The Mercenary and the Shifters (The Turning Stone Chronicles) Read online

  “Does the guest house have a phone?” he asked over her shoulder.

  Fiona jumped and slammed her palm to her chest. “Jeez, don’t sneak up on me. I didn’t hear you cross the room.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “After what happened tonight, it won’t take much to make me jump. And, no, it doesn’t. But I’ve got my cell.”

  “I’ll need the number.”

  “Ditto, on yours.”

  “I think you need to take your gun. The one you pulled on me.”

  “After tonight, I’ll sleep with that baby under my pillow.”

  Mike studied her. “You’re certain you don’t have an idea who might want you dead? What about the group you’re dealing with? What was the name again?”

  “OmniWorld? I think I’m more important to them alive, at the moment.”

  A knowing smile flashed across Mike’s face, and she realized he’d tricked her into revealing the name of the cartel she’d withheld earlier.

  “At the moment?”

  She thought about the cargo Mr. Swindell’s associate had forced her to ship. Had he’d lied about the cigarettes? If he had, she needed backup. Hugh trusted Mike. She needed to do the same.

  “I’m handling some freight for them. I don’t think they want to off me, at least until the deal’s finished.”

  Mike swore under his breath. “What are you mixed up in, Fiona?” When she didn’t answer he continued, “If I’m going to help, you have to be completely honest with me.”

  She cringed at the word completely. Honesty with anyone, at this point, could only be partial. How much could—should—she tell him?

  The shifter world was definitely off the table. Hugh knew about shifters, but Mike probably didn’t. Mike continued to scrutinize her, the angular planes of his face growing harder by the second.

  She had to give him something. “It might be possible the attack had something to do with the shipment, but why anyone would want to kill me over cigarettes makes no sense.”

  “Cigarettes?” Mike echoed. “Crap, Fiona. Don’t you know cigarettes are one of the biggest contraband items of the underworld? It’s a felony offense to smuggle them. You could go to prison.”

  “Why would I know that?”

  “Because you’re in the shipping business?”

  Heat flooded her face at his condescending tone. She shoved her pajamas and underwear into the overnight bag, then swiveled to face him.

  Prison? Crap!

  “Apparently I’m not very good at it.” Her chin trembled as the thought of prison hit her. She fought back the tears. “Smugglers infiltrated me two years ago, and now you tell me I could go to prison for shipping possible contraband cigarettes. A cargo with my stamp of approval. I didn’t know it was a felony, honest.”

  Mike closed the small gap between them and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Don’t cry on me. I believe you.”

  His warm hand unhinged her. The flood of emotions she’d been holding burst, and she flung herself at his strong chest, weeping. The metal ammunition shells crisscrossing his body pressed into her.

  He smelled like gun oil and spicy aftershave. Between sobs, Fiona inhaled his scent. After a couple of seconds, Mike’s arms wrapped around her shoulder, and his awkward pats became more natural and soothing.

  “We’ll talk about this more in the morning,” he said, as he eased her away from him. “You’re still in shock. I shouldn’t have pressed for an answer.”

  She grabbed a tissue from the bedside table and dried her tears, ashamed she’d lost control. Her father would have never caved. He had been hard and tough. She needed to be, too. “I’m sorry. I don’t normally break down like that.”

  “Someone shot at you. You’d have to be pretty calloused not to get upset.”

  “It didn’t bother you.”

  “I’m a soldier for hire, Fiona. Not much bothers me now.”

  Good thing. Because if this marked the beginning of the relationship with OmniWorld, she hated to think what would happen when she got even deeper.

  Chapter 4

  After Mike settled Fiona in the guesthouse, he dug out one of the bullets from the wall. Then he scrounged some wood from one of the outbuildings on the property and fashioned a temporary barricade on the window. He swept the broken glass into a two-foot strip under the window and laid a layer at the threshold to the room. If anyone entered he’d hear the crunch and be alerted. After making a pot of strong, black coffee, he set up camp in the living room and dialed Hugh.

  “What the hell did you get me into?” Mike asked when Hugh’s sleep-filled voice came across the line. “Someone tried to kill her tonight.”

  “She did mention she might want bodyguard services.” Hugh yawned, and Mike fought the urge to reciprocate. “Any idea who’s after her?” Hugh asked.

  “She’s not saying. I got some cock-and-bull story about a cigarette shipment OmniWorld forced her into. She acted as if she didn’t know contraband smokes were a hot commodity.”

  “Damn,” Hugh said. “Sounds like it’s happening all over again.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “The rogue faction of the Turning Stone shifters used her to smuggle poisonous gas for a terrorist attack. Her brother recognized an OmniWorld representative as a shifter and warned her off.”

  “She’s a shifter? I wouldn’t have taken this job if I’d known.”

  “She’s not. Her mother was, but she was hiding from the rogues. Fiona doesn’t know much about the Society, according to her brother.”

  “Don’t be so certain. If her brother warned her off, and she’s dealing with rogues, she might know more than you think.”

  “Keep a close eye on her, Mike, and watch your back.”

  “Roger that.” He thumbed off the cell and laid his shotgun across his knees.

