Kate Daniels 06 - Gunmetal Magic

happening. Throwing him out would injure his dignity beyond repair. “I’m going to lift you. Can you pull yourself up?”
    “Is the Pope Catholic?”
    I lowered him down, grabbed him by the hips, and heaved. Mr. Haffey pulled himself over the ledge and I got a real close look at that wound. It was a four-inch rip down his leg andtouching his sweatpants left my palm bloody. He needed an ambulance yesterday.
    I tossed Chief and his prize out of the hole, jumped, caught the edge, and hopped up.
    “Will you at least carry me fireman-style?” Mr. Haffey huffed.
    “No can do, sir. I’m trying to keep your blood from dripping out of your leg.”
    He growled deep under his breath.
    I picked him up and started out. “It will all be over soon.”
    He guffawed.
    I caught the familiar scuttling sound behind me, coming from the master bedroom.
    “I thought the Order didn’t allow shapeshifters.”
    “They don’t. When they figured me out, they fired me.”
    The scuttling chased us.
    “That’s bullshit right there.” Mr. Haffey shook his head. “And discrimination. You talk to your union rep?”
    “Yes, I did. I fought it as long as I could. Anyway, they retired me with full pension. I can’t appeal.”
    Mr. Haffey gave me an appraising look. “You took it?”
    “Nope. Told them to shove it.”
    I dropped him to the floor as gently as I could and spun, shotgun ready.
    A huge pale insect lunged at us. I pumped two slugs into it and it thrashed on the floor. I gathered Mr. Haffey up and double-timed it to the door.
    “Listen, most of my contacts have retired, but a few of us have kids in the department. If you need a job, I can probably fix up something. The PAD will be glad to have you. You’re a hell of a shot. Shouldn’t let that go to waste.”
    “Much appreciated.” I smiled. “But I’ve got a job. I work for a business. My best friend owns it.” I started up the stairs.
    “What sort of business?”
    “Magic hazmat removal. Protection. That type of thing.”
    Mr. Haffey opened his eyes. “Private cop? You went private?”
    That’s cop mentality for you. I tell him I’m a shapeshifter and he doesn’t blink an eye. But private cop, oh no, that’s not okay.
    “So how’s business?” Mr. Haffey squinted at me.
    “Business is fine.” If by fine, one meant lousy. Between Kate Daniels and me, we had a wealth of skills, a small sea of experience, and enough smears on our reputation to kill a dozen careers. All of our clients were desperate, because by the time they came to us, everybody else had turned them down.
    “What does your man think about that?”
    Raphael Medrano. The memory of him was so raw, I could conjure his scent by just thinking about him. The strong male healthy scent that drove me crazy…
    “It didn’t work out,” I said.
    Mr. Haffey shifted, uncomfortable. “You need to drop that silliness and get back in uniform. We’re talking retirement, benefits, advance in rank and pay…”
    I ran up to my door. “Mrs. Haffey!”
    The door swung open. Mrs. Haffey’s face went slack. “Oh my God, Darin. Oh God.”
    In the distance the familiar sirens blared.
    The cavalry arrived with guns and in large numbers. They loaded Mr. Haffey into an ambulance, thanked me for my help, and told me that since I was a civilian, I needed to keep the hell out of their way. I didn’t mind. I’d killed most of what was down there and they had gotten all dressed up and gone through the trouble of bringing flamethrowers. It was only fair to let them have some fun.
    I tended the cut on my leg. There wasn’t much to do about it. Lyc-V, the virus responsible for shapeshifters’ existence, repaired injuries at an accelerated rate, and by the time I got to it, the gash had sealed itself. In a couple of days, the leg would be like new, without scars. Some Lyc-V gifts were useful. Some, like berserker rage, I could live without.
    I was scrubbing the bug juice off my face with my makeup removal washcloth, when the phone rang. I wiped the soap off my face and sprinted into the kitchen to pick it up.
    “Hello?”
    “Nash?” a smooth voice said into the phone.
    The smooth voice belonged to Jim, a werejaguar and the Pack’s security chief. He usually went by Jim Black, if youdidn’t know him well. I’d dug through his background during my tenure with the Order. His real name was James Damael Shrapshire, a fact I kept to myself, since he didn’t advertise it.
    Atlanta’s Shapeshifter Pack was the