The Werewolf Coefficient (The Outlier Prophecies Book 3) Read online

  The Werewolf Coefficient

  The Outlier Prophecies Book Three

  Tina Gower

  Smashed Picket Press

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Also by Tina Gower

  Newsletter Information

  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

  19. Standard Deviation of Death~ Chapter One Sneak Peek

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 by Christina Smith

  1st Digital & Trade Paperback Edition, 2016, cover design by Christian Bentulan.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or person, living or dead is coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks, is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  For more books by Tina Gower, please visit:

  http://www.tinagower.com

  Created with Vellum

  To Isaac and Ella

  Also by Tina Gower

  Books in the Outlier Prophecies Series

  Romancing the Null (book one)

  Kindle

  Nook

  Coming soon:

  Kobo

  iBook

  Conditional Probability of Attraction (book two)

  Kindle

  Coming soon:

  Nook

  Kobo

  iBook

  The Werewolf Coefficient (book three)

  Kindle

  Coming Soon:

  Nook

  Kobo

  iBook

  Standard Deviation of Death (book four)

  Kindle

  Coming soon:

  Nook

  Kobo

  iBook

  Big Bad Becker~A Outlier Series Novella~Coming mid-August 2016

  Shifter Variance (book five)~Coming Fall 2016

  Newsletter Information

  If you would like to receive free short stories in the Outlier Series, get the latest publication information, or a chance to win advanced reader copies of full length novels, please consider signing up for the newsletter. Your email and personal information will not be shared.

  Sign up for the newsletter

  Please consider leaving an honest review of this book to help other readers find it.

  Chapter 1

  The woman should be dead, yet here she is in all of her high-ponytailed, blond-haired, flattering-yoga-pants glory. She sits on the side of the remote jogging trail, her face sticky with happy tears. Her plastered grin takes up most of the room on her face. And she should be ecstatic: she’s alive and not dead as the oracle predicted, which means the actuary who assigned her probability of death has some explaining to do. I’d be rejoicing for her, patting her on the back, handing her tea and blankets, like the officers gathered around her, but I’m pissed.

  Because I’m the actuary.

  I’d assigned the probability of death. Even though I had assigned a six percent chance of survival (which gets me off the hook for a full review), the body crushed under the tree limb nearby presents a complication. Oh, him, yeah, the oracle never even mentioned him.

  A gust blows freezing air into my face and tendrils of my black hair into my eyes. A hair tie would have been nice, but I left the house in a hurry after the early morning summons chirped on my phone. On a Saturday, no less. This would really fuck up my weekend. If I were late they’d fine me. Procedure is the official word, but it was more like a punishment.

  The woman sits, frozen and pale, on a rotting oak log, the crunch of fallen leaves all around as officers work around her. The rising sun splatters light through the bare branches. During the summer months anyone can stand in the center of the forest and not spot a skyscraper, but at the end of winter, with the leaves scattered along the dirt and pine needle floor, I could see a glimpse through the bare dogwoods of the Angel’s Peak Bank—the tallest building on this side of the city.

  The sensitive, a representative of the oracle, leans over the woman. His tan robes, bushy hair, and beard barely move when he speaks and blesses her. I turn around so I don’t have to see it—I’m not a fan of the monk-like dedication of the Brotherhood of the Vates. A small dedicated group of sensitives who take their job so seriously they’ve turned it into a priest-like existence.

  We have a substantial following in Angel’s Peak. The Vates don’t make up all the sensitives we have under employment in the Department of Oracles, but they are slowly gaining a majority. Especially after a small but significant leak a few months ago when a recently hired sensitive had been revealed to be a leader in the anti-fate movement.

  I can’t be near the Vate, not now. I don’t want to hear about my mistake being a blessing of human error, how I misinterpreted the oracle’s messages, or once again be reminded that according to Brotherhood law “oracles shall not be negatively criticized by errors in interpretation.”

  I turn away, letting the wind blow at my back, pushing me to join Officer Ian Becker. Even the wind betrays me—Becker and I had taken a step back, a huge step back. We’d been forced together when Becker needed someone to step in as a pack mate for him. He’d been in bad shape, a stressed, emotional wreck, with difficulty controlling his aggressive outbursts.

  As part werewolf he needed touch to center himself and to regulate his limbic system. After reading several books on the subject, I’d educated myself in a way I wish I had before volunteering to become his substitute pack member. Becker didn’t have a pack and desperately needed one when we first met. A high stress situation led me to step into that role and now I’ve been left wondering how I can detangle myself from that responsibility.

