Shifting Shadows: Stories from the World of Mercy Thompson(126)

The doorknob turned, and the door, rather gently, pushed her to the side and Ben the Grouch—that’s what the office workers called him—came in. She stared at him in shock.

“Blackmail, Duffy?” said Ben, toeing off his snow-covered shoes and stowing them next to hers—as if he’d done it a hundred times. “That’s pretty low, even for you.” There was something funny with his voice. It was deeper and less crisp than usual, almost slurry, and she wondered if he’d had too much to drink. His body language was a little off, too. He kept his gaze slightly averted, never looking directly at Duffy or her.

Duffy set the wine down on the table abruptly, losing the smile. There was a flash of rage before it was replaced by sternness—did he practice his expressions in front of a mirror?

“I’m sorry that it had to go down this way, Mel,” he said so sincerely she almost could have believed that they’d been having a business discussion instead of a proposition.

Duffy turned to Ben, his face serious, “I don’t know how much you overheard, but it’s not what you think. Someone has been leaking information, and I just narrowed it down to Melinda. I was trying to see how far it had gotten by letting her believe I would cover for her, but you put the kibosh on that.”

She’d never seen anyone lie so smoothly. People would believe him, he was influential and he had money.

“Are you really selling secrets, Mel?” Ben sounded amused, in the mocking sort of way he had. “Shame, shame. So where is all the money going?” He glanced around, making a big production of the tiny living room and kitchen that comprised half of her apartment. He stretched his neck from one side to the other as if it were stiff, and when he was done, he focused on Duffy.

“Your eyes—” Duffy momentarily lost his usual confidence and looked shaken.

“What big teeth you have, dear,” said Ben. At least that’s what she thought he said, though it didn’t make any sense.

Duffy took a gulp of his wine, regrouped quickly from whatever had bothered him. He said, “All the more reason that getting on my bad side would be a terrible idea if you want to keep your job, Shaw. Walk away, and I’ll forget what I’ve seen.”

Ben laughed, and the sound made her take a step away from him. It was not a good laugh.

“You’re making a mistake.” Duffy stood up. He was a big man, taller and heavier built than Ben. He worked out—he’d told her that along with tales of his black belt when he had been trying to impress her.

“No,” said Ben. “I’ve made lots of mistakes. I know what that feels like. This is not a mistake. And as for what I am, whoop-de-f . . . freaking-do. It’s not a crime.”

“She’s a traitor,” Duffy said. “And I can make your job very uncomfortable.”

Ben snorted. “She’s a secretary, she doesn’t have access to anything. My doddering old mum in Merry Old England knows more about hacking than she does.”

He smiled, and Mel found herself stepping away from that smile until her legs hit the bookcase under the TV. The smile hadn’t been aimed at her, though. Duffy stumbled as he backed up against the counter in the kitchen—which was as far as he could go.

Ben followed him, crowding him by just standing in the kitchen. There was no amusement in his voice when he growled, “And if you’ve manufactured something that you think will implicate her, let me tell you that you aren’t hacker enough to cover your tracks from me.”

Then he stepped to the side and pointed to the front door. “Leave. Right now.”

Duffy didn’t even so much as glance at Mel as he bolted out the door.

She closed the door and glanced over at Ben. He was bent over, hands on his thighs as if he had just run a race.

“Ben?” she said. “Thank you.” She hugged herself. “But this was a mistake. We’re both going to be out of work.” She had no family, and only her friends at work. With Duffy spinning stories, she’d have to stay away from them. “Maybe in jail.”

“I watched a man brutalize women once,” he told her without looking up. “I was under orders, but finally put a stop to it anyway. Never again.”

She blinked at him. “Under orders? In the military?”

He laughed, coughed, and said, “In a manner of speaking. Pack business.”

“Pack?” The word should mean something to her, she knew, but she was still worried about what she was going to do without a job.

He lifted his head, and she saw what Duffy had. His eyes weren’t human.

“You’re a werewolf,” she whispered. She’d never seen a werewolf in person before, though she knew there were some in the Tri-Cities. She had seen a wolf at the zoo, though, and it had had the same hungry golden eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “And I didn’t even need to appear on four paws before you got it.”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” she said, hurt, though she thought that she ought to be more afraid. A werewolf. That explained some things about Ben.

He bent his head down again and huffed as if he was having trouble catching his breath. Or maybe he was laughing. “You know it’s bad when they start quoting Oscar.”

“Oscar?”

He glanced at her. “Oscar Wilde.” His face contorted, released, and then contorted again as his light English complexion darkened. “F-f-f-f . . . freaking fire truck that hurts.” He bent back down and made a noise that made her cringe.