Chapter 2

Jameson dropped his hands into his lap and plucked at the creases in the thighs of his uniform, taking deep breaths through his nose, shutting down his awareness of the scents of the restaurant as best he could. He was wired up, but it wouldn’t do to let Greta see his desperation. The last time a bookbinder had seen this book Jameson hadn’t learned anything new, but the loose-lipped jerk had blabbed to a hobbyists’ magazine and caused a buzz. Jameson had fielded calls about it for a couple of months before finally changing his phone number. He couldn’t let humans talk about this book; who knew what secrets it contained?

It had been decades since he’d had the courage to bring it out again, consult someone else. And what would he do if Greta wanted to whip out her phone and take a picture of it, post it on a world-wide web that hadn’t existed the last time? Politely refuse, of course. And if she insisted, or tried to sneak a shot? Tuck the book and her phone under his arm and run, if necessary.

Greta pulled on a glove from her purse, then ran her covered index finger down the first page. Jameson had learned long ago that the book wasn’t made of paper at all, but rather vellum, stretched and treated lamb’s skin, most commonly used instead of paper in books made over eight hundred years ago. Greta frowned. He did, too. Her scent had shifted slightly, as if she realized Jameson was hiding something from her. The tense, offended smell was subtle, as if Greta might not even know what she knew, but her guard was up nonetheless.

She flipped the book over to examine the metal cover on the backside. He’d had it tested, knew that it was made of a natural alloy of gold and silver called electrum, and that the metalworking techniques used to manipulate the metal into a flat square hadn’t been widespread for centuries. No cover on the front, and that was a mystery for which Jameson had no ready answer. Had it been removed or never existed? And either way, why?

Greta lifted the book to the light, ran her finger down the metal, then examined the leather binding that connected metal cover to spine and glue and pages. Jameson held his breath. He need her to say something, anything.

A captivating scent reached him just then and his head shot up, his attention dividing. Jameson didn’t want to miss Greta’s first spoken impression of the book, but what was that captivating fragrance? Mountain meadow and fresh springtime flowers with a feminine edge that made him lick his lips. Bizarrely, the unique scent made him think of razor-sharp knives and dirty blood and rough sex. What in the hell? Jameson was no sadist. He enjoyed a healthy sex life with women he could trust to keep things casual and fun; he never connected sex to blood or knives.

Jameson scented again, trying to fix the smell in his mind, pin it down hard. A waitress had passed him, but he knew her scent. Tangerine body wash and lotion, plus the clean smell of a healthy human in good health. She had led a woman to the table behind Jameson, and that’s where the smell was coming from. The scent called to him, making him imagine a swirl of long hair around delicate shoulders and a hint of rose lips, slim hips and a killer’s boldness. Shifter? No. He scented no animal lurking inside the female, but for the first time in his long life it didn’t matter. He had to get a look at her, had to see who it was who called forth thoughts of two very different kinds of penetration at the same time: that of sinking a thick erection into the very center of her, and the thought of sinking his teeth into his enemies.

He twisted in his seat, knowing before he turned what he would see: the high back of the booth blocking his sightline. He would have to slide out of the seat and approach her. He stretched his long leg out to do just that when Greta came to life.

Her head shot up and her flirtation was gone. “What year did you say this book was bound?”

Jameson relaxed back into his seat, his goal of seeing the woman he knew would be a knockout, no matter what she looked like, put on hold for just a moment. “I didn’t say. I don’t know that.”

Greta flipped the book back over and carefully flipped through the pages. “What language is this?” she said, motioning to the lines and lines of neatly hand-written symbols, reminiscent of Asian-language characters but also nothing like them.

Jameson shook his head. “I don’t know that, either.” Not any language that was supposed to exist.

“And this?” she said, pointing to the slanting, inky scrawl on the very first page, large letters, so different than the blocky paragraphs on the inner pages. It was in English. An old-fashioned, stiff English, but still English. And it made no sense. If the book was as old as he thought it was, no one would have wasted “paper” like that.