  What I didn’t count on were the growing romantic feelings for my coworker—not something I wanted. Becker in his weaker state might have convinced me to give in to those feelings, but now that a few months have gone by, he seems more relaxed, maybe even relieved with our new distance. It hurts, because there was a part of me that wanted it to be real. Not some werewolf pheromone-driven attraction.

  I’d drawn out the boundaries of our arrangement a lot tighter than when we’d started. No more night pack sessions aka evening snuggling where we both fall asleep and become unguarded and unaware of what Becker’s pheromones are doing to us. No more crawling through my window in the early morning hours. All sessions are currently scheduled during the day when we both have a break in our schedules and Becker must leave right after.

  We’ve made an effort to make it as non-sexual as possible by moving it to a couch instead of a bed. Playing a show or movie that could distract us both. Before all this I would have imagined it as a personal hell to feel t
his connected to another person. To trust someone with a vulnerable part of myself. To have them rely on me so completely to give them something they needed. But the truth is that I’ve grown dependent on the sessions. And that scares the hells out of me.

  Just last night Becker casually asked me to join him for coffee, maybe to talk about what had led to my decision to shut him out. I fumbled. I wasn’t ready to deal with the aftermath. Not yet.

  If I admitted I wanted more and Becker no longer did, then I’d lose him. He’d pull away for my “benefit.”

  Becker leans in close to the jagged tree limb. His gaze travels up to the eucalyptus where the fresh splintered shards dangle like the other half of a puzzle.

  When Becker glances at me, I ignore the pity in his expression. “What happened?”

  “Kinda obvious, don’t you think, Kate?” His slip in the use of my first name unnerves me, making me itch. He pulls out a tissue to inspect the tree without leaving prints. “Why don’t the oracles ever predict anything useful like alerting the city to trim the trees?”

  I’m thankful he stays on the topic of the investigation. “There’s no money in that, Becker. This is why you keep failing your detective’s exam.”

  Becker flashes a half-smile, but his eyes are not amused. He must have failed again recently. He sniffs the tree.

  “Smell anything?” I ask. Not that it will be useful; evidence gathered by latent werewolves is deemed unsubstantial. There are no true werewolves in existence anymore. Although Becker is pretty close to being full-blooded.

  “Fungus,” he says. “They’re going to have to cut this whole section of the park down. It spreads quickly.”

  He hands over an extra pair of rubber surgical gloves for me. I snap one on and take a look at the section of branch he shows me. Damn. I’d hoped for some sign of foul play, maybe evidence of a sawed off section to help the breaking limb along. If someone had planted this fungus here in hopes for it to fall they had to have had one hell of a foresight and years of patience.

  “The organization representing the ancestors of the Fae won’t be happy if they take out this forest. It’s one of the few original undisturbed woods around Angel’s Peak.”

  Becker folds his arms and stares past the tree, lost in thought. A quick glance affirms that nobody can see us behind the limb and scattered foliage. I clench my jaw, unsure if I should console him or not. My instinct wins and I gently place a hand on his shoulder.

  “What are you doing over here?” he asks, broken from his spell. “You’re supposed to be talking to the survivor. Figure out how she got so lucky.”

  I motion to the dead body. “This guy is more interesting. I was hoping for foul play, a couple of anti-predictability free will woo-woo groups out to mess with the fabric of fate and all.”

  “Not this time.”

  “Damn it.” I slam my gloved fist into the splintering bench.

  “Chill out, Hale, you’re only human. Humans make mistakes.”

  And wasn’t that just it? Wasn’t that just the exact finger-on-the-problem moment? I was only human. No trace of elf, fairy, mage, not even witch. In this melting pot of a city, eighty-seven percent of the population could lay claim to at least some supernatural ancestry. I didn’t find it amusing that his simple phrase reminded me I’d descended from bigots.

  “No.” Something doesn’t add up. It’s more than the sting of a wrong calculation. I watch the survivor hug the sensitive. I whisper to Becker, “Get me everything on the oracles that made this prediction.”

  “Information above your pay grade.”

  “But not above yours.” I inch closer to him. “I’ll help you study for your next exam.” He looks unconvinced. I drop my voice to a low whisper. With no other werewolves on the scene and Lipski nowhere around, only Becker can hear. “I’ll agree to one time off the couch. Just one.”

  He tilts his head, pretending to consider, although his eyes give away his answer instantly. “Pinning your mistake on an oracle won’t get you off the hook.”

  I press my lips together—I refuse to pout, so I glare until he answers.

  “On the bed?” he asks, one eyebrow tilting up.

  Oh come on. He has to know that won’t fly. “On the floor.”

  He frowns.

  “With pillows,” I add to sweeten the deal.

  He crosses his arms. “No television. It doesn’t feel like I get the full benefit like before.”

  “Music then.”

