Storm of Sin - Patricia D. Eddy Page 0,15

passes it to me, our fingers brush, and all of a sudden, it’s like someone lit candles all around the room. Light flickers over the back of his hand, and I think I hear him whisper, “Please, love. Hold on.”

“What did you say?” Jerking back, I stare up at him. “Hold on?”

“I said nothing.” Sin narrows his eyes, then nods at the rectangular piece of plastic. “That keycard works on all of the electronic locks in this building. You will need it. Even for the bathroom.”

Spinning on his heel, he heads for the bullpen, and I follow as he weaves among pairs of desks arranged in neatly defined rows. “That is yours,” he says, gesturing as he pulls out my chair.

The desk across from me is bare save for a keyboard, mouse, and monitor. Nothing personal. No pictures, plants, or even a coffee cup. Mine is just as empty, but I have a photo of my grandmother and my favorite pen in my bag. It’s something at least.

“Aren’t we—“

“We are. I thought you might want to see your workspace.” Sin lifts his shoulder. “If not, follow me.”

“I don’t know about you, but I need coffee.” I veer off when the scent of stale brew grows stronger and head into the small break room area where I promptly run right into a seven-foot-tall man with fur sticking out of the cuffs of his dress shirt. Oh my God. He’s...a yeti.

“You the new recruit?” he asks. His voice is deep and scratchy, making his words sound almost like he’s growling. “Kunchin.”

I stare at his palm—his very large, very leathery palm—for a second longer than I should, then snap myself back to the present. “Zoe Dawes.”

“Human, huh?” Kunchin chuckles at my shock. “Eve sent out a memo. You’re the first one we’ve had.”

Nodding, I glance at the coffee machine. “I don’t suppose it’s any good?”

With a snort, Kunchin sidesteps me and opens the fridge, retrieving a carton of vanilla creamer. “If it were anything but swill, you wouldn’t catch me using this sugary shit. Want some?”

Behind me, Sin clears his throat. “Zoe? This case is not going to solve itself.”

“I’m not going to solve it either if I don’t get some caffeine in me,” I snap back. “And yes, Kunchin. I’ll take some of that ‘sugary shit.’”

Frustration stiffens Sin’s shoulders as we climb the stairs to the second floor. Eight rooms line a long hallway, a few with red lights glowing next to small screens on the wall. We find an empty space, and he swipes another keycard over the lock and pushes the door open, letting me enter first.

It’s like some futuristic Star Trek bridge in here. Along the far wall, a bank of computer terminals stretch out, and the whole room has a bluish hue from the BOO screensaver. Shockingly, the Bureau’s logo isn’t a ghost, but a pair of swords crossed over a rather normal-looking badge. Speaking of badges...

“Do we have...credentials?” I ask. “If we’re interviewing a witness, we need some proof of who we are, right?”

Sin pulls a small leather folio from his pocket and flips it open. The Bureau’s badge shines in the blue lights. He’s not smiling in the photo. Quite the opposite. Which, I guess is his default look, so it’s fitting.

“Was anyone going to bother to set me up with one of those?” Rolling my eyes, I sink down into one of the chairs—fully ergonomic and so comfortable, I think I could fall asleep in it—and pull out my notepad.

“The commander has done a smashing job preparing you for your first day,” he says with a scowl. “I assume you have not signed any of the release forms either?” When I shake my head, he sighs. “After we finish here, I will take you down to Other Resources. Eve is not usually this...sloppy.”

Sin presses his index finger to a sensor in the middle of the table, and a computerized female voice fills the room. “Welcome, Agent Sinclair. Please say a command.”

“Display Fort Baker case file, autopsy notes, and photos on Screen One.”

Within five seconds, an entire wall is filled with images of the crime scene, the tattoo, and the shifter’s hollow eye sockets. My stomach pitches, and I look away.

“Can we hide the picture without her eyes?” I ask, hating the weakness in my tone. “At least until we need it?”

Surprise laces his response. “Computer, close Image 56-B.” After a few seconds, he says, “The photo is gone. This is visceral for you, is it