Shadow Moon Read online

  Her words, not mine.

  “Had to hand in a report personally.” She snorted, blue eyes bright with mischief, but a dash of annoyance, too. “We drew straws. I got the short one. What about you?”

  Quickly, I filled her in on Christian’s death, then, after a moment of silent decision, told her I was supposed to meet with Isa Vogt. Fifteen minutes ago.

  Greta whistled. “A chat with the Ice Queen of Fang herself? Didn’t think she was in cahoots with civvies.”

  I must have blanched at the hardness underlying her tone, because Greta put a gentle hand on my shoulder, her full lips pulled into an apologetic line.

  “Just be wary around her, okay? And you’ll be fine. She doesn’t take lightly to fools and, yes”—she smiled—“she sometimes makes me want to bite her head off with all that bloody superior attitude she has going on. Still… She’s a good agent, Lotte. One who’ll do anything to get the job done.”

  As far as consolations went, it wasn’t the best I’d heard, but it wasn’t the worst, either. My sister never dished out compliments or praise if she didn’t truly mean it, so if she believed Isa Vogt was capable… Well, if there was something malicious about Christian’s death, it was comforting to know the person investigating it was eager to dig up the truth.

  Didn’t make me like her any better, though.

  And I had a suspicion I was going to like her even less if I didn’t start moving.

  Maybe it was just my overactive imagination, but I could have sworn I heard my borrowed minutes ticking by.

  I glanced down the hallway stretching to my right, tracing the clear scent I associated with Isa Vogt to the fourth door down the line. Crap. I swallowed and looked at Greta, hating how sheepish my expression must have been, yet unable to do a damn thing about it.

  Being yelled at or treated like shit never went over with me very well.

  “Wish me luck,” I said dryly.

  Greta grinned, flashing her white—slightly canine, I noticed—teeth. She threw her mane of red hair across her shoulder, then shot me a leveled gaze.

  “If you need a beer to cool down after, sis, I get off work at five. Ring, and I’ll come running.”

  I snorted, but was grateful for the offer. I just might have to take her up on it, too, if the irritation I caught entwined with Isa’s scent was any indication about how this meeting was going to turn out.

  Knowing that with every additional second I spent out here my ungrateful situation would only get worse, I squared my shoulders and marched down the dreaded hall with as much confidence as I could scrape up. Isa Vogt was pissed, frighteningly so, and once I knocked on her office door, the icy “Come in” she hissed my way only confirmed it.

  Fuck.

  Palms sweaty, I enter the Ice Queen of Fang’s den.

  The vampire in question was sitting behind her polished executive desk, her black hair pinned back into a French twist to reveal those sharp, elegant features and red-painted lips. If it hadn’t been for the murderous gleam in her eyes, the sight would have made me swoon.

  As it was, it took all my willpower just to claim that damned chair opposite her and try not to flinch too hard under her stare. A battle I was losing.

  “You’re late.”

  She didn’t yell. Didn’t even raise her voice. But the dispassionate coldness had the same effect.

  Maybe worse.

  “Sorry, I got caught up at work—”

  “Yes,” she drew out the word until it sliced across my skin like a freshly sharpened dagger. “Chatting with your sister about my unofficial title is certainly of far greater importance than a dead eighteen-year-old werewolf.”

  I grimaced as the truth of her words slapped me in my face. I’d let my personal grievances get in the way, and for that, there was no one to blame but me.

  “I apologize,” I said steadily, hoping she could see that I meant it, too. “Of course Christian is more important. He’s the only one important here. You said you wanted to discuss something with me?”

  Although the exterior remained the same cool marble as before, something almost imperceptible to the eye eased in Isa’s demeanor. Sadly, the same couldn’t be said about me.

  My breaths seemed obnoxiously loud in the silence that descended upon the room. With the closed windows blocking out any sound from the streets below, and no whirl of the air conditioning or movement in the hallway to provide some background noise, it really did feel like I was trapped in some tastefully decorated crypt.

