The Mercenary and the Shifters (The Turning Stone Chronicles) by C.D. Hersh

seat.
    “Everything go okay, Ms. Kayler?” the bodyguard asked.
    “Fine, George. Have you had any word from Mike?”
    “Nothing yet. I figure they’re in Scotland by now. If everything goes okay he should be back sometime tonight.” George twisted in the seat. “You’re not unhappy with my service, are you, ma’am?”
    “No. Everything’s fine. I was just wondering.”
    The man’s gaze searched her face. “Yes, ma’am,” he said with a lopsided grin. “They all like Mike better.”
    “What? No. I was just wondering.”
    His grin broadened. “I can see that, ma’am.” He faced the windshield and started the engine.
    Why had he insinuated she liked Mike? She’d just left another man’s house. For all he knew they’d been going at it. She leaned sideways until she could see her reflection in the rearview mirror. Did she look like some lovesick puppy?
    Her gaze skimmed her reflection. Nothing appeared amiss. But George was right. She had felt safer with Mike. She leaned her head against the seat and closed her eyes. Visions of Mike and Kyle whirled behind her eyelids, and she popped her eyes open.
    They were both business. Just business.
    She was already in bed, figuratively, with one too many businesses. She couldn’t afford more bed partners—especially the literal ones.
    Mike grunted as he turned the last bolt on the motorcycle wheel. The damp Highland air had rusted the metal. The job had taken nearly two hours. Way too long. The shifters would be on a plane and out of the country by now. The only good thing was they probably would use the same airport he’d come in through. They might be traceable if they did. If not . . .
    The bolt came free. He threw the wrench on the ground, yanked the tire off, and shoved on the spare.
    “Ye don’t have to take yer frustrations out on my bike,” said a woman’s voice.
    He spun on the balls of his feet and saw Mary Kate towering over him. Rising, he wiped his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder.
    “It’s a damn contrary machine,” he said. “What did you put on those bolts? Cement glue?”
    “Highland mist and fairy dust,” she said with a straight face. “Ye should have called me to do it.”
    “Last I heard, you were out cold. Which, by the way, I owe an apology for.”
    “Why? Ye didn’t knock me over the head.”
    “I misremembered how many rogues I’d seen. I should not have forgotten the birds.”
    “Aye. That mighta been a help. But ye can’t blame yerself. It was my job to guard the baby. My job to protect little Baron, and I failed. It’s why I’m going with ye.”
    “I don’t need a woman slowing me down. I work alone.”
    “How do ye plan to find them?”
    He’d been wondering the same thing, but he would not hook up with another shifter to find one. “There can’t be very many Falhmans in the Cleveland phone book. I’ll check each one out until I find the kids.”
    “They’ll be teenagers before yer plan works. Ye need me, Mr. Corritore. I can find shifters. Ye can’t.”
    “Tell me how to do it.”
    “Magic,” she replied. “Shifter sensing magic. Magic ye don’t have.”
    His lip curled into a sneer. What kind of screwy answer was that?
    “Magic ye clearly don’t approve of.”
    “Or want. So why would I let you come with me?”
    “Because of guilt. I don’t think yer guilty, but ye think ye are. If I’m reading ye right, ye’d do anything to fix this. Including dancing with those ye think are the devil.”
    “Are you?”
    “The devil? No. But those who took the babies are, especially Falhman. Yer going to need all of us to find him and rescue the children.”
    Mike scrubbed the nape of his neck. She was right. Although he knew about shape shifters, he didn’t know enough to go up against them. “Fine,” he said. “You can come.”
    “I’m driving,” she said.
    “No way. You could have a concussion.”
    She jammed her hands on her hips and stared him down. He returned the glare,