Broken Kiss (a Teen Wolf story)

Part 29b

The Cadigans worked in the commercial and industrial areas of the city at night. They were merely human, but when you frequented the nightside of Beacon Hills, you saw things. Most people ignored them, told themselves stories to explain the odder happenings. Since the Cadigans hadn't moved away or hired others to work the more lucrative night shifts, they'd accepted the supernatural element of their fair town. Embraced it, even. And it appeared, based on what they were doing with Lydia, that they thought they could have some fun with it. With a banshee. With his Lydia. His lip curled at that notion.

He couldn't remember ever speaking to them, but back when he hunted – rambling the city with nerves full of live wires and the taste of vengeance like copper on his tongue – he'd noticed things. They didn't matter at the time, these details. The buildings that had gone up or come down while he was in a coma. The new "hot" places full of clubs and foodie restaurants. The bad spots which humans avoided without realizing it. But he hadn't forgotten them.

The Cadigans' office sat between a bad spot and a club blasting bass and billowing smoke out of its doors. Two small SUVs, all liberally covered in advertising decals for their security business were parked out front. Three more reserved spots were empty, as was the spot of carpet between the front door and the high front desk. Thin, metal bars spray-painted white separated the public space from private. Peter flicked his finger against one, and took in the high-pitched ping. Aluminum. Hollow. Hardly secure. He rang the bell of the counter and fastened his hands behind his back.

He was at a simmering point, which was a decent operational level. He was edgy but still had full control of his thoughts and impulses. His desire to kill was barely a desire at all. More of a stray thought.

"Just a minute," a man said. A chair creaked as he rose from it, and the sound of heavy, scuffing footsteps was preceded by the smell of fried meat and onions.

"Rufus Cadigan?" Peter asked.

"That's right. And this is my business. Can I help you?"

Peter looked around at the faded wallpaper and dusty stacks of paper. There were so many patches in the carpet that he couldn't tell which design was the original.

"Congratulations. It's a veritable institution. Will your wife be back soon?"

"Why you wanna know?"

Quick to jealousy. It would be wrong to point the man toward the wrong conclusion, to cause him pain over a misunderstanding borne of his own insecurity.

"I have an appointment with her."

"I can help you."

"I like the way she helps me." He smiled. Rufus Cadigan stiffened.

The bell on the door rang as a woman entered. Peter had heard her coming, had been waiting for her. Messing with Rufus had just been a passing amusement. If he had to guess, she was the brains behind the operation – the one who'd dreamed up whatever they were doing with Lydia.

"Jennifer," Peter declared.

He swung around, took three steps toward her and grabbed her arms. She jolted with the shock of the contact. He grinned, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. Suck on that, Rufus.

"Get your hands off of me," she said through gritted teeth. Five foot nine, stance wide enough that it was intentional, for balance. And there was muscle under her starchy white uniform shirt. The brains and the brawn. She was definitely to blame for Lydia's unhappiness.