Running Free (Woodland Creek)(8)

The drive is short in the dead of the night and after some arguing with my GPS, I finally find the old house on a dirt road at the edge of Craft County. Of course, at this time of night, the lights are all out because normal people sleep at night.

I, on the other hand, am not normal.

My doctor claims I have PTSD from when I found my wife cheating on me. I laughed off his asinine diagnosis and refused to fill the prescription to help me sleep at night. Instead, I picked up the night shift and worked long hours, all in an effort to prove that the bitch didn’t traumatize me out of my healthy mental state.

I’m a night owl now.

Not sick or distraught.

Just different.

I climb out of the car and, speaking of owls, one hoots loudly near the house. If it weren’t in the wee hours of the night I might be concerned that the bastard is giving me away but from the looks of it, everyone is dead asleep.

“Hush now, Mr. Owl,” I whisper in the darkness. “I’m just checking things out.”

A rustling in the large oak tree near the front porch causes me to take pause and my hand rests on my weapon at my belt. I sigh out a rush of breath when the huge owl flaps out of the tree and lands on the top step.

His wide, knowing eyes watch me and the fierce glint in them startles me. The damn bird acts like he’s a guard dog or some shit. When I approach, he flaps his wings several times in warning and hoots at me.

“Okay, okay. I’ll come back tomorrow when your ass is asleep,” I grunt out in response.

My cell blasts like a f*cking alarm clock and I scramble to answer it before I wake up Otis and Frankie.

“Yeah,” I hiss into the phone as I trot back to the vehicle.

Fitz barks orders out to someone before answering me. “Gun, get back to Woodland Pond. Another goddamned body’s been reported not even a mile away from the last one.”

I run a hand in frustration through my thick hair. Tonight’s going to be a long night. “Right, I’m on my way.”





Frankie

“You seem different this morning.”

My mentor’s familiar, gruff voice warms me. I smile and lift my gaze. “Same ol’ Frankie,” I joke but my smile falls and I grow serious. “Otis, how come you never married anyone?”

The question has been one I’ve always been too afraid to ask. Like, the answer would reveal all the reasons why I’ll never have my happy ever after. Because we’re different. Undeserving.

His face quirks up into a bright grin. “I imprinted on a Swan shifter once. Prettiest little thing at Woodland Pond.”

I grin back but darkness passes over his features and my gut drops. “But?”

“She was killed. A hunter mistook her for a duck. And with her death,” he says and sighs sadly, “my ability to ever love another died with her.”

“Can’t you imprint on someone else?”

He shakes his head and his eyes cloud over. “Shifters only imprint once in their lifetime. Fate says you have that one soul you’ll always belong to. No other could ever take their place.”

His sadness sours my belly.

“I’ll never imprint or be imprinted on for that matter,” I tell him fiercely. My heart belongs to no one. Never has, never will.

He shakes his head with a slight smile, as if my statement is childish, but doesn’t say another word about it. Instead, he changes the subject. His friendliness has left the building and he regards me much like a father would his unruly teenager.

“Where were you last night?” he asks, the steam from his coffee fogging his glasses that are perched on the end of his nose.

I frown and pick up a flimsy piece of bacon. “Out.”

When I risk a glance at him, one of his salt and peppered brows is cocked up. I know the look — the look that says, Frankie, I’m not going to put up with your shit today.

Huffing, I drop the bacon back down on the plate and scan the diner. It’s nearly noon and the place is already jammed packed with patrons.

“Otis, I was searching for clues. But, turns out, there aren’t any.”

His gaze softens but worry wrinkles his weathered face. “An officer came by the house last night. I heard him coming up the gravel so I shifted. He wanted to snoop around but I think I spooked him before he got a call and left. Do you know anything about that?”

My heart flops wondering if it were the detective from last night. The man that dizzied me with his charming good looks and masculine scent. The card he gave me burns a hole in my pocket.

“Yeah, he came by the bar last night asking questions,” I admit. “But I don’t know why he came out to the house. I told him everything I know.”

Otis flicks his gaze behind me to a couple walking in before regarding me with a serious, wide-eyed stare — a stare that is oddly the same as when he’s in his Owl shifter form.

“Heard on the news this morning they found Acey. And a boy named Dave. Both bodies were mutilated in the same manner. Didn’t you bust out a Dave from the animal shelter recently?”

My brows pinch together in anger. “What are you trying to say, Otis? That I had something to do with their deaths?”

He sips his coffee, seemingly unaffected by my outburst, and takes his time answering. This is one of the reasons why he and I get along so well. I flip out and he stays calm. But eventually, we talk it out and move along. It stings that he might think I could do something like that to those kids.