Enigma by Moira Rogers Page B

forth all day with breezy comebacks that said little and meant even less. So what if the clever exchanges had lost their ease?
    His phone vibrated, skittering across the pocked tabletop. Anna snatched it up, grateful for the distraction, and tossed it to him.
    He swiped his thumb across the screen and frowned as he read the message. “Well, shit.”
    “What is it?”
    “My friend in Albuquerque’s been looking for Oscar.” Patrick held up his phone. “Dead guy just turned up who matches his general build, but they’re having trouble getting an ID because he’s been skinned.”
    “ Skinned? ” As ways to disguise a murder victim went, it left a lot to be desired. It was messy, time-consuming and apt to leave more trace evidence on the corpse than it eliminated. “Does he have his teeth?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Dental records should make for a simple identification, assuming we can’t get a medium in there.”
    He stared at the phone. “She’s pretty sure magic was involved.”
    Anna turned it over in her mind, trying to pinpoint what was off about the situation. “It doesn’t sound like any ritual I’ve ever heard of. There’s nothing inherently powerful about skin . Why take it?”
    “Some sort of twisted skinwalker shit?” As soon as he said it, he shook his head. “No, because if they knew what Oscar was and they used magic, they’d know the skin wouldn’t do them any good.”
    “No.” All the magic, everything intangible that made shapeshifters who and what they were, vanished at the moment of death. “Best thing to do is check it out. We can make Albuquerque in—what, five hours?”
    “Just about. Should I have her look for a medium?”
    “It’d kill two birds with one stone. Get our ID and maybe give us a jump-start on who murdered him.” She grabbed her keys from the table and sat down to pull on her boots. “Want to get dressed while I find us some coffee?”
    “Sure.” He finished typing out a reply message and glanced at her. “You feeling good enough to drive, or should I take the first shift?”
    “I’m fine. I was fine last night.” It felt like salt in the wound, making catty comments about the distance between them when he’d left his beloved bike behind, so she avoided his gaze as she shoved clothes back into her bag.
    Patrick didn’t push back. He rose in silence and tugged on his jeans, then his boots. He’d tied the laces before he sighed. “You scared the hell out of me. Someone showed up gunning for me, and you took three bullets and passed out in the car. I’m glad you’re okay.”
    The blunt honesty made her want to laugh and scream at the same time. On the surface, the words were nothing more than an apology. They could have easily come from the partner he’d agreed to be instead of a friend or lover. Safe, if a little raw. They didn’t break any rules.
    But beneath the apology, she heard something else—a weary explanation that twisted through her like a blade. This is why, he was saying.
    Why couldn’t she just hear it?
    When she didn’t answer, he tossed his bag on the bed and started packing. “And maybe I’m a little jealous. I don’t heal like you.”
    She’d never understand how he could casually admit things like that, things that would have made her bleed. Maybe they did him too, only he was brave enough to shoulder through the fear and say them anyway. “Not many people heal like me, even wolves,” she said absently. “Look, I’m sorry. That shooting yesterday could have gone south real fast, and I didn’t think. I didn’t consider what you might have to go through if I didn’t make it.”
    “You had my back.” He met her gaze. “You’ve always got my back. We are partners, Lenoir. That’s the one thing that’ll never change, all right? I will always have your back.”
    “I know.” Just like that, she wanted to curl against his chest and let him hold her. She turned away. “Coffee. I’ll get it.”
    “Extra strong.” He zipped