  The accent lights in front of the house cast a glow on the draperies, bright enough, he hoped, an intruder’s shadow would warn him of approaching danger. As his eyes adjusted to the darkened room, he allowed his mind to wander to the woman he’d promised to protect.

  Was she a shifter? While his buddy had accepted their presence, Mike had a bit more trouble with the idea of paranormal beings roaming around. He liked his world black and white, and from what he knew of the Turning Stone Society, especially the rogues, gray reigned.

  The crunch of glass at the doorway to the room brought his attention to the task at hand. He flipped down his night goggles and leveled his gun, ready to take aim at the sound.

  “Mike.” A stage whisper floated into the room. “It’s me, Fiona.”

  He lowered his weapon and shoved the goggles to his forehead. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be locked in the guest house.”

  “I couldn’t sleep. Can I come in?”

  “Be careful on the glass. I don’t want to take you to the emergency room for stitches.”

  The sound of crunching footsteps approached then disappeared, muffled in the thick carpeting when she passed his barrier. When she neared, he motioned her to the floor behind the chair where she’d taken refuge earlier.

  “You’re still dressed.”

  “I thought it wise. I brought my gun.”

  “Keep it holstered, even if something happens.” For all he knew she couldn’t hit a target at point blank range. Friendly fire killed the same as unfriendly fire. He’d take her to a shooting range when they got the window fixed and see how well she handled her gun. Until then, he wanted to be the sole shooter.

  “I can shoot, you know.”

  “Maybe at point blank in the light. But if they come tonight, it will be dark. Do you have night goggles?”

  “No.”

  “I do. I can see who I’
m shooting. Trust me, I won’t mistake you for the enemy.”

  “That’s comforting to know.”

  He heard her settle against the wall, then a muffled yawn drifted toward him. “Go to sleep, Fiona. You’re safe with me.”

  She curled on the floor. Mike laid another chair in front of her to protect her better. He sat watching her, wondering what secrets she had. Secrets he would have to uncover in order to protect her.

  After a couple of seconds, Fiona raised on her elbow and gently touched his arm. At the whisper light brush of her fingers, sparks raced to his shoulder. He suppressed the urge to return her touch.

  “Thanks, Mike, for being here. I’d probably be dead if you hadn’t knocked me off my chair.”

  “Just doing what you’re paying me for,” he replied evenly. But nothing inside him lay on an even keel. Her touch suddenly had him off balance, like a Tilt-a-Whirl at the county fair. He pulled his arm away.

  “Get some rest.” The words came out more brusque than he intended, but he wouldn’t apologize. She needed to see him as an employee—a man hired to help her—not a friend or champion.

  She was business. Just business.

  Curled close enough to hear Mike’s even breathing and smell his cologne floating on the night breeze whenever the draperies drifted inward, Fiona relaxed. Masculine strength oozed from him, wrapping around her like a cocoon. She knew she would be safe as long as he stayed beside her. The night sounds, which had kept her awake in the cottage, transposed into a woodland lullaby. Soon, she found herself drifting off.

  But night creatures invaded her dreams, morphing from human to animals and back to humans. She fought them off with a knife, but the blade bent whenever she thrust. Rubbery and useless.

  In the wind, mixed with the sound of crickets, her mother’s voice sighed.

  Be certain you’re willing to take the risk, Fiona. There’s no turning back. You will live in fear. An evil rogue shifter wants to take your power.

  “I have to,” she told her mother. “I can’t stop now.”

  Something reached out of the darkness and grasped her arm. Fiona screamed as a hand dropped over her mouth.

  “Fiona. Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

  Mike’s voice brought her from the depths of terror, and she gasped as she jerked awake. She let her breath out in a shaky exhale.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She nodded, then realized he couldn’t see her in the dark. “Yeah.”

  “The shooter?”

  “No. Monsters. People and animals. I couldn’t kill them.”

  “Assassins are monsters. Animals, too.”

  Her dream couldn’t be about the shooter—unless he was a shifter. Sleep had exposed her uncertainty over whether she could succeed with her planned double-cross of OmniWorld.

  “Funny you think so. As a security and bodyguard guy you might have to off someone. Wouldn’t killing someone qualify for the assassin category?”

  “I’m a mercenary for hire, but I’m not one of the bad guys. I fight the bad guys.” His tone told her, in no uncertain terms, she’d offended him.

  “Sorry. I’m sure you’re a good guy. Hugh recommended you.” She drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to get a grip on her emotions. “Forget I said anything, please. It’s my nerves talking. I’ve never been involved with bad guys before.”

  “Aside from the smuggling,” he quipped. “Maybe I’m the one who should be careful dealing with you.”

  “I’m innocent. Homeland Security cleared me.”

  The sun peeked through the drapes, lighting the room just enough she could see the tiniest smile curl his lips.

  “But then you know, don’t you?” He’d baited her and enjoyed doing it. She nodded toward the lightening window. “I guess we’re safe for the moment. How about some breakfast?”

  Mike glanced at his watch. “The home improvement store should be open. I’ll get the wood for the window while you fix breakfast. Deal?”

