One Insatiable(44)

A tall, red-brick building with beige limestone accents forms the center of a quadrangle of similar red-brick buildings. The library has an enormous tower rising from the entrance with two spires pointing to the sky.

Students mostly dressed in jeans, boots, and plaid shirts with backpacks slung over their shoulders hurry across the grass never looking up. A few loiter in the sun, I assume on break, or congregate in little clumps talking. The occasional shriek of laughter pierces the low drone.

I could easily pass for one of them. I’m similarly dressed, and my age puts me in at least graduate-school range. As such, I only catch the occasional eye of a co-ed checking me out. Red leaves speckle the green grass, and I can feel winter in the air.

Inside the enormous library, I do a quick scan of the long tables with laptops and shelves of books. It smells like old paper, but I don’t have time to waste. The directory says I need to be on the third floor for the town archives.

When I step off the elevator a librarian with a short brown bob sits behind the desk. She only gives me a glance before returning to her computer screen. A glass case is between us, and I step forward to examine an elaborate pop-up book depicting the original town of Woodland Creek. The recreational areas are shown in such detail, for a moment, I am distracted from why I came here, but only for a moment.

“I’m looking for a death record from early in the town’s history.” The librarian glances up at me. “Any local periodicals from that time?”

“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.