Page 1 of Protected By Her Mate

“We never sleep”

LENNOX

140 YEARS AGO

Silence falls as I step into a roomful of lawmen. Spotting my contact, I stride past the curious faces, offering a hand. “Detective Lennox Wolven-North of the Metropolitan Police at your service.”

Murmurs erupt, but my focus is on the man opposite my handshake. Allan Pinkerton Senior. The man who sent the wire requesting my presence.

“Thank you for coming.” His Scottish accent makes me think of home. “How was your journey?”

I offer him a slight smile. “Probably could’ve swum faster than the steamship, but here I am.” Shifters prefer all four paws remain on solid ground.

“Glad you’re here.” He jerks his chin at a wall covered in paper clippings.

Whispers of ‘Scotland Yard’ and ‘shifter’ follow us as the room’s mix of Pinkerton detectives, Texas Rangers, and Chicago police question my presence. They’ll soon understand.

“Victim?” I ask, tapping a colourless photograph. At Allan’s nod, I pull it from its pin, holding it up to the light for inspection. “Are there more?”

“A few, but most of the victims have been found in rural locations where crime scene documentation is a foreign concept.” He hands over a couple more photographs.

I trace a claw over the telltale signs on one of the bodies. “You were right to ask for me.”

“Shifter?”

Nodding, I set the three photos on a desk in front of him. Others shuffle closer. “See here?” I trace a fingertip over the gaping throat wound. “There are few creatures in this world that’ll leave this kind of mark. Wolf and bear come to mind.”

“Not a bear.”

I raise an eyebrow at the man who spoke. He’s wearing the Pinkerton uniform of suit, tie, and hat. “Allan Pinkerton,” he tells me, then glances at his father and adds, “Junior.”

“Why don’t you think it's a bear?” I ask him.

“No bears in that area.” He taps the photo. “And no other marks besides the torn throat.”

I agree with his assessment. A bear would not immediately go for the throat and leave everything else intact. This is the mark of a rogue shifter.

I frown at the array of photos, studying each one carefully. “It’s only the throat in each case. A straight kill. No signs of torture.”

“The cause of death in all cases. One of them had a broken leg as well.”

“Tried to run,” I murmur, and Allan Junior dips his head in agreement. Our killer isn’t killing out of anger or there would be more damage to the bodies. Fear killing maybe? “When and where was your last victim? The last piece of evidence will point to a direction the killer might be headed in.”

We spend a few minutes pouring over a map. Several of the surrounding law enforcement officers get over their discomfort of being in a room with a shifter enough to lend their voices. Hearing from the men around me as they fill in the blanks paints a picture of an unknown shifter terrorizing the Midwest United States.

As we plan, a Texas Ranger steps forward, hostility rolling off him. “Name’s Robert Smith. What makes you think you’re gonna bring this guy in when none of us have been able to?”

I study the Ranger, starting at his spurred boots and ending at the wide-brimmed hat perched on his head. “I’m don’t intend to bring anyone in.”

“Then why’re you here?” he sneers.

“He’s here by my invitation, and by the invitation of the office of the President of these United States,” Allan Senior snaps. “Good enough for you?”

There’s some shuffling in the room and sounds of assent, but the Ranger still looks furious. I’m used to it. Shifter prejudice is as old as time, especially among human males who see the strength of shifters as a threat to their own masculinity.

Eyeing the Ranger, I note his deep tan and the lines on his face. He’s probably younger than he looks. The elements take their toll on humans. “It’s my understanding the Rangers have come closest to capturing our perpetrator.”

His chest fills with pride. “We trapped him near Amarillo, but he took out one of my men and fled.”

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