  While vamps didn’t really live in graveyards, I’d seen enough movies deriving from human imagination to get stuck with the visual.

  Needless to say, I was thankful when Isa stood up to pour herself a cup of coffee, the soft, perfectly normal sounds of everyday life loosening the phantom chains. She gestured to me, then filled another cup with the aromatic brew once I nodded.

  Even from over here, I could tell it was the good stuff.

  “I will need you to keep what we discuss here a secret.” She placed the black mug before me, then reclaimed her position in the executive leather chair. “This is the only warning I will give you. I won’t bother with a written NDA, but if I find that you went behind my back, spreading even the faintest breadcrumbs of this information, I will throw you in jail faster than you can whip out your claws. Understood?”

  I nodded.

  “Good.” She took a sip of her coffee, then leaned forward and braced her wrists against the table, her slender fingers interlaced. “The ICRA labs have determined that it was, indeed, performance-enhancing drugs made specifically for supernaturals that caused Christian Schiller’s heart to falter and, ultimately, stop.”

  “But that’s…” My mind fought the information. “We tested him. Regularly. He was clean.”

  I shook my head. It had to be some mistake. Christian was very vocal about doping. He didn’t like it in humans, but he absolutely hated it when it came to supernaturals. He believed we were already at an advantage, and to artificially enhance our strengths and skills was playing with forces that would do nothing but harm us in the long run.

  I wholeheartedly agreed.

  “There is a new drug in circulation,” Isa said in her infuriatingly cool tone. “It’s quite exclusive, as well as expensive. ICRA kept news of it under wraps in hope that our apparent ignorance of its existence would bring us closer to the manufacturers.” Her gaze darkened. “But whoever is behind it—they’re smart.”

  “Wait.” I waved my coffee-free hand, then let it drop. “Just let me get this one thing straight first. If the drug didn’t show up on Christian’s test, how did your people find it? We check all the components, all levels in the samples we get. Even if it isn’t on the official list, we would have noticed if something was off about him…”

  “You wouldn’t.” Her reply was icy, but for the first time, I got the feeling her tone wasn’t aimed at me. Not directly, anyway. “The drug—Nill—is virtually untraceable. It merges with the body as if it were a host.” She waited for the information to sink in, then said, “Unlike the rest, Nill doesn’t only affect the system, but draws on the user’s life source to operate, which, in effect, conceals its presence. The integration of the two is absolute. But in death… The drug floats to the surface, the compounds once more a separate entity.”

  The silent implication churned my stomach. I washed away the bitter taste in my mouth with a mouthful of the dark roast, then placed the coffee aside before I could make myself even more nauseated.

  “Christian… He isn’t the first, is he?”

  “No. He isn’t.” She rubbed her temple with two manicured fingers before turning her green gaze on me once more. “While the drug can pass any test, its stealth comes with a price I believe none of the athletes taking it are aware of. Its aggressive, lecherous nature can cause irreparable damage to weaker immune systems, and may at times take lives even of those who are in perfect health.

  “ICRA has put every available resource into finding out who
stands behind this. We tried breaking it down and unearthing the components’ origins… But all we’ve managed to collect so far were dead ends. Until Schiller.”

  My eyebrows rose. “What makes him different?”

  Isa hesitated—a gesture that struck me as oddly human. But it was also gone before I could as much as blink.

  “An informant reached out to me a week ago. He caught wind of a shipment being delivered to some man, tied to one of the larger Munich tennis clubs. Unfortunately, he failed to come up with a name, or even which club, but…”

  “Christian’s death singles out ours.”

  Gods, I felt sick. The Olympiapark Tennis-Zentrum was large and had numerous employees, but I knew all of them. To think someone who I passed in the halls or even drank coffee with had anything to do with Christian… I balled my hands into fists to mask the vicious trembling I just couldn’t control through my will alone.

