Rhapsody

15: come on scooby-doo

Time is turning into an endless cycle of apathy and Maverick is dead tired. The weariness feels twice as heavy as the marrow in his bones, and by the time it's noon, he feels like he's lived a lifetime and then some.

A bit of rest probably would've done him good, but after the revelation about Emery's bloodline, he researched archaic werewolves into the wee hours of the morning. No matter how deep into the lore Maverick delved, however, he could find no clear answer. The archaic wolves are true ghost stories. And Maverick doesn't know what the hell he's supposed to do with that information other than be one part impressed, two parts terrified.

Right now, he and his partner are on their way to the apartment of Ms. Asterio, the mother of their murder victim. The lab hasn't actually gotten to the toxicology report yet—they never do in a decent amount of time—but Maverick is willing to bet money that Lieutenant Darcy's hunch is correct. Annie Asterio's werewolf blood will have burned away any evidence of poison, including any lead they might've had, which leaves them with nothing but dog shit.

Maverick thumps his head against the window. Despite the lack of angry clouds in the sky, New York is the same as she's been this entire week—cold, ambivalent, and immovable. The skyscrapers stretch up towards the heavens with gleaming glass, and when he stares at them, he feels small and insignificant. Which, coincidentally, is also how he feels beside Emery. Especially now that he knows what those silver eyes entail.

Not good enough. Notgoodenough.

"You're awfully quiet today, detective," Emery says.

Out of the corner of his eye, Maverick can see the wolf staring at him.

"I'm fine," he says, flinching away.

"I sense you're angry with me," Emery says. His fingers tap an irregular rhythm into the steering wheel. Anxiety, Maverick thinks, but that doesn't make sense because creatures like Emery don't get anxious.

"I don't wanna talk about it," he says.

"Detective Carson, I—"

"Don't. I don't want apologies and I don't want puppy-dog eyes. I want us to do our fucking jobs, like civil people."

The phrase escapes Maverick before he can check himself. Emery's lip twitches, as if instinct demands him to show teeth.

He never does.

Maverick thumps his head against the window for what must be the millionth time. He'll earn himself a brain aneurysm at this rate, but maybe he deserves it. Maverick wants to believe in the best of Emery. He does, he really does, and he's trying. But they're at the edge of the precipice and the wind is blowing both ways.

Something's gotta give, Cassie's voice supplies.

A few moments later, the traffic splits. Emery slides off the main road and puts the vehicle into park at the curb. Maverick seizes the opportunity to crawl out as fast as he can.

It's not fast enough, apparently. Maverick has only just reached the sidewalk when Emery latches his fingers around his arm, whipping him around. Apex predator, Maverick's mind unhelpfully supplies. With a vague sense of dread, he wrenches free of the wolf's death grip.

"Get the fuck away from me," he snarls.

Emery recoils. "What is going on with you today?"

"Nothing," Maverick says. Liar, liar, liar. "I'm fine."

For a few tense moments, Emery just stands there, gray skyscrapers at his back, steam from the subway below encasing his silhouette in plumes of white. There's something not quite right about him. There never has been, if Maverick looks long enough. His eyes are the bluest shade Maverick has ever seen but there's something behind them that suggests a creature beyond just this skin. Something primal and hungry. Something off-putting yet alluring all the same.