Primal: Wild Heart Chronicles

Prologue

It was sad, really. She’d been so young.

All the victims have been young, Reynolds reflected to himself, staring down at the dead body. What is it about this damn lake that makes young idiots want to drown themselves in it?

She didn’t drown, the medical examiner said, kneeling by the body where it had washed downstream. It almost looks like she died of a drug overdose.

Reynolds exchanged a look with his partner, Officer Hernandez. She rolled her eyes at the ME’s conclusion; they were obviously both thinking the idiot was too young to have the field experience to know when a spade was a spade.

Distant lights drew their attention away from the scene. Reynolds squinted at the black cars pulling up the road. Is that the feds?

If it is, they’re not a division I’ve ever heard of, Hernandez said. You ever worked with the Federal Agency of Inexplicable Crimes?

How the hell she had such good vision, Reynolds would never know. Never heard of ‘em, but I have a feeling we’re about to find out.

A uniformed pair of agents stepped out of the lead car: two men, their sunglasses dark as night, their hair slicked back. They strode towards the officers, something about them sending shivers down his spine.

Officers Reynolds and Hernandez. Good to meet you. Reaching out, the man in front shook Reynolds’ hand. I’m Officer Lawrence Holt, and this is Officer Paul Rogers.

Reynolds felt a strange sensation, like vertigo or a dizzy spell, as he clasped the other man’s palm to his. He opened his mouth to ask the other man how he knew his name, and fell into a dark, empty hole in his mind.

Everything after that was blank, up until he found himself pulling the squad car up to the station. Something’s wrong, Reynolds thought wildly, glancing over at Hernandez to see if she sensed it too. When he reached into his pocket he found a slim black business card inside.

Ten minutes later they were sitting in the station, trying to explain to their boss how a bunch of suits took a regular drowning case from them. When Hernandez was asked what the agents said, she seemed to clam up for the first time since Reynolds had started working with her.

Why the hell didn’t you call me from the scene? Chief Pierce demanded, his voice roaring out through the whole office. Now I’ve got the FBI and the NSA and even Homeland Security telling me to keep my nose out of something that happened in our own backyard. What the hell happened?

The thing is, boss… She hesitated, words seeming to fail her. I honestly can’t even say. The only thing I remember them saying is that there’s something in the water around here.

Unlike his partner, Reynolds had lived in Belmont City his whole life. There weren’t many folks left in the city who could make the same claim; people tended to move away as soon as they were able. Even their mayors didn’t last long.

Something in the water. He knew exactly what the phrase meant, and he had no interest in explaining it to his colleagues. At best, he’d get thrown in the psych ward.

Trust me, boss, he said, giving his partner a reassuring look, we don’t want anywhere near this case. Let the suits handle it. There’s a reason why the locals call that place the Cave of Sorrows. Nothing good has ever happened there.

The next time he drove by the eerily still cave on his way out of town, Reynolds couldn’t even see the shallow stream where the body had washed up. It was only a few days later, but already a grove of trees taller than his house had grown in its place.

Chapter 1

The Setup

Ihadn’t ever done this before. What the hell are you thinking, Mara? My nerves were all jumbled up. The sheer black dress I wore clung to me as I fidgeted on the bar stool.

I compulsively fiddled with my side-swept bangs, which I’d recently gotten cut at the salon. I hope they look good. I tried to check them out in the mirror behind the bar, but all the liquor bottles got in the way.

You look nervous, honey, the bartender said, noticing my fiddling. Want a shot of courage?

No thanks. I smiled at him. The last thing I need is beer goggles. It’s just a date, right?

In truth, it’d been almost a year since I’d gone on a real date. Sure, there was that friend I’d slept with at the frat party last year, but nothing official. It seemed like no one at my school ever asked girls out anymore—not unless hanging out in some cologne-soaked dorm room counted as a date. I couldn’t tell if it was just something about Belmont City, or maybe my school in particular, but nothing around here was normal. They even said the water was cursed.

Superstitions. I wasn’t going to let local traditions keep me from going on dates; after all, this was the twenty-first century, not the Salem witch trials. The internet existed.

So now here I was, about to meet some guy who I only knew through a pixelated photo on my phone. I’d never done the online dating thing, but I guessed it could work. If he showed up at all.

For the five hundredth time that day I looked over my shoulder at the door. He wasn’t there, though. Still.

Stood up? a male voice behind me said, deep and low. I know a remedy for that, and it begins by having a drink with me.

He’s going to show up, I said, defensive. I turned around to see who was hitting on me, and was almost knocked off my stool at the sight of him.

He had silky dark hair, thick curved lips, and light green eyes touched by threads of amber. Those eyes stared down at me with the most intense gaze possible. I didn’t even know they made them like that outside of CW TV shows and fashion magazines.

While you’re waiting for the late fucker who’s supposed to be your date to show up, how about you let me buy you a drink?

I took a long look at the tattoos on his (ripped) arms, the worn leather jacket he was taking off and laying over the stool next to him, and the piercing in one of his ears. He gave off the distinct whiff of car grease and strong cologne, and leaned against the counter lazily. You’re not exactly my type. No offense, but I like my dates to be put together.

