The Good Shifter, page 1
part #1 of Great Lakes Investigations Series
THE GOOD SHIFTER
GREAT LAKES INVESTIGATIONS™ BOOK ONE
PHILIPPA NORCROSS
MICHAEL ANDERLE
THE GOOD SHIFTER TEAM
Thanks to our Beta Readers
Kelly O’Donnell, Rachel Beckford, John Ashmore, Larry Omans
Thanks to the JIT Readers
Daryl McDaniel
Veronica Stephan-Miller
Peter Manis
Dave Hicks
Diane L. Smith
Jeff Goode
Dorothy Lloyd
Zacc Pelter
If I’ve missed anyone, please let me know!
Editor
The Skyhunter Editing Team
This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.
Copyright © 2022 by LMBPN Publishing
Cover Art by Jake @ J Caleb Design
http://jcalebdesign.com / jcalebdesign@gmail.com
Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing
A Michael Anderle Production
LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact support@lmbpn.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
LMBPN Publishing
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Version 1.01, February 2022
ISBN (ebook) 979-8-88541-144-8
ISBN (paperback) 979-8-88541-145-5
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
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Author Notes Philippa Norcross
Author Notes Michael Anderle
Books By Michael Anderle
Michael Anderle Social
CHAPTER ONE
Maggie’s eyes cracked open to see the slimy brown spots on the water-damaged ceiling tile, and she sighed and closed her eyes again. Five more minutes, please…
But she heard Ferrow coming down the hallway. That must have been what had woken her up.
She forced herself upright on the sagging couch. Another spring had broken overnight if the ache in her back was anything to go by.
She was rubbing an especially sore spot when the key turned in the lock and Ferrow came in. “Morning, Maggie.” She hung her coat on the hooks by the door and scuffed her boots on the mat. “Sleep well?”
Maggie opened her mouth to protest, to say she’d just gotten in herself, but realized there wasn’t much point. If nothing else, the fact that her shoes and coat were dry as bones would have given it away, but Ferrow knew her too well anyway. “Not really,” she replied. “This couch isn’t exactly a feather bed.”
“You could go back to your apartment,” Ferrow pointed out, selecting a tea bag from the cupboard chock-full of them while the water heated. “You have a bed there, I believe.”
Maggie made a vague, noncommittal noise and stretched. A few vertebrae popped in protest. “I was beat last night,” she said. “Even five blocks felt like too far.”
“Mm-hmm.” The naga didn’t sound convinced, and Maggie couldn’t blame her. Ferrow had seen how well Maggie was coping with Matt being gone in the months since it had happened—which was, to put it lightly, not well. “Have you eaten anything?”
“No.” Maggie stood.
“Color me shocked,” Ferrow said. “Go get something from Blake’s. Smelled like the cinnamon buns were coming out of the oven when I walked by.”
“Maybe.” She walked over to the window and pulled the curtains aside, letting in the grayish light of what purported to be eight-thirty AM on a misty March morning. “Might just get coffee.”
Ferrow poured boiling water into her mug, which read, “I’m a Secretary, Not a Magician, But I Understand Your Confusion,” and the scent of peppermint filled the air. “Caffeine’s not a bad idea.” She shuffled papers on her desk one-handed.
“Got a call from a prospective client yesterday. James Shalton. You know him?”
Maggie shook her head.
“Well, neither did I, so I did some digging. Tugged on the grapevine a bit, you know.” No response. Ferrow pursed her lips and went on, “Turns out he’s a vampire.”
“Huh. Vampire. Don’t see many of those.”
Ferrow sipped her tea. Maggie was in a bad way today if she didn’t respond to a new client being a vampire—they weren’t exactly common, and they tended to do their own dirty work. For a vampire to be looking to hire a private investigator… Normally that would’ve had Maggie’s detective senses tingling, and Matt would have—well.
“No, you don’t,” Ferrow agreed. “Which is why, in my humble opinion, it would be wise to take his call.”
“I’ll think about it.” Maggie finally stepped away from the window. “Leave his number on my desk.”
“You can only think about it for so long,” Ferrow pointed out. “We’re already being hounded for the utility bill. It’s just as well they can’t cut us off, or we’d have frozen through February.”
Maggie pulled her heavy woolen peacoat on, turned the collar up, then hunched her shoulders at Ferrow’s words, sighed, and left the office.
It wasn’t quite as bad out as it had looked from the second floor. It was gray and foggy, sure, but that was about the worst of it.
