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  Jack

  The Hunted Shifters Legacy

  ~

  J. S. Striker

  Jack © 2020 J. S. Striker

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  More by J. S. Striker

  Exclusive Offer

  Author Bio

  Chapter 1

  “So when’s my car going to be fixed? Or is it ever going to be fixed?”

  The question was posed lightly, almost teasingly—but there was nothing teasing about the nerves in the woman’s voice, telling Kit O’Hara the things that the woman did not voice out: how invested she was in this car, how getting a new car was probably out of the budget, and how she’d really like for Kit to fix this but was slowly losing hope.

  The old woman wasn’t wrong about that. The car was pretty much on its last leg and would be a hopeless case unless certain things were to be done: some very expensive car parts, for one, which she knew the woman wouldn’t be able to afford right now.

  Elaine Camden was sixty-seven years old, a widow, had no children, and lived in a tiny apartment in the city that housed all the street cats she adopted.

  And Kit found herself saying something else.

  “It’s going to be fixed, Mrs. Camden,” she assured, making her tone just as light. “Just give me a few more days, and I’ll have it running. It won’t be as good as new, of course, but we both know this little jewel of yours is a tough one.”

  “Oh, thank you! Thank you, Kit, you’re an absolute angel.”

  “No problem, Mrs. Camden. I’m just doing my job.”

  The relief was nearly palpable on the other end of the line, and Kit’s shoulders sagged in response to Elaine practically singing her praises. She turned red after, hastily ending the call with the same promise before she fully sagged against the car.

  Well. It looked like she was going to need to order expensive car parts, and soon. Out of her own bank account, too.

  Kit sighed. Then she squared her shoulders and got to it, getting ahold of a dealer she knew in Manhattan and haggling for a price via phone. When that was done, she opened her email for the total bill sent to her, staring at the amount for far too long before she closed it and slipped out of the garage. She supposed that could be her Good Samaritan deed for the month—not that she had a lot, considering she was far too isolated from the real world. But she did try her best.

  Like with Elaine, who was an absolute sweetheart and loved to send her baked treats fresh from the oven.

  “Hey, O’Hara, you shouldn’t be in this hallway wearing that kind of ensemble.”

  Definitely not with Dennis Supra, who had his arms crossed as he stood in his rented office doorway and eyed her with mild exasperation.

  Automatically, Kit looked down at her pleated checkered skirt, pantyhose, sweater, and vest. All in different colors, sure, but they looked nice.

  “What’s wrong with my outfit?”

  “It’s too crazy. You’re going to turn off potential clients and have them walking out of the building before they even reach my office. You know I paid top dollar to have my law firm on the first floor of this building. I’d have paid the same if you hadn’t damn well hogged rent for the garage.”

  “You don’t even have a car,” she muttered under her breath.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing,” Kit chirped, beaming at the highly disapproving middle-aged man. He was dressed in some lame charcoal gray business suit, which she supposed did well to hide the beer belly she knew he had. “Your customers won’t even see me, Mr. Supra, I’m just here to get my mail.”

  “Well, hurry along. No time for chitchat.”

  “You wanted to chitchat,” she pointed out, then beamed wider. “But I bet you’re a busy man, so I’ll leave you to it. YOLO, Mr. Supra.”

  It was cringe-worthy as hell, but she savored the way Dennis gaped at her as if she were crazy. She kept walking, leaving him behind and heading to the front lobby, where the mail was delivered. Perhaps she should’ve taken the long way and exited her garage to enter the apartment building’s front door, but she wasn’t the most patient person in the world. As it was, she was already at her destination and sifting through her mail when the front door opened and in strode yet another person she was sure would criticize her to no end: Dean Samson, who was the second half of the Supra & Samson law office team.

  Also her ex-boyfriend, but she’d rather not talk about that unfortunate lack of judgment.

  Kit didn’t even have to think about it. Before he could spot her, she was already ducking behind the empty lobby table, relieved that her short stature allowed her to hide completely. Dean’s whistled notes filled the air, a hum that once made him charming in her eyes. That hum trailed off as the door opened again, and she could tell someone very special had walked in. She became pretty sure about it when Dean cleared his throat and started speaking in the voice he'd used when he'd first tried to catch her attention.

  “Hello there. I’m Dean Samson, and you seem to be a little lost. Is there any way I could be of assistance to you?”

  Like a preening peacock, and it had her scoffing. Her ears perked, wondering if the woman was going to giggle and find him cute or be turned off.

  “I’m looking for Kit O’Hara.”

  All thoughts of the woman’s reaction to Dean were wiped as Kit stilled.

  “Oh. And you are…?”

  “Someone who would very much like to see her,” was the warm response, just on the sultry side and filled with a lovely lilt. It was also slightly clipped, indicative of the woman’s British accent.