You mean upper class, he said, flagging down the bartender. His tone was disdainful—defiant, even. You think I’m some dumb grease monkey, and what you really want is some buttoned up cardboard cutout you can take home to Mommy and Daddy’s beach house in Connecticut.

I didn’t let it show how close to home that hit. Sure, my parents didn’t have a beach house in Connecticut, but they did have a beach house… in Rhode Island. And he definitely looked like a high school dropout—or at least, what I’d been told a high school dropout looked like by my overprotective parents. There was no reason why his opinion should’ve mattered to me. Still, his comments stung.

You don’t know me, I pointed out to him. You don’t know the first thing about me.

Likewise.

He had me there. If his assumptions upset me so much, it was hypocritical of me to judge him. And I had to admit that despite his bad boy appearance, I felt a spark of chemistry between us.

I’m Mara, I said, extending my hand.

Riker.

We shook, his hand rough and calloused around mine, and the movement of his arm revealed the edge of a swirling tattoo beneath his sleeves. Of course he’s covered in ink.

Rocks or neat? he said, gesturing towards the waiting bartender.

Rocks.

He turned to the man behind the bar. Two bourbons, both on the rocks with a twist of orange. You know what I like.

Got it.

I watched as the bartender reached for the top shelf, raising my eyebrows a bit. He must have better taste than I thought. That bourbon is almost $40 a glass. He was definitely showing off to me.

The bourbon was dark in my glass as the bartender slid it over to me. I could tell it had been aged for years. Glancing once more at the door, I admitted my date was never showing up. Might as well drink.

Cheers, Riker said. We clinked our glasses together. The bourbon was cool and bitter in my mouth, going down slow and sensual.

You should know, I said, setting down my glass, it’s going to take more than a mouthful of liquor to get inside my pants.

He grinned, his teeth flashing white, more predatory than amused. And what makes you think I want to fuck you, little princess?

I almost choked at his expression and his words. Well, just look at you. And guys don’t buy girls drinks for the hell of it.

Look at me? Standing back, he glanced down at himself, exaggerating every movement. I don’t see ‘sleeps around’ written on me anywhere.

It’s probably written in Chinese, tattooed someplace private.

Riker laughed again, low and warm. I had to admit that the sound of his voice got to me, deep inside. This isn’t a date, I pointed out to myself. If I wanted to sleep around, I could sleep around. But I didn’t. I wanted dinner and a movie.

The main restaurant was spread out behind us, full of guests eating romantic meals; it was just the two of us at the bar, and everyone knew what that meant. You didn’t sit at the bar for a deep connection, you sat at the bar to get laid.

So what are you doing here, anyway? I asked, taking another sip of my bourbon and glancing around. I know why I’m here, but you didn’t say why you’re here.

I come here regularly. I know the bartender, Mickey. He gestured towards the guy behind the bar, who was making up a tray full of drinks for the waiters to take to their tables. He hooks me up with the good stuff from time to time.

That explains the top shelf liquor. I wasn’t surprised; I didn’t know anyone my age who could afford their $40 credit card bill, much less put down that kind of money on alcohol. If I weren’t my parent’s only child with a big scholarship, I didn’t know how I would be going to college. They were renting out the beach house to pay the mortgage these days.

So you came here for free booze.

Who wouldn’t? He knocked back the rest of his drink, and as an artist I had to admire the clean line of his jaw. He’d be just my type if he were a little less crass. He smirked at me again, almost like he could read my thoughts.

My parents raised me on the idea that how people dress and speak mattered; though I’d tried to loosen up in college, I couldn’t see myself taking home a guy like Riker. His face alone promised he’d broken many girls’ hearts.

Still, that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy a bit of bad boy flirtation for one evening. Our chemistry couldn’t be denied.

Curious, I studied the edge of a long, swirling tattoo on his arm. What’s that? I asked, my fingers hovering near his painted skin. It almost looks like smoke.

It is. He pushed back his sleeve, revealing more of his toned biceps. The black smoke formed the shape of a curling Chinese dragon with glowing red eyes. Drawn to its beauty, I ran my fingers over it, as if I could feel the dark ink.

It’s beautiful, I said. Normally I hated tattoos, but this one was so nice. My fingers brushed against hard, knotted skin. Is that a scar?

Turning away, Riker let his sleeve fall, and I snatched my hand from his arm. Did I do something wrong?

It’s an old story, he said, not meeting my eyes. Ancient history. Just the thought of it makes me need another drink.

He signaled to the bartender, who grabbed a glass bottle of beer. No more bourbon, you’re cut off. The bartender pushed the bottle to Riker. Bourbon always makes him morose, he said to me, smiling subtly.

What about you? Riker asked as he twisted off the bottle cap. It doesn’t look like your date is showing up.

Shaking my head, I picked up my glass and drained it. I’ll have a beer, too.

Why not? I had nowhere to be and nothing to lose.

Chapter 2

Bad Boy

Wobbling, I stood up