Granted, that didn’t mean the tiny center courtyard all the first-floor shops opened onto was any more appealing than usual, with its heavily weathered benches—at some point in the nineties they’d been yellow, or so she’d heard—and chipped concrete planters where plants went to die.
The people who frequented the courtyard, though, were anything but dreary. Everyone who worked in this building had some form of magic or was related to someone who did, and it made for a lively atmosphere. Maggie sometimes wondered if the frequently misty weather was a side effect of sorts or a facet of the veil.
Weird things happened around magic and magical people. Strange, right? For many, many years—almost as far back as the history books went—the magical and nonmagical had lived apart, separated by barriers both magical and mundane. That way, no one got burned at the stake anymore or got a stake driven through their heart...unnecessarily.
Some magical folks preferred to live among the nonmagical on their own, which was fine. There had always been plenty of magical communities, big and small, and Joseph's Landing was one of them. The little neighborhood consisted of a few city blocks and included a couple of apartment buildings, such as the one she lived in and the one she worked in, and an elementary school, among other things.
It had been bought up by one of the old, well-established magical families a few decades ago, after a rather unfortunate incident involving a kindergartner's powers manifesting without warning in the middle of a grocery store. The kid had ended up a pyromancy master. On that day in June 1973, they'd almost become a casualty of their temper tantrum alongside the entirety of the supermarket and the adjoining optometrist's office.
So now, thanks to the nice little curtain of magic between Joseph's Landing and the rest of the city, there hadn't been any more unintentional cases of grade-school arson since the seventies. All the magical families sent their kids to Merlin-Buxton Elementary—not named after the legendary wizard, although he was the school mascot. Between that and the abundance of people “in the know” in the community, any child manifesting powers had plenty of support.
The scent of fresh bread and cinnamon pulled her from her musings, and she realized she was in front of Blake's. Ferrow was right. The cinnamon buns were still steaming in the display case, and it looked like the stout little baker was setting a dozen fresh poppy seed bagels on a tray.
She was briefly tempted—poppy seed bagels happened to be one of her favorites—but as with most of her feelings these days, it passed quickly, and she opted instead for the persnickety vending machine tucked into an alcove on the squ
As she fumbled in her coat pocket for enough change to get a bottle of iced coffee, she heard scuffing footsteps behind her. She turned to see one of the kids that lived in the apartments on the upper floors of her building. Helena Chatham was six-and-a-half years old. Her favorite things in the whole world? Unicorns and playing in the dirt.
“Hey, Helena.” She slotted quarters into the machine. “Off to school?”
“Hi, Miss St. Clair.” The little girl hiked her backpack up on her shoulders. “Yeah.” Helena didn't look up at her, instead keeping her eyes on the ground. Her light brown hair was falling out of its usual braid, and one of her shoes had come untied.
The bottle clunked into the pickup slot and Maggie grabbed it. “You seem down, kiddo. Everything all right?”
Helena shrugged, raincoat rustling. “I dunno, miss.” She kicked a pebble. “It’s my turn for show and tell today. Everybody’s been showing off their new magic, doing tricks and stuff, and I don’t have anything.”
“Aw, that’s too bad.” Maggie crouched to meet Helena’s eyes. “It took a while for my magic to show up, too. I remember wondering why everybody got their magic first. It wasn’t very fun.”
She wasn't lying—it hadn't been fun at all. What had made it even worse was that Matt's had shown up first. She'd been in a snit for months. It had made their seventh birthday party quite an ordeal.
“Nuh-uh,” Helena said. “I’m boring. I don’t wanna be a Normal.” She looked up, and Maggie saw her lower lip was quivering the tiniest bit. She also had a mark of dirt on her chin. If this kid didn't grow up to be some sort of garden witch, Maggie would eat her hat.
Maggie smiled. “You’re not boring. Your magic’s still growing, that’s all. Don’t worry. I know your mom and dad, and the chances of you not having any magic…well, they’re pretty slim.”
She slipped her hand into the inside pocket of her coat and drew out a little charm shaped like a seven-pointed star. “How about you take this for show and tell?”
She set it on one point in the palm of her hand, where it balanced, swaying back and forth slightly. She flicked it, and it spun, sending off brilliant rays of light in every color of the rainbow. It also gave off a very faint sound of wind chimes.
Helena laughed, mesmerized. “It’s beautiful! What is it?”