Jameson stiffened, reflexively wanting to cover the writing, keep it from human eyes. But the scrawl was mostly legible. No reason not to tell her what he’d painstakingly determined it to say over countless examinations and consultations. Someone - a woman, judging by the content - had hurriedly penned these words across this page and Jameson was desperate to know the meaning behind them. He could accept almost any cost if it helped him discover the tiniest shred of information, led him to finally fulfilling his life’s purpose.

He spoke heavily, hearing the odd way his mouth shaped the archaic words. “It says- ‘put them akin to thy resynynt. Our males share import in battle. For wit, we be nought but weapyyn, whilst they be armor, leadyre, becalmyre. Without them we should verily perish, wysh for the sweet rest of death, lest we become destroiere of those who hold no entent to harm. Thus, our call of arms will honor each. One, they truly be, a swytch and her covynbound, thou knowest.’”

As he recited the words by memory, he stared at them on the page, his eyes tracing the faint impression of a hand-drawn image that wavered over them like a paper ghost, as if someone had drawn it on the page before this one with a heavy hand, hard enough to leave a lasting imprint. Then the cover, that page, and possibly others had been removed, for some reason he couldn’t fathom.

The image was of three claw marks, slicing through material, The same claw marks which were on the diner’s sign. On his own flyers. The claw marks, in that exact shape and form, had become a sort of underground signal for shifters wanting to communicate to each other without drawing the attention of humans. In the book, the marks were off-center, as if they’d been drawn next to something that had already been there, centered on the previous page.

But the image being in this book, traced through pages, made even less sense when you considered the magic of the book. The vellum, leather binding, and cover could not be marred in any way. Jameson had tried to crease it, tear it, burn it; only the tiniest edge of one piece of vellum, with water and a fire extinguisher in easy reach. He’d tried to cut it with a knife, with scissors, brand it with an iron. He’d become more bold with each passing year, but still had never even been able to scratch it. So how had someone imprinted that drawing through ancient pages in the first place? The book was older than he was. Way older. But it appeared younger.

Greta did not remark on any of it. She bent her head to the page, muttering excitedly under her breath, but not to him, and nothing he wanted to hear. “This isn’t possible, not possible,” she said. “No one would waste vellum like this, but everything else is right. Spot on, really. It doesn’t make any sense. If it weren’t in such good condition…” She seemed to make a decision, slamming her hands flat on the table, on both sides of the book, her muscles tense, like she would slap away his hands if he tried to take the book back. Her eyes met his, her face alight with excitement. “I need to take this to my workshop, look at it with the proper tools.” She leaned forward. “How has it been stored? Why did you take it out of the protective case? How many years have you had it? Do you have any idea what it’s about?”

Jameson had his own questions and would not answer even one of hers. He nodded to the book. “You don’t recognize the language?”

“No,” Greta gushed. “But that’s not my expertise. If you let me take it I’ll find out, I guarantee it. I know some of the leading language experts in the world. Dead languages, too. I promise you’ll get all the answers you need if I could just-”

Jameson didn’t answer. He would never give her the book. Instead he asked another question. “I think we can both agree this book is a clever copy created to showcase ancient bookbinding practices. What time period would you say it is supposed to represent?”

Her face fell only slightly, but not enough that he believed she’d bought his ruse. The scent of her excitement at finding something so rare, her hope that it could somehow be authentic despite how clean and new it looked, swirled around Greta in thick ropes.

She spoke in a rush and lifted the book from the table again with her gloved hands so she could examine the pristine pages. “1100 A.D. at the latest. Maybe earlier.”

Jameson had a flash of insight come to him, not quite the Instinct, but… something. He had a friend in a nursing home. Auntie, a woman who Jameson had forged a friendship with because she reminded him of people from his childhood. Her easy smile, refusal to pay attention to current events, and the way she spoke, sometimes using archaic words, made him think she’d been close to someone who’d lived a long time ago. He should show her the book.

Greta continued to talk, but Jameson lost the thread. Instinct reared wordlessly inside him, his muscles rippling with satisfaction and purpose as it came, making him straighten and look out into the diner for the source of the tension at his chest, mirroring what he would be looking for.