  “I asked you here because you knew the deceased personally, and, as a woman”—her gaze trailed down my body, causing my hormones to stir—“you don’t fit the description my informant provided.”

  “I could still be dealing, you know, even if a man was the one who’d initially bought the drug,” I snapped, then instantly regretted my words.

  Last time I checked, I didn’t have a death wish. Nor an incarcerating one.

  I should have been grateful she dismissed any notion of my involvement instead of provoking her.

  But Isa only shot me an odd look that eerily reminded me of approval.

  “It was a gamble I needed to take. But given your impeccable history, as well as reaction to current affairs, I believe it’s fair to presume you aren’t killing your own protégés by pumping them full of Nill. Someone, however, is.”

  My mind erupted in a cloud of names and faces, all I knew, none I could think of as the culprit. Or maybe I just didn’t want to.

  How could I see any of my coworkers as being malicious enough to slip a kid not only what he was against on principle, but something potent enough to end his life? Sure, the Olympiapark Tennis-Zentrum wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, but we weren’t evil like that. Shit.

  “I want you to be my eyes and ears inside the compound, Lotte.”

  “What?” I snapped.

  The thoughts inside me died, only Isa’s voice still resonating through my very being. She angled her body and pinned me with that bone-chilling, immovable stare.

  “If ICRA gets involved in any visible capacity, we risk showing our hand. That’s something the Agency isn’t willing to do just yet, not unless it’s absolutely necessary. But if you succeed in pointing us in the right direction, if you uncover the dealer’s identity, then we could use him to unearth the heart of the organization behind the drug.”

  Me? Spying on my coworkers?

  A silent, bitter laugh rose in my chest.

  Shit, I wouldn’t even know where to begin…

  I could fight, and my werewolf nature granted me a fair amount of stealth, but I just wasn’t the sleuthing type. I was a fucking tennis coach, not an undercover cop.

  Isa must have seen my hesitation, because she flashed me the tip of her white fangs, an unpleasant smile curling up the corners of her lips. “It would do you well to remember my rank, Lotte Freundenberger. Your sister might have support among the killers in her division, but I have the ear of the top brass. What I pass on to him about my thoughts on your sister’s value… Well, now that’s entirely up to you, my dear.”

  6

  There weren’t enough curses in the world to describe how pissed I was that I’d been blackmailed. And by a fucking ICRA official at that.

  I knew the lot of them could be cold bastards. Even Greta admitted it more than once herself. But squeezing a civilian—someone who knew the deceased—in a corner…

  It was just vile.

  If the Ice Queen of Fang had just given me the time to process everything, I would have said yes on my own. Gods, it wasn’t like I didn’t want to help find the bastard responsible for Christian’s death. I just wasn’t bloody equipped to deal with snooping after my acquaintances. My friends.

  The rage thrashing within required something more than running in wolf form to ease Isa Vogt’s lovely blow. So the instant I sped away from ICRA HQ, I called up an old co-competitor and was more than a little relieved when she said yes to a friendly match.

  Two and a half hours later, I was panting, completely soaked, and feeling the brilliant burn in my muscles wash away my fury. I spied the lean werewolf preparing to serve on the other side of the court.

  Dressed in a tank top and tennis skort—both white, as she always preferred, to offset her warm brown tan—Rosalie looked positively stunning. As far as I was concerned, she had always carried the “most graceful player” mantel. Still did.

  She bounced the ball three times as she caught her breath and honed her mind into utter concentration that translated into her very poise.

  And so did I.

  Nothing existed but the ball when she finally flung it into the air, yellow clashing against the dark blue sky, then slammed it my way with frightful precision. I lunged to the right in a blur.

  Rosalie had one of the meanest first serves I’d ever seen, and the way it sped down the middle of the court—it should have been an ace. Probably would have been, too, if I wasn’t driven by the memory of Isa’s cruel smile, of her threats to my sister’s future. As far as fuel went, it was pretty damn fine.

