Shifting Souls: Supernatural Renegades, #3

1

Garrett Honey Bloom stood in the middle of the road, the nighttime stars twinkling above reminding him of a busy freeway on a dark night. Although the calendar date announcing the arrival of spring had come and gone, the air held on to the bone-biting chill of winter, and he pulled his brown, leather bomber jacket tightly around his torso as he shivered. His cheeks, nose, and ears seemed frozen, as though a light coating of ice had settled upon them. Rubbing his hands together, he glanced to his left, then to his right, wishing he’d had the forethought to bring some damn gloves. He hated being cold.

Dark buildings lined each side of the street; some commercial, a few small houses, and a couple of apartment complexes, all older structures that would probably be better off bulldozed to the ground with their cracked exteriors, chipped paint, and overgrown weeds and grass. The quiet side-street unnerved him despite its dim streetlights, and he heard a car on the main thoroughfare one block over. He checked his watch, a cheap Timex he’d picked up at Walmart a few days prior—ten p.m. He’d grown up on the streets of New York, where a silent street at this time of night meant nothing but trouble. However, in sleepy Cheyenne, Wyoming, it simply indicated everyone had turned in for the night, and it made him uncomfortable. Being from New York—a city that never slept—it seemed unnatural to him for a town to shut down at 10 p.m. on a Thursday night.

Stuffing his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, he studied the dilapidated six-door apartment complex in front of him. Two windows blazed with lights; the rest sat dark. He focused on the lower left-hand apartment, one with its lamps on. He didn’t see any movement through the half-way closed blinds, but caught the blink and glare of the television.

The grass and weeds encroached upon the cracked sidewalk in front of the building, which must have been built at least seventy-five years ago, and hadn’t been cared for since. Paint peeled from the yellowing structure that he imagined use to be white, and the brown, tin roof looked rusted. It must do nothing to keep out the cold, or keep in the warmth.

What a shithole, he mumbled under his breath as he stalked through the knee-high weeds. And I thought I had it bad.

Taking a deep breath, he approached the door, brushing away the bugs buzzing around the dim yellow bulb hanging to the left, and he noted the paint peeling even more from the structure here. It also looked as if the door didn’t fit right in frame as a small crack between the panel and the frame appeared. Turning his head and placing his ear to the wood, he heard the television inside, but nothing else. He’d been watching the complex for a few hours now, and hadn’t seen anyone leave. He’d assumed someone was in this apartment with the lights and TV on, but perhaps he’d been wrong.

Here goes nothing, he murmured.

He raised his fist and tapped on the door, then stepped to his right, not wanting to be in the line of fire if the person inside decided to start shooting.

After waiting about thirty seconds, he knocked again. This time, he heard whining on the other side of the door. It sounded like a dog, but he wasn’t sure. He drew his gun from the back waistband of his jeans, unclicked the safety, and held it behind his thigh. Glancing around the neighborhood, he noted the empty street, and relief flooded through him. The last thing he needed or wanted was to be caught by Cheyenne’s finest with a gun in hand while standing outside someone’s door at ten at night. That probably didn’t bode well for fair treatment in the town jail as the cops around here certainly didn’t see much action except for the drunks and domestic cases on the weekends. They’d make an example out of him or really have a blast letting go with him as the available punching bag.

The flip of the deadbolt caught his attention and he took a deep breath, bringing the gun up in case he needed to shoot. He had no plans to kill the person on the other side of the door, but he would put a bullet in his foot or leg if needed.

The door opened a crack, and the first thing he noticed was the black and golden nose sticking out at calf-level. Next, a gun barrel pushed through the opening in the door.

What can I help you with? the person asked from the other side of the door.

Garrett gave a sigh of relief as he recognized the voice of Zachary Johnson, a member of his unit and a casualty of the explosion in Guatemala that he was almost certain had afflicted his whole platoon.

Hey, Zach. It’s me, Garrett.

Really?

Yeah, man. Let me in.

Silence stretched as he waited for the door to open, and he heard more whining as the snout below pushed the panel open further.

Savannah, heel! Zach said, and the nose disappeared back inside as the rickety door opened.

Garrett slowly put down his gun as he peered at Zach. Standing at six-feet tall, he still cut a muscular figure like the last time Garrett had seen him, over a year ago. Dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, he continued to wear his hair in a military cut, and Garrett couldn’t help but wonder what the mirrored sunglasses at night were about. At Zach’s side sat a Golden Retriever, its blonde locks shining in the dim light.

Why are you here, Garrett? Zach asked.

Garrett glanced around, still confident the silent street offered him anonymity. He stepped around so he stood in front of Zach. I need to talk to you, man.

