One Insatiable

“This way.” She stands and leads me through double-glass doors down a long row of tall bookshelves to a center space where a bank of computers is situated.

“You’ll have to use the Lexis-Nexis network to search it. The site-specific password is printed on the card there.”

She motions to a laminated card next to a grey machine that looks a hundred.

“Thanks,” I say, nodding, and grab the card to log in.

It’s possible there will be no record of Hayden’s wife’s death, since she was an immortal, but I might find clues if anyone reported anything to the authorities.

Shifter business is closely guarded and kept inside the packs, but the sheriff might have been alerted, depending on what happened. It’s a long shot, but I’m taking it.

An hour passes as I search every keyword phrase from “mysterious death” to “new families” to “Quinlan and Cross.” Nothing comes back, and I’m beginning to suspect I’d been right from the start — no shifter business will be reported in the local media — when a headline catches my eye.

WORK CONTINUES ON CHATEAU CROIX

I almost jump out of my seat when I see it. Croix is French for Cross. The story has to be about Hayden’s mansion, but I wasn’t aware it had a name. A quick scan has me on the edge of my seat.

Situated on the largest tract of privately owned property in Woodland Creek, Monsieur Hayden Croix broke ground on his twenty-bedroom chateaux early spring.

In a rare show of hospitality Croix spoke to this reporter on who we can expect to reside in the French-inspired maison.

“My wife’s family loves Woodland Creek, and we’ve decided to make it our permanent residence.”

Suspicions of Croix’s connection to the Chicago underworld were squelched when the lovely Mrs. Croix supported her husband’s claims, citing their frequent trips to that city to care for her ailing mother.

“We’ll be so happy we no longer have to make the arduous journey to that city…”

I skim the rest, knowing the high council is in Chicago. If Hayden were making frequent trips there, it was no doubt about the loss of his mate and establishing the pact. The final sentence gives me the smallest hint.

Mrs. Croix is the former Cora Strong of Columbus.

I passed through Newcastle on my way into Woodland Creek. It’s a midsized city just south of here. Sitting back, I try to think what this means. Hayden changed his name from Croix to Cross, most likely to throw off suspicion about why he never ages or dies. Was Mercy’s family name Strong or was that a fiction?

My mind is on Mercy when I feel a sharp pain in my midsection. It’s a sensation of fear and heartbreak. It’s desperate, and as fast as I feel it, I know what it is. Mercy.

Standing, I clear the computer screen quickly and gather up my notes, shoving them in my pockets. Logging off and powering down the computer just in case, I practically run through the stacks to the double glass doors.

Skipping the elevator, I jog down the stairs and out the entrance to the campus lawn. Looking around me in all directions, I try to pick up the sensation again, try to see if I can place where she is, if she’s in danger.

The feelings were intense — sadness, fear, heartbreak. “Where are you, Mercy?” I whisper, looking up at the blazing yellow leaves of a Ginkgo tree. A few quiet moments pass, and I find her again.

Too many students fill the courtyard for me to shift. I can’t shift without losing my clothes and the notes I’ve taken, but I take off hustling fast in the direction of the observatory. She’s in our meadow.

I’m heading east until the path ends then I’m pushing through the trees. I’m not worried about stealth or quiet as I blast through the foliage. It’s easier to navigate the woods in my panther form, but in the heavy boots and jeans, I’m making good time.

The forest has turned seemingly overnight into a blast of deep reds, bright yellows, and purple, but I only have one thing on my mind. At last I’m pushing through the final river birch, when I pull up short. I’ve made it to the clearing, and there she sits, still wearing the jeans and maroon tee she’s had since I took her to my place.

“Mercy?” She’s sitting so still, I don’t want to startle her. “Did you go to the mansion?”

In a flash of dark hair and blue eyes, she’s in my arms. She’s holding me tight around my neck, her body pressed against my chest. All of her emotions hit me in a silent rush. She’s fighting her fear, but the fear is winning. It ignites my desperate urge to protect her because overwhelming all is her love for me. It takes me by surprise. Her feelings are words we’ve never spoken out loud.

My face is buried in her beautiful hair, and I close my eyes, drinking in the sensation of her love. The blood has bonded us, and I can’t help wondering what she’s sensing from me.

I’m holding her back, and I slide my hands lower as she leans back to find my eyes. Hers are warm, and I’m pretty sure she’s picked up what I just discovered. Stepping back, our hands fall together, fingers entwined. She leads me to the base of a red maple, and we sit facing each other.

Our legs are crossed, knees touching, and she holds both my hands. “Our connection is growing.”

“I feel your pain. What happened at the mansion?”