A Carus Novel, Book 5
“Two months ago my world collapsed and the beast reigned. Seven weeks ago the SRD captured me. Nine days ago, they injected me with something vile. Today, I break free. And tomorrow? I’ll make them pay.”
Badass Shifter Andy McNeilly wakes up from a horrible nightmare, only to discover it wasn’t a dream, and she’s no longer quite so badass. Chemically curbed, Andy has lost touch with her feras and beast when she needs them most. Can she regain control of her supernatural abilities in time to reap retribution from her enemies, or will she fall as fodder in a power play for control of Vancouver’s seedy underworld?
Cold slithered along my spine. No feras. No beast. Whatever they shot me with blocked my communication with the animals. Did it prevent shifting as well? I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to call a form and change. Only a headache answered. Dread flittered across my skin. Was this permanent?
As the Carus, the genetic throwback to the first demi-god progeny of the beast goddess, I caged a beast with rage and power rivaled by few, and possessed more than one animal familiar to shift into.
At least, I did until the SRD shot me full of chemicals. Would I ever regain my abilities? Hear the indignant screech of the peregrine falcon? Or the lusty purr of the mountain lion? Or soulful howl of the wolf?
My heart hammered, punching bone. A buzzing sensation filled my head. The “wrongness” of my condition grated against my nerves, slicing them into slivers like a planer shucking off wood shavings.
Something in my abdomen swelled, as if the beast pushed against whatever barrier caged and hid her from me.
I’ll get you out, I told her, not knowing if she could hear. We’ll make them pay.
I looked down and sniffed. They’d cleaned me, too. Who got the sponge bath job? I’d find out and break his or her hands later.
After a deep breath, I clambered to my feet and pulled the white sheet from my sweaty body. Three white walls, closed off by a fourth side of thick bars, Were-proof from the look and smell. The single bed, bolted to the cement floor, appeared disheveled and rumpled. I must’ve fallen out with the sheet. My scent, old and fresh, clung to the bedding. How long had I been here?
I closed my eyes and opened my senses. No mountain lion. No falcon. No beast. They’d somehow blocked me from my feras, but at least my Shifter senses remained.
The scent signatures of the cell and the room outside filtered in. Boring as paper norm scents cluttered the space from trace to strong. One stood out among the rest, one smell triggered the fury simmering beneath my skin, coiling in my bones; one stench, accompanied by overpowering, expensive cologne, made that weird pressure in my core rise and brush against the invisible barrier again.
Agent Tucker Fucker.
The agent from the Supernatural Regulatory Division, or SRD, whom I loathed more than raisins in my butter tarts, despised more than zombie apocalypse movies, hated more than sand caked in places sand should never go.
No, none of these comparisons expressed the sheer disgust I held for Tucker.
His scent triggered another memory.
His smug smile flashed from the other side of the bars. Pale face and hazel gaze bright with victory. The beast howled deep and low inside my core, yearning to rip his face apart. He leaned in, and his boring as paper scent coiled around me like a lasso. “You’re mine, now.”
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