  “Deal.” She rose from the floor and stretched her tense muscles. Mike stood, removed his weapons and ammunition bandolier, and stashed them in his duffel bag. “Okay if I put these in the front entry closet while I’m gone?”

  Fiona retrieved her gun from the floor and stuck it in her waistband. “Sure. Pancakes and bacon okay?”

  “A big stack sounds great.” As she picked her way over the broken glass at the room entrance her cell rang. She thumbed it on.

  “Good morning, Fiona,” said Mr. Swindell.

  “Hold on a minute,” she said to her caller. “Gotta take this,” she mouthed to Mike.

  “I saw a truck in the garage,” Mike said. “Mind if I take it?”

  She retrieved the keys from the front hall table and tossed them to him. As soon as Mike was out of earshot, she went back to the call.

  “Mr. Swindell, you’re calling early.”

  “We have a job for you, my dear,” Swindell replied.

  Her heart leapt, bringing her to a stop. “I thought I’d be meeting with my mentor before I got a job.” She drew a deep breath to steady her nerves. Some underhanded rogue job was not in her plans. She had to stop this. Now.

  “This deal seems one-sided to me. You’ve commandeered my ship for an illegal cargo of cigarettes, and now I have a job?”

  “Illegal? Who says the cargo is illegal?”

  “I’m not stupid, Mr. Swindell.” Although Mike certainly believed so, she couldn’t afford to let OmniWorld or the rogue shifters think she didn’t have the upper hand. “But it doesn’t matter at the moment. I want something in exchange, and I’m not going to do anything more until I see my mentor.”

  There. She’d said it. As soon as the forceful words spilled from her, she shook so much she had to lean against the wall to steady herself.

  “My, my, my.” The three words Mr. Swindell spoke held volumes of smarminess and sarcasm. “Such big words from such a—”

  “If you call me a little lady, I will hang up on you.” She hated being called a little lady. The phrase stank of condescension. He’d already been condescending enough.

  Swindell laughed. “I like you, Fiona. You have the spitfire of your mother.”

  My mother? His words took the starch right out of her attitude. He knew her mother? She caught the question before she blurted it out. Who was Swindell, anyway?

  “You have an appointment this morning with your mentor at 8:00 a.m. at his penthouse in downtown Cleveland.”

  “I can’t make it by then.”

  “Falhman values punctuality. I’d advise you to be there on time.” He gave her the address, then hung up before she could protest further.

  She knew the name. Her mother had written about him in her diary. He was Rhys and Roc’s father. A curtain of dread and excitement dropped over her. The head of the rogue shifters wanted to see her? Wanted to mentor her?

  Scrambling for paper and pen, Fiona scribbled the address, then jotted a note to Mike and rushed upstairs to her bedroom for a quick shower and change.

  After last night’s attack, Mike would not approve of a command performance call from the king of the rogues, if she could even tell him. But she didn’t care what he thought. Not now. Swindell knew her mother, and the man her mother had spent her life hiding from would be her mentor. How better to take down the rogues, and avenge her mother’s broken life, than by destroying their kingpin, a shifter who once loved her mother?

  Fiona studied her reflection in the cheval mirror in her bedroom. Nervousness wafted from her so clearly it nearly made her reflection waver.

  Get a grip, Fi. You can do this. Just think like Dad. Hard. Tough. And willing to do whatever it takes.

  She channeled her father’s willpower, remembering what he always said to her wh
en she faced an obstacle. If you think you can’t, you can’t.

  She could do this. Would do this. Even if she died trying.

  Chapter 5

  A tall, lean butler with a ski-jump nose answered the door at the penthouse apartment. “Miss Fiona Kayler, to see you, sir,” he intoned after she introduced herself.

  From the depths of a cavernous great room, a slender, silver-haired man rose and waved her in. He moved toward her, his hand outstretched in greeting. Even from the hallway she could sense the buzz of shifter tingles race over her, growing stronger as he neared. When she didn’t reach for his hand he grasped hers and clasped it between his, curling his long fingers around her palm.

  The same sensation of buzzing bees crawling over her, that she’d experienced when Mr. Swindell had shaken her hand, shimmied across her flesh. She resisted the urge to draw away, afraid she might insult her host. He, like Swindell, held onto her hand a bit longer than felt comfortable.

  “I do see a resemblance,” he said gently.

  “Resemblance?” she echoed.

  “To your mother.” A sadness came over his face. “I’m sorry for your loss. I hope she went without suffering.”

  His concern for her mother’s last days touched her, and for a second she thought she saw something in his eyes. Pain, or maybe regret.

  He released her hand, motioning her to the long white sofa. “Can I get you some coffee or tea? Or perhaps a danish?”

  “Coffee would be nice.” She’d rushed out before her morning caffeine fix and now had the beginning of a headache.

  Within seconds the butler placed a silver tray, containing a plate of danish, doughnuts, two china cups and saucers, and a matching coffee serving set on the low table in front of the sofa. Falhman poured a cup for her and rotated the tray so she could reach the cream and sugar.