  There was only one woman Kit knew who had that accent, along with that sexy, smoky voice.

  “Ah, well, do you need your car fixed?”

  “You could say that.” The voice drew closer. “I need a lot of things fixed, and Kit is just the person to do it.”

  “Oh…ah. She’s in her garage.” Dean’s voice had become flustered as if the nearby presence was affecting him. Perhaps it was. “Do you want me to take you there?”

  “No, no, it’s fine. Go ahead; I’m sure you’re a busy man.”

  “But—”

  “Go ahead.”

  There was steel under the
sultriness, cutting through enough to have Dean stammering a goodbye before hastily retreating. Kit listened to his footsteps steadily fading until there were none. Silence lingered before a throat was cleared.

  “You can come out now. Your pink head is such a sight, I can’t believe he didn’t see you.”

  Kit’s eyes widened. Then she shot up to her feet, staring at the olive-skinned woman wearing an expensive white coat, black boots, and jewelry that made her look as classy as they came. The woman gazed back, a grin slowly coming out and showing off teeth that were still pretty sharp.

  “Hello,” Kit blurted out.

  “Hello to you, too, DJ Kit. Long time no see.”

  * * *

  Leila Masters was the epitome of glamour, right down to the way she carried herself: straight, a little haughty, but with a tilt of hips that also showed her naturally sexy side. In short, Leila was gorgeous and knew it, and she often used it as a weapon.

  Of course, that was all a front for her beastly nature, one that Kit had seen to the full extent: when Leila had to transform into her sleek panther form and battle it out with some extra aggressive wolf shifters. Not just battle—torn them apart, too, a horrible sight that still made Kit shudder sometimes.

  Leila had won that fight, of course. And Kit had learned one thing: to never, ever piss off a female cat.

  “Charming place. So the garage is a front?”

  “Not really,” Kit admitted. “Well, yeah, but I am a mechanic. And I repair electronic gadgets.”

  “And a DJ,” Leila added.

  “Yep. That too.” She led the other woman to the garage, pushing a table filled with tools to the corner until the entrance to her basement residence was visible. Downstairs, the quiet clicks of the lock being turned filled the space just as the lights were turned on.

  Leila didn’t so much as glance around, having been there before. Only three people from the clan had been there, really, two of which were by accident—because Kit had needed to get them out of a sticky situation—and Leila by design, since she was the one who hired Kit to work for the clan. It was on Leila’s brother’s recommendation—the clan leader, who was the most charming man Kit had ever met.

  And the most dangerous.

  “What can I do for you, Masters?”

  Leila didn’t even hesitate, taking out a flesh-colored pair of ear pods and handing them to Kit. Kit gawked at the crushed objects incredulously. “Here.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “I had a mission and helped a man at the last stage of recovering his memories. Let’s just say he didn’t respond kindly to finally recovering them, and I had to put him to sleep to calm him down. This was his retaliation.”

  “You put him to sleep?” Kit echoed in horror.

  “Oh, no, not that kind of putting to sleep.” Leila bared her teeth, the sharpness returning to their normal size. She laughed, a husky sound floating in the air and caressing Kit’s spine with chills. Now Leila looked just like any regular woman…well, a regular exotic fashion model. “I just disabled him for a while so I could get away. He’s fine and safe from harm.”

  That meant possibly beaten up, based on this woman’s definition of fine. But it also could mean untouched. That was Leila for you: hard to read.

  With a nod, Kit took the device, walking over to her drawer of gadgets and taking another pair out. She handed them over, liking the surprise on the other’s face.

  “You have spares?”

  “I always do. This one’s an upgrade, actually. The sound’s clearer and the device is smaller. It’ll fit your smaller ears and hide the device better. The functions are pretty much the same in the communications system, but here…” She pressed a button, had the delight of seeing Leila nearly jump. “See? Music. So if people spot it, they’ll really think it’s just a pair of fancy earphones. It can connect to the radio, too.”

  Leila raised a brow, obviously impressed but not inclined to show it. “Nice. And how long did you take to develop these?”

  The question was studious, and Kit began to wonder if she was being scrutinized under the veneer of charm.

  “Oh, you know, just some tinkering during my free time. I don’t have a timeline, especially if it’s not something the boss needs right away.”

  A slow smile flirted on Leila’s lips. “Well, I’ll tell the boss you’ve been excelling at this whole thing and need a raise.”

  “I don’t need one—”

  “So you like staying in this cramped space? Don’t you want bigger things for yourself? For the clan?”

  The protest that her place was enough to fit her needs was halted when she realized it was a trick question. Swallowing, Kit cleared her throat.

  “Of course I want the best for the clan,” she chirped. “But this place is cozy. And it's hidden well.”

  “Hmm.”