Zach nodded. What about?

About what happened to us, Zach.

A small smile made his lips twitch, and Garrett recognized it as the smirk Zach wore before he said something sarcastic.

And what happened to us, Garrett?

He took a step back, wondering if Zach had been spared in the explosion that took place deep in the jungles of Guatemala. They had gone in as Marines of the Recon Division, and so far, every person of the unit Garrett had been in contact with had been left with a supernatural ability, each one unique and strange in its own right. He’d made it his personal mission to find them all.

I, uh, well . . .

Cat got your tongue, Sergeant? Zach said, and Savannah barked.

I’m sorry to bother you, Zach. I thought maybe I could help you. I thought maybe something had happened to you that night and—

Maybe something like this?

Zach removed his sunglasses, and Garrett gasped and involuntarily stepped back at the sight of the stark white orbs, his heart pounding in his chest. Not an ounce of color shone from the man’s eyes, and it both fascinated and scared him.

I’m glad I can’t see as I imagine I’m not a very pretty sight, and we both know how vain I am . . . or was.

True, that. Even when they left for a mission, Zach made sure he combed his hair and applied a bit of aftershave, while the rest of the unit debated showering. When back in the United States from deployment, Zach always dressed nicely, looking impeccable in his creased jeans, ironed shirts, and loafers. On home soil, the unit teased him relentlessly on his metrosexual ways, and had even given him the nickname of Z-Jo, a parody after pop star and fashionista, J-Lo.

As Garrett stared at his friend, he couldn’t say he considered the lack of coloring in the man’s eyes ugly by any means, but very fucking different—like science-fiction-movie different.

Zach thought he’d left his vanity in the past? Despite his inability to see, he still looked as though he had just walked off the casual pages of GQ Magazine. A tight red silk t-shirt hugged his chest, hanging perfectly on his frame. Black jeans encased his thick legs, not too tight nor too loose, while black and grey Cole Hann boots covered his feet.

Despite how good Zach appeared, Garrett didn’t have time to boost his ego. He needed to get his friend out of here, now.

Zach, can I come in a minute? he asked again. I need to talk to you, man. It’s important.

Savannah barked, and Zach raised his gun while slipping on his sunglasses. Ready to lunge, the dog growled at Garrett.

You can’t come in right this second, but I would suggest that if you don’t want a bullet in your head, you hit the pavement right now, Garrett.

Just then, he caught a shadow out of his peripheral vision and reflex had him diving for the cement stoop. A second later, Zach’s gun went off, twice, the sounds echoing across the empty street. Garrett heard a grunt, then a thump behind him.

He raised his head slightly and peeked over his shoulder. A man lay about five feet behind him, a gun at his side. How had he not sensed the guy coming? How had he not heard his footfalls on the sidewalk?

You can get up now, Zach said, disappearing inside.

Garrett got to his feet, dusting off his jeans, his heart thumping in his chest. He took a step forward to go inside the apartment but Savannah bared her teeth at him and growled, letting Garrett know he should stay exactly where he stood.

His mind swam with questions and fear as he studied the shadows around the street for another attacker. A moment later, Zach emerged with a suitcase.

I’m ready to go, he said as he set down the bag and picked up the handle on Savannah’s halter. He turned and locked the door, then grinned at Garrett. Can you grab my bag?

Stunned at the quick sequence of events, Garrett leaned down and picked up the black suitcase.

Where’s your car? Zach asked.

This way. He turned and stepped over the body, noticing the double-tap in the man’s forehead as dead eyes stared up at the sky, the head framed in a growing halo of blood

Come on, Savannah, Zach said as he followed Garrett and also stepped over the body. And Garrett, we better get moving. I just murdered someone, and people usually don’t like that shit in their neighborhood.

They walked across the street in silence and got into the black van. Garrett pulled away from the curb just as he heard sirens in the distance.

He looked over at his passenger and wondered what the hell had just happened, and how a blind man could put two bullets into another man’s head.

2

W here are we headed to, Garrett?

He glanced over at his passenger. A small smiled played on Zach’s lips as he stroked Savannah’s head while she lay between them.

To the airport where we’ll get on a private plane, and then we’re out of here.

And where are we going?

Northern Arizona. I’ve got a place just outside Flagstaff.

They rode in silence the rest of the way.

He pulled the van into the hangar and got out. The pilot waved at him and climbed the steps of the plane to fire it up. Opening up the back door, Garrett grabbed Zach’s suitcase just as he heard the passenger door shut.

Zach walked around the van and stood next to him, the dog at his side.

We’re getting on the plane now. Do you need me to do anything? Help you in any way? he asked his friend.

