water.
If I could get out of these cuffs I’d be able to use the elements of fire and water and either toast or drown these creeps.
I was leaning toward the idea of toasting them.
“Hello, Tracker filth.” The male crouched in front of me. Instantly, from his powerful alyssum smell, I knew that he
Fear for Adam along with instinct drove me to try to lunge for Smith’s throat. The chair rocked but I wanted to scream with rage as my bindings held me fast.
“Underworld sloth.” I glared at the Metamorph. “The pieces I cut off of you won’t be so tiny if you dare hurt him.”
Smith slapped my bruised face so hard that my head snapped to the side. The pain caused by gritting my teeth, to not cry out, was worth it as I turned slowly to glare at him again.
He scowled as he wiped his palm on his black jeans. “Detective Adam Boyd’s life is getting shorter every minute you mess with me, Tracker.”
“What. Do. You. Want?” My face hurt as I hurled each word at the Metamorph.
“I was misinformed about the whereabouts of tonight’s Paranorm Council meeting.” His question surprised me enough to cause me to blink. “The council gathers at sundown and my men are ready to greet them on my order.”
“What do Metamorphs care about the Paranorm Council?” Disgust edged every word I spoke. “Metamorphs don’t even have a representative.”
By the way his hands shook, I was pretty sure Smith was holding back his anger, trying to control himself this time. “That will change.”
“Yeah, right.” I gave a hollow laugh. “Like that’s going to happen.”
He lost a good portion of that control and slapped the side of my head so hard my ear rang from the force of it. “Tell me now or you die, Tracker. So does your boyfriend.”
I had to stall somehow. If I could keep him busy until sundown I would likely get my powers back. “How do you know if I’m a Tracker or not?”
“We have informants.” Smith gave a casual shrug. “We know you are a human PI for the paranormal world during the day. By night you become a Tracker.”
I narrowed my gaze. “Why me?”
“You are one of the very few paranorms who can come out in daylight.” He grinned. “And you’re predictable.”
Predictable? As a PI, maybe I was. That was going to have to change.
I said nothing, just stared at him. I didn’t know if he was bluffing about Adam, so I had to call his bluff. I almost groaned when he drew out his baton and snapped it to its full length.
“Carl.” Smith looked up, somewhere over my shoulder, and made a slight motion with his head. By the smell of alyssum, I knew it was another Metamorph who moved in front of me. Also dressed in an NYPD uniform, “Carl” looked and walked like a flesh-and-bone version of Robocop. Built like a muscle-bound weight lifter, he was slow to move. “Get Detective Boyd,” Smith said.
My heart pounded and my body radiated with tension. The bulky Metamorph headed through an archway of the place we were in, his boot steps loud against the tile floor before the sound finally faded.
Steps, sounding like high heels, came from the other side of the archway just moments after the Robocop Metamorph left. I continued to stare at the archway, and another Metamorph walked in.
With rich waves of mahogany brown hair and big gray eyes, this Metamorph was gorgeous—or at least the replica of the human or paranorm she mirrored was. And she knew how to dress. I’d give up my XPhone if she wasn’t tottering in Ferragamo pumps and carrying a matching satchel.
Despite her sophisticated, beautiful looks, the fake innocence in her eyes and her pouty lips made her look like a spoiled, pampered brat.
“Becky.” Smith went to the woman and hugged her in a way that made their relationship obvious. He kissed her before he pinched her ass cheek through the fine organza of her dress.
“Have I missed anything?” she said in a voice so squeaky it caused me to wince.
Footsteps again, only this time I heard two pairs—one stepping purposefully, the other shuffling unsteadily. I glanced back at the archway in time to see the muscle-bound Metamorph shove Adam into the room. The man I loved was shirtless, his body and face bloody and bruised.
Adam collapsed face-first on the tile.
And didn’t move.
CHAPTER 2
“Adam!” His name cut the air in an involuntary shout. I couldn’t have stopped myself from calling out to my lover if I’d tried.
I lunged against my bonds again and this time I nearly toppled my chair. Smith grabbed a spindle of the chair and kept me from pitching forward.
My breath burned harsh and heavy in my chest. “You might as well start thinking up your last words.” I turned my glare to Smith as I spoke with slow, deliberate malice. “You don’t have very many left.”
Almost imperceptible fear glittered in his black eyes before he laughed. A forced laugh that almost made me smile. He was scared of me, and I had to give him credit for not being stupid enough to make the mistake of totally disregarding what I might be capable of.
Adam groaned, and a tempest of emotions whirled through me as I swung my attention in his direction: relief that he was alive, followed by anger that he’d been hurt so badly, shifting into fear as Robocop Carl aimed a handgun at Adam’s head.