“It’s my good-luck charm.” Maggie closed her hand around it and offered it to the little girl. “One of them, anyway. A lightning fairy gave it to me a long time ago.”
Helena grinned and opened her hand, palm up. Maggie deposited the charm into it, and it quickly disappeared into her pocket. “Thank you, Miss St. Clair!” she exclaimed happily. “I’ll bring it right back after school!”
Maggie stood. “Sounds like a plan,” she said. “Now you get on, or you’ll be late.”
“Thank you again!” Helena called as she ran off.
Maggie sighed, her bleak mood returning in full force as she made her way back to the office. It was all well and good to soothe a child’s worries, to tell them that yes, their magical powers would manifest sooner or later.
They’d get their share of the useful mystical skills that “blessed” the magical subset of the population. There weren’t many magic users who didn’t appreciate their abilities, although she could think of a few.
As a matter of fact, she’d been coming down on that end of things herself lately. Her magic had been…unruly as of late. Or maybe a better word was weird or new. In any case, it was unsettling, and she both didn’t like and didn’t know what to do with it.
Everyone knew that new magic didn’t develop in adulthood—what you got when you were a kid was what you got. Which meant she had to be going crazy because while she’d always been perceptive, this was getting a bit absurd.
She could smell the coffee through the sealed glass bottle. She’d heard Ferrow coming that morning before the naga had reached the stairs. Last night, she’d smelled the pizza delivery girl from halfway down the block, and the aroma of double pepperoni and mushroom certainly hadn’t been coming on the utterly nonexistent wind.
She cracked open the bottle of coffee as she reached the second-floor landing. Ferrow was talking to someone, presumably on the phone—which was odd too; they’d specifically soundproofed the office for client confidentiality. Sure enough, she hung up as Maggie opened the door.
“Ah!” Ferrow said with a bright—no, a satisfied smile. “That was James Shalton again. He was quite insistent upon using our services.” The smile turned into a grin. “I let him know that you’d be along presently. Don’t forget your notebook.”
Ferrow tossed Maggie her keys, and Maggie caught them one-handed. “Ferrow,” she started, exasperated, “you can’t accept a client—”
“I can, and I have,” she said firmly. “What are you going to do, fire me?”
Maggie huffed and walked back out the door—only to turn on her heel, stick her keys in her pocket, and snag her notebook off her desk before leaving a second time, letting the door snap shut on Ferrow’s fanged smile.
CHAPTER TWO
“At least there’s no way I could miss the place,” Maggie dryly muttered as she turned her Civic up the drive to Shalton’s mansion. It was way out in the country on several acres of old-growth forest in a provincial reserve. A beautiful wooden fence that couldn’t cost less than a hundred bucks a foot ringed the whole thing. Was that how you priced fences? She didn’t know.
The drive was cut stone, the trees rather perfectly trimmed for old-growth, and the entire effect was one of old money. Richesse, largesse, pick your adjective: Shalton was clearly loaded.
The house was no different. It was massive, but not in the way of McMansions. It had character. Gabled windows, more crown molding than you could shake a stick at, and was that a tower in the back?
She’d certainly believe it was a vampire’s abode. The trees were thick enough, for one. He’d only have to wear sunscreen to get from the door to his car—which was a truck. A Ford Ranger. What the hell?
She parked behind the spotless white, perfectly detailed vehicle, got out, and headed for the doors, locking the Civic behind her. There was a bellpull. The bell would summon a butler, she was sure. That worthy would usher her into a sitting room, and the lord of the manor would sweep down his grand staircase in his long black cloak, and he’d have the thickest Romanian accent you’d ever heard—
“Miz St. Clair?” a voice straight out of the Deep South drawled as the door opened.
The man in front of her couldn’t have been further from her imagination: six-foot-two, short brown hair, a beard that needed a trim. His clothes were designer, of that much she was sure, but the dusty work jeans, worn-in button-down shirt, and a belt buckle bigger than her cell phone still screamed—neighed? yahoo-ed?—cowboy.
“Uh, yeah, that’s me.” She cleared her throat and started again. “Maggie St. Clair, Great Lakes Investigations. I’m here to see James Shalton?”
“At your service,” the man said with a slow grin. Perfect teeth. Fangs, naturally. Vampires gave her the creeps. “Come on in. I’m about to have lunch—would you care to join me?”
“Oh, um, sure, thank you, that’s very kind.” Maggie followed him in. She'd never had a prospective client invite her to eat at the first meeting. She hadn't eaten breakfast though, and she was hungry.