The first thing he saw was a young shifter with jet-black hair in the booth across the aisle, his sharp-planed face compressed in fury, his head turned and cocked to better hear something in the booth behind him. Jameson focused his own hearing in that direction, unable to see what was there. When he opened up his other senses fully he knew immediately there were two humans sitting in that booth: a female in her very early twenties, if that, and a male just a bit older. College students, he bet, both of them, at the nearby Shady Pines college. She scented of innocence and fear, and he scented like a predator. The bad kind. The kind Jameson would hunt in the forest if he could.

“That’s completely inappropriate,” the female said, her voice hushed and disbelieving. Jameson noted the way her heartbeat sped up.

The male spoke, his voice whining, taunting, and hostile all at the same time. “Come on, suck on that drink again. Gimme a preview.”

The sound of the female deliberately placing her glass on the table, the rustle of her clothes and purse came to Jameson clearly. She spoke, and Jameson could almost see her in her noises and her scent. He heard her stand and lean forward slightly, smooth hair sliding off one shoulder to land on the front of her body. “You’re an ass and I’m calling a cab. Don’t ever contact me again.”

The male’s voice turned tight and commanding, sneering, like he was enjoying this. “Window in front, ground floor, to the far left? You and your roommates really should pull your curtains better.” The threat implied in his words was very real.

The female froze in the booth, holding her breath, her heartbeat speeding up more. The young shifter with the dark hair stood, his fists curled, his breath tearing in and out of his lungs. A big cat. A leopard of some sort Jameson had never encountered, with a scent of mangroves and heady jungle. Jameson could very clearly discern his intention to murder that human male. Or maybe leave him clinging to life in a hospital room.

Oh no, not in his diner. None of that shit was going down. No human females threatened, and no young shifters sent to jail for protecting them. It wasn’t really his diner, but it might as well have been, as much as he went there.

Jameson stood, shoved his Stetson on his head, then pulled his book right out from under Greta’s nose. “I’m sorry,” he muttered to Greta, his eyes locked on the shifter. “I have to attend to something. I’m really very sorry.” He shoved the book in his bag and headed for the young shifter, just catching him before he rounded the corner of the booth.

Jameson touched him on the elbow, stopping him from grabbing the male Jameson hadn’t yet seen by the throat and throttling him in plain view of everyone. “Lio,” he said quietly, a shifter term of respect for all the big cats. “Stand down. I’ve got this.”

The male’s eyes flashed but he nodded tightly, not saying a word, his expression insisting he wasn’t leaving. He crossed his arms and stood back, though, letting Jameson take the lead. Jameson couldn’t argue. The punk was talking again, and the young human female’s fear was palpable. Jameson had had enough.

He stepped in front of the leopard, turned and slid past the booth divider, and got his first look at the scumbag. He expected a little punk, but what greeted him was a normal looking man, expensive clothes, and a weasel look in his eyes. The punk’s words screeched to a stop and he sneered as he looked up at Jameson. But his expression went wary at the sight of Jameson’s uniform, the badge, the gun. Most people couldn’t place the uniform as a law enforcement ranger, and even fewer would know that Jameson had no authority here. This was Five Hills territory. But Jameson had friends everywhere.

He grabbed a chair from a nearby table and pulled it over, sitting like he’d been invited. He didn’t look at the female, but sensed her fear easing instantly.

The punk stared at him, waiting for him to speak. Jameson waited back to see if the punk even knew what he did wrong. He did, his expression walling off. “Hey, ah, officer,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes shooting over Jameson’s shoulder to where the black-haired shifter stood snarling.

Jameson lifted his chin. “You’ve got yourself in quite a pickle, son. Myself and some of the other patrons just heard you threaten this young lady. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

The entitled little shit only stared as his face reddened with anger or embarrassment, Jameson didn’t care which, then shook his head. The punk’s eyes shot to the door and the forest beyond.

Jameson spoke quickly, quietly, motioning to the male behind him. “That’s what I thought. How about you pull out your driver’s license for me? And don’t think about running. My friend here will catch you before you can take two steps, and he’s not constrained by a badge like I am.”

The punk swallowed hard and reached for his wallet.

Jameson could have caught him just as easily, but he knew how much the big cats liked to play with their prey. If the punk ran for it Jameson would gladly give the young shifter a shot to have his fun.

Humans didn’t believe shifters existed, but they occasionally got chewed up by them anyway.