  He nods. “Lights off.”

  “No. We leave them on.”

  “Dim?”

  I shrug. “Yeah, fine.” I’d read that the less sensory distractions during a pack session, the more effective. Ideally there would be some skin-on-skin contact, but neither of us was comfortable enough to cross that boundary. Becker wasn’t trying to make this romantic. I could tell by the flush of his cheeks that he was still as uncomfortable with this as I was.

  “I’ll even provide dinner.”

  “I’ll come by at seven.”

  Chapter 2

  The situation with Becker settled, I mosey away from the crime scene and listen in on the intended victim’s story.

  “It’s just that I was jogging along when I heard the crack of thunder. Except it wasn’t thunder at all. It was that limb falling from the…the…” She tears up again. Her face turns pink. Her ponytail quivers as though it’s a vector for her pent-up energy. She even manages to stay cute. She has to be the only woman in the world that has an adorable ugly cry. She isn’t holding back for effect. She isn’t being overly dramatic.

  I check the name on the file. Alana. Funny, she doesn’t act like an Alana. Not that I’d know how an Alana would act.

  The sensitive goes to bless her again and I step forward, clearing my throat. “You said you were jogging by. Is this your regular route?”

  She nods, using the cuff of her sweatshirt sleeve to wipe away the moisture on her face, emitting a hiccup mid swipe.

  “Was there anyone else in the area? Anyone you may have seen on your way to the scene?”

  Her gaze searches the rows of eucalyptus trees as if that person I’m hypothesizing might appear. She earnestly seems to want to find him for me. Her shoulders slump. “I don’t remember anyone. I’m sorry.”

  I wave off her apology. “It’s fine. I’m sure you weren’t expecting to run into a crime scene.”

  The Vate sensitive furrows his brows. “A crime? But Ms.…” He checks out my chest as though I might wear a name badge.

  “Hale. Kate Hale. Investigative Actuary for Accidental Death.” Asshole, I want to add, but damn it, I’m too professional.

  “Ms. Hale.” He settles on my name like it’s a new an exotic flavor in his mouth. “Ah, you’re with Accidental. Surely if you were called this cannot be considered a crime, but an unfortunate occurrence. Don’t you say?”

  “I don’t say. Not until all the evidence is calculated and we’ve followed procedure.”

  He leans back on his heels. “Of course.” He gestures for me to continue with my interview. “Please excuse my interruption. I’m merely curious about this procedure and how it affects the oracle under my care. She will be alarmed that her prediction was miscalculated.”

  The hairs along my spine stand on end like prickly spikes. I let his dig slide.

  Vates are beyond dedicated to the oracles. In his mind they can do no wrong. Getting into it with him will only lead to a fight that will distract me from my goal. Besides, Becker is going to open the oracle’s file for me. I’ll know soon enough if she’s worth her paycheck. And since there were two predicting oracles, it means that we’d have two predictions to play with and less of a chance to claim error.

  If she’s young or newly trained, then the miscalculation will fall on her. It won’t go on my record as a mistake. Instead it will be filed as a margin of error, letting the oracle off the hook for any real disciplinary action, but remain as an alert to other actuaries who receive predictions from her that she�
�s not as accurate.

  They’ll compensate with their next probability calculation. Instead of attaching the prediction to a person, the actuary could attach it to a place instead, lowering their liability to a misinformed prediction. Heck, there were a lot of things I could have done differently. If there had been a mark against either of the oracles in the file, I’d not have assigned such a slim chance of Alana’s survival.

  I could at least cover my bases on the original prediction and worry about the other victim later. “Alana, what did you do differently after you received your death notice this morning? Perhaps that can help us figure out a way to help other high probability with short notice of death cases.”

  Her eyes go wide. There’s a short pause before she answers. “I had a prediction? I didn’t know.” She shifts from one leg to the other. The air shifts and a gust of frigid air blows between us. She tugs her police-department-issued wool blanket closer and looks away from me.

  “You didn’t receive a prediction?” I make a note to check that it was sent out. “It would have been sent out late last night. Eight p.m. at the latest. Even with delays in the system.”

  She shook her head. “I go to bed very early. It’s still dark out when I wake up to jog. I don’t check my email until lunchtime.”

  I scratch my head. It could be plausible. I remember getting the forecast right before I left for the day yesterday. Since it was an early morning high probability over a weekend, I sent the list of things she could do to help lower the occurrence and also our toll free number. There isn’t a whole lot we can do with predictions that are so close to occurring. Not even if she had death insurance, which would have provided her with a robo-call to inform her within minutes of the probability calculation. When I filed it I was sad for her. She’d been pretty much doomed under the circumstances of the forecast.