  Leila took the device, placing it in her ear right away and removing the loose knot of her jet black hair. It fell in soft waves around her back and covered her ears, giving off the image of…

  “You look like you just stepped out of a salon,” Kit blurted out, unable to stop herself. Leila paused, then meeting her gaze, dark eyes watchful and way too intense. In a swift second, it changed into a sultry smirk.

  “Thanks, DJ. Can I call you Kitty?”

  “I—”

  “Kitty it is.” And just like that, Leila had decided, and there was no room for arguments. She tossed her knot clamp to the side, discarded almost carelessly. Probably how she discarded men’s declarations of love, too. “You look like you’d have claws. Are you sure you’re not a cat shifter, sweetheart?”

  Kit tried very hard not to tense as she shook her head. “No, I’m pretty sure I’m not.”

  “Alright. Someday I’m going to find out what you are.”

  Without waiting for a response, Leila glided up the stairs and to the basement door, shutting it with a quiet click. Once Kit was sure the woman was gone, she sagged in near relief. Conversations with this particular clan member were always exhausting, mostly because Leila was relentless in her pursuit to find out why Kit was working for her brother when Kit wasn’t technically one of their kind.

  And Edmund was the only one who knew why.

  Seconds later, she took a deep breath and told herself to get a grip before running up the stairs herself.

  A quick sweep of the garage determined it was empty, with both doors closed. She sighed again, then muttered about unwanted encounters. Restless, Kit walked around the garage, picking up a car wrench and ready to work the energy off. She bent down.

  The knock on the garage door had her pausing.

  The curse was almost off her lips before she remembered shifters had really good hearing, so she clamped her mouth shut. Pasting a smile on her face, she marched to the door and yanked it open, ready to welcome Leila with the same warm greeting as earlier.

  The smile dropped when she took in the sight of a tall, muscled build, with a sweep of tousled brown hair and mouth that was poised between a scowl and a thin line of disapproval. Handsome, very much so—and very familiar. She stared at ice blue eyes that currently radiated murder, and dread formed in her stomach as recognition settled in.

  No, not Leila.

  But the man Leila had supposedly put to sleep.

  Chapter 2

  The sight was too much to take in: pink hair too bright, green eyes too sparkling and obviously contact lenses, and a mouth too frozen in a wide beam. Multiple piercings in her ears and a horrendous outfit that consisted of a clash of colors that made his eyes hurt. Ignoring all that, Jack Stallone returned to the eyes, immediately seeing the one indication he needed: recognition.

  “So you know why I’m here. I take that to mean your master has just been here, or you’ve been in on the plan.”

  There was a quiet moment as she remained frozen—staring—before she blinked and seemed to snap out of it. But instead of being defensive, the woman named Kit O’Hara slumped instead.

/>   She sighed.

  “If you mean Leila, then yes, she was here. But she’s gone now.” She gave him a pointed look. “And she’s not my master. Edmund is my boss.”

  The boldness made the anger he felt snap harder, something he’d been trying to control since he’d traveled there—no, since he’d woken up and remembered what had happened just before he got in that state: the olive-skinned woman knocking him out cold.

  Before that? Too many memories: that he had a friend named Celine Peach, and she’d been kidnapped by this woman’s clan. That Celine's baby was a rare kind caused by intercourse with a vampire, the pregnancy that resulted was equally rare and the clan wanted to take advantage of it.

  Celine falling for one of the clan members, and Jack making threats before he realized he’d had no choice in the matter and needed to let Celine and her baby be protected.

  Some fucked-up plan to get other clans off their back, only for Celine to get kidnapped again and things exploding south as Jack had been taken as a second thought. He’d been knocked out in a warehouse and had woken up in a hotel with no recollection of any of these—until now. That hotel scene was six months ago.

  Someone was going to have to answer questions.

  “Listen,” the woman in front of him started, a hint of nerves in her otherwise steady tone. “I know you’re super pissed off, and I would be too if some stranger knocked me out. Worse, if I had no idea about this world—”

  “I know about your world,” Jack cut in, making her gape. He held that gape and went for it. “I know clans exist, and I know they loath each other. I know they hide in other realms, otherwise called as pockets, all over the world.” He narrowed his eyes. “But my memory of my friend had somehow been erased, along with the existence of the people you work for, Miss O’Hara. And I want answers.”

  “How did you—”

  “I’m a half-shifter. Clanless,” he added, as her back had been starting to stiffen in defense. “Answers.”

  “But—”

  “Answers, Miss O’Hara. I’m running out of patience.” It was the voice he used as a cop interrogating a suspect: mild, steady, but with a hint of steel that said something was going to happen if he wasn’t given what he needed. Every fiber of his being was tensed for her wrench to attempt to hit him on the head, right before she booked it out of there.