  Clenching my abdomen, I put just the right amount of force into my forehand to deal her a tricky low parallel, playing to her weaker—although by no means less dangerous—side. Then, without losing time, I rushed for the net.

  Every sensory input there was, I drank in.

  My body moved with honed precision, each step keeping me balanced despite the speed. My sight, however, was devoted fully to following the ball’s trajectory, while at the same time spying Rosalie out of the corner of my eye to predict her next move.

  This was what I loved about tennis.

  The unique sense of being fractured yet united all at once.

  The sport demanded everything from a person. Total control. But it was also infinitely rewarding.

  My forehand touched the clay inches within the service line, the spin giving it a vicious boost the instant it bounced. Rosalie made the shot, as I knew she would, but I was ready.

  My muscles tensed, everything inside me going still for a hundredth of a second, and then I leaped.

  I caught the ball mid-flight, my upper body twisting to back up the volley with as much power as I could muster without it taking a toll on my precision. I felt the ball connect with the dead center of my racket, and before I knew it, the shot skimmed the far corner of the service field, Rosalie nowhere in sight.

  I grinned.

  Match Freundenberger.

  “Damn, Lotte, who let you off your leash?” Rosalie beamed as she ran up to the net and offered me her hand.

  I clasped my sweaty, callused fingers around hers, pulling her into a quick half hug, then chuckled. “Thanks for playing.”

  “Thanks for ruining my self-esteem right before the Games.” She tried to make her tone harsh, but bursted out laughing instead. “Tell me again, why on earth did you quit?”

  I shrugged and gave her my best approximation of an innocent face. “I guess I got tired of beating everyone’s asses.”

  After a shower and a change of clothes, Rosalie and I walked across Olympiapark to one of the smaller Biergartens set by the water. Ducks were prancing about and tending to their young, and now that the heat of the day was dying down, the paths were beginning to fill up with runners and cyclists, hoping to squeeze in some exercise before dusk swept across the city.

  We ordered a couple of well-earned beers, a comfortable silence stretching between us. Rosalie was one of the few people I missed since my retirement the previous year. While we had always been enemies out on the court—or at least the media liked to portray us that way, g
rand nemesis and all that gossip-fueling bullshit—playing against her was never a dull affair. And we always, always stole moments like this once we were done with our matches, finding some bar or another in whichever town we were at the time and just drank in the essence of normalcy it brought to our otherwise unconventional lives.

  One of the hardest things for me to give up when I decided to settle down.

  “I’m sorry about Christian,” Rosalie said after a long while, her gaze trailing the glistening surface of the lake. “My parents’ house is right next door to his, you know? I chatted with him a couple of times when I was visiting.” She shook her head. “He seemed like a really bright kid.”

  “He was.” The familiar weight landed in my stomach like a meteorite. A part of me wanted to just blurt out everything, but after Isa Vogt’s less than pleasant warning, I stuffed the impulse down. It hurt, but I did.

  Rosalie tucked away a strand of blonde hair, sighing. “I can’t even imagine how devastated Alec must be. I saw his car there the evening before…well…you know. Talking to a person one moment, then the next…”

  It took every ounce of my will to keep my voice steady. “Alec was at Christian’s?”

  “Yeah.” She shrugged, gaze distant as if the memory was reflected in the water. “I was already in my car when I saw them. Still, I would have gone over to say hi, but they seemed like they were sharing some good news so I didn’t want to intrude on their moment.”

  Thunder rolled through my mind, my fingers clenching around the pitcher. I forced myself to uncurl them from the glass and think this through.

  There was no real reason why Alec should have mentioned his visit with Christian to me. He probably thought it wasn’t relevant. Or maybe he didn’t want to make me feel any worse than I already did.

  But still, unease pooled in my chest, cutting my breath short. I glanced at Rosalie, grateful her attention was still on the lake.