No, but thank you. Lead the way, and Savannah will follow.

Garrett did as told. The plane has some steps. He quickly counted them. Twelve.

Zach nodded and reached out for the handrail while Savannah led him up.

Turn right, Garrett said once they were inside. You might want to bend your head a little, as well. The ceiling’s a little low. And the chair is to your left.

Garrett set Zach’s suitcase down behind his own chair, then sank into the caramel-colored leather across the aisle from Zach.

Savannah lay down between them.

They sat in silence as the plane came to life and taxied out of the hangar. A moment later, it lifted into the night air, and he sighed in relief, closing his eyes.

A few months ago, he’d taken it upon himself to find the members of his unit. He felt responsible for what had happened that night and the horrible aftermath of the explosion. If he’d listened to his instincts, Zach wouldn’t be blind, Lucas wouldn’t have visions of people dying, Brody wouldn’t be able to control the sea, and he wouldn’t be able to turn into a goddamn bear.

His boss, Joe Smith, funded and did the legwork on his search for his platoon members with the hopes that he could employ them in his high-end protection agency. How Zach would fit in, Garrett had no idea. Giving protection to the world’s wealthiest people required all senses, and Zach had obviously lost one—the most important one, as far as Garrett was concerned.

You’re awfully quiet, Garrett, Zach murmured. That’s not like you.

He grinned. He’d tended to be the loudmouth of the unit. Just thinking, man. It’s good to see you.

And it’s good to hear your voice.

The flight attendant, a woman in her twenties with short black hair, green eyes, and very fair skin, came through the curtain and asked if they wanted anything to drink.

Whiskey for me, Garrett said.

Me, too.

She went behind the curtain again and Zach whispered, I take it I won’t have to shoot anyone else tonight?

Garrett laughed despite the serious nature of the comment. Not as far as I know.

The flight attendant set down the drinks and disappeared again. He took a sip of the whiskey, feeling the burn as it traveled to his stomach.

So, how did you do it? he asked.

Zach tilted his head in Garrett’s general direction. Do what?

Double tap that dude back there. I mean, obviously he was there to cause trouble for both of us, but how did you know he was behind me?

Zach smiled. The explosion left me blind, he murmured. Yet, all my other senses have been heightened. I heard him coming.

He didn’t quite believe that, but decided he’d take it as truth. He could turn into a bear, for God’s sake, so maybe Zach’s hearing had become so strong that he could pinpoint a person ten feet away and blow their brains out with complete precision.

Gazing down at Savannah, Garrett had to smile. He’d always loved dogs, and Savannah’s light, shiny blonde coat gleamed in the dim cabin lights. She glanced up at him with her tail wagging slightly and then laid her head down on her paws and shut her eyes.

Pretty dog, he said.

Zach nodded. So I’ve been told.

He finished his whiskey and laid his head back against the seat. They had a few hours before landing, and he wanted to take a nap. The adrenaline from the evening’s events had dissipated and exhaustion crept up on him. At thirty-five, was he playing a younger man’s game? He just couldn’t seem to hang in there as long as he could in his twenties.

Just before he fell asleep, he wondered how in the hell Zach had known he needed a suitcase packed. Had he been ready to run from his keepers, or had he known Garrett was coming?

3

Ruby Rose McDermott stroked the soft muzzle of her black quarter horse, Midnight Blue. It felt good to be back in the barn at her parents’ house after a week of working at the local library.

The horse grunted and nuzzled her hand.

Should we go for a ride, gorgeous? I think that’s a great idea.

She walked down the middle of the barn that had five stalls on each side, inhaling the smell of hay, horses, and saddle oil mixed in with the fresh spring, morning breeze blowing in through the open doors. Upon entering the tack room, she picked up her favorite saddle.

I can get him ready for you, Ruby, Hank drawled.

Hank’s job consisted solely of keeping her father’s very expensive horses groomed, fed, exercised, and healthy, even though her father, or any other member of her family, hadn’t stepped foot in the barn in ages. Ruby couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen any of them with a pair of boots on.

No, I’m fine, Hank, but thank you.

He tipped his hat and gave her a grin. Anything for you, Ruby. Y’all let me know if you need some help, you hear?

She nodded as she watched him leave the barn. He turned and gave her a wave and a wink. In his fifties, Hank’s weathered face had more lines than a roadmap, despite the protection of his cowboy hat from the sun. He wore his standard garb—a black t-shirt hung on his thin torso, worn Wranglers covered his bowed, skinny legs, and a pair of cowboy boots sent up a puff of dust with each step he took. He’d worked for her father since her