Page 11 of Fated to the Lone Shifter
Inside: a series of tiny listening devices, no larger than shirt buttons. Standard-issue FBI tech.
With swift, practiced movements, I tuck them beneath the rim of the duty desk, behind the refrigerator in the kitchen, in the overhead light fixture in the rec room. One even slips under the base of the printer in Captain Greene’s office. I move like a shadow, years of training smoothing my breath and softening each step.
But the hardest one is Noah’s office.
I pause at his closed door, fingers hovering just above the handle.
Don't hesitate.
I slip inside. The office is neater than I expected—clean lines, uncluttered desk, the faint scent of cedar and motor oil still hanging in the air. It’s quiet, save for the ticking of the wall clock.
I keep the lights off and move with care, placing my last device under his desk lamp. But I’m not done yet. This office requires more exploration. I search the desk drawers one by one. Top drawer: neatly arranged pens, notepads, and a bottle of ibuprofen. Second drawer: training manuals, building schematics, a collection of firehouse rosters. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Then I find the bottom drawer.
Beneath a tangle of charging cords and an unused radio earpiece, there’s a stone. Rough and misshapen, it looks like nothing—until I touch it.
Magic pulses through me, the same low hum I felt in the woods. My fingers curl around the stone before I even realize what I’m doing.
It’s identical to the one I found in the ashes. On the other side, the same rune.
A chill creeps up my spine.
Why does he have it?
He didn’t just stumble on it. No one without magic would think to pick up a rock.
He kept it. Hid it. Or was it his to start with?
I stare at the drawer, disappointment settling into my bones like cold.
Because if he’s connected to those fires…
If he’s the one I’ve been sent to find…
Then I’ll have no choice but to burn whatever’s simmering between us to the ground.
Chapter four
Smoke Signals
NOAH
Day two Greene calls an early end to training and declares it a crew-bonding night. "Cookout on the back pad," he says. "No drills. No drama. Just people."
The crew doesn’t need to be told twice.
By sundown, the back of the firehouse is buzzing with activity. A couple of folding tables are dragged out. Someone’s set up a portable grill. Music hums low from a speaker—somewhere between country and classic rock. The scent of charred burgers and woodsmoke fills the air. For a few hours, the looming wildfires and dead bodies feel a little farther away.
I lean against the railing with a paper plate in hand, eyes drifting over the rookies.
Taylor’s attempting to flip a burger with a pair of tongs clearly not made for grilling. It flies off and hits the ground with a splat. He laughs too loud and offers to eat it anyway. Jamie shrieks, horrified, and snatches it from him, tossing it in the bin before anyone can stop her. Taylor pouts, but he’s already got ketchup on his chin. Kid’s harmless, but he’s a walking hazard.
Nicole, on the other hand, moves like a damn ninja.
She’s set up a mini fire-dancing demonstration with batons she apparently made herself. Spinning and twirling them with calm precision, each baton flaring at the tips like miniature torches. It’s mesmerizing. Even Greene cracks a smile.
Marcus notices too. He stands off to the side with a drink in hand, but his eyes don’t leave her. When she finishes, he approaches with a slow grin.
