ABOUT WERECAT: THE FUGITIVE On the run after killing a Hunter from The Glaring, Jacks travels to the Bahamas with his only clue to what the secret society’s assassin was after: his maker’s key to a safety deposit box at an offshore bank. A thirty-day legal procedure holds Jacks up from uncovering what could be a hidden treasure. Meanwhile, Jacks meets an alluring ex-pat named Maarten who hosts a nonstop pleasure cruise for disaffected werecats who have no interest in the politics of their kind. With his nerves scratched raw from living on the run, it’s too tempting of an escape for Jacks to turn away. But while he’s cruising the Caribbean and spending his nights in an orgiastic cuddle pile, The Glaring lays siege to New York City in a night of terror. Jacks’ boyfriend Farzan fights for his life and tries to reach Jacks overseas. Jacks needs to emerge from a binge of drugs and flesh to defend his boyfriend. But can he give up the chance to be with his own kind for the first time in his life? When the secret in the safety deposit box is revealed, Jacks realizes that it’s up to him to get it before The Glaring uses an arcane magic that could destroy humankind.
CHAPTER ONE
The Beechfield Bank of Barbados was a handsome building. Gabled, with an open porch, the bank looked more like a Victorian home, styled for entertaining, than a place of commerce to Jacks. Inviting as it was, a cold rush of dread washed over him as he faced his destination. Inside was the answer to a mystery, and that mystery had wrenched him loose from the tiny foothold of safety and balance he had inhabited in the world. It had pitted him against a man — Benoit — who had wanted to kill him. It had made Jacks a murderer. There were only six banks on the entire island of Barbados, and Jacks’ boyfriend Farzan had researched them and determined that Beechfield was the most likely place for Benoit to have kept his offshore holdings. A detail caught Jacks’ attention, and he slackened his pace on the sunbaked, dusty street. The awning above the porch was emblazoned with a gold insignia of a dragon. It reminded Jacks of a medieval coat of arms. He wondered if Benoit might have found a certain irony in the barbaric imagery. Jacks took a deep breath, imagining that he could draw smooth confidence into his body, and he stepped up to the bank’s porch and through the double-doors. The place was quiet and tidy: freshly vacuumed carpeting, cherry wood desks, and a shiny Formica counter for the bank tellers. Security cameras pointed out from the corners of the ceiling. A uniformed guard chatted up a young black lady at one
of the front desks. Jacks strode past them. He sweated through the armpits of his khaki cotton suit, and the messenger bag strapped to his shoulder felt radioactive, its contents ready to burn through the nylon fabric and expose his sham. Farther down the bank’s little bay of desks, Jacks spotted a nameplate for a bank officer: Mr. Applewhite. He homed in on an older Caribbean man behind the desk and summoned a big, friendly smile. “Good morning. I have some business that I think requires the manager.” Jacks took off his messenger bag, opened the flap, and brought out a manila folder. “One of your customers recently died, and I’ve been appointed to handle his estate.” Jacks handed the bank officer his passport, Benoit’s death certificate, and a notarized letter. The death certificate was real. Everything else was fake. Farzan had said his older brother Sammy was good for nothing, but he didn’t give Sammy credit in the area of forging documents. The bank officer looked over everything as though he had been presented with a thirty-page search warrant written in Latin. Jacks leaned his weight to one side. His heartbeat drummed in his ears. “I’ll call the manager for you.” Mr. Applewhite took a second look at the passport. “Mr. Heathcliff?” Jacks nodded. It was a pretty cheesy alias, but Farzan thought it would be easy to remember and funny as hell. The bank officer gathered the documents, and Jacks watched him climb the stairs, walk along the second floor balustrade, and disappear into a private office. The security guard took a break from flirting with the young, pretty employee and tipped his hand from his forehead. A nervous smile pinched up on Jacks’ face.
After a short while, that cold wash of dread swelled up again. What was happening upstairs? Jacks imagined skeptical conversations, phone calls being made, undercover cops storming the place. Every stray glance from the bank tellers and the sole customer, an old lady with a walking cane, slashed at him. He decided to wander over to the bank’s display case of brochures. The brochures advertised mortgage rates and auto loans — the normal kinds of things people had to deal with. Jacks wondered if he and Farzan would ever go to a bank as a couple, looking to buy a home together. They had only made their relationship “official” two days ago, back in New York City. He missed Farzan badly. If Jacks made it through this mess, they had plans to meet up in Caracas at the end of the summer, when Farzan had a one-week break from medical school. Meanwhile, Jacks would have to figure out how to bide the time. It was painfully bittersweet. They had finally acknowledged how much they wanted to be together, right before Jacks had to leave the country and probably never return. The bank officer came down the stairs, followed by a black lady in a bright mustard skirt suit and an African-patterned headscarf. Her expression was hard to read. Jacks hiked up a friendly grin as she approached. She held out her hand in greeting. “Mrs. James,” she said. “Donovan Heathcliff.” Jacks shook her hand. “Let’s go up to my office.” Jacks followed her up the stairs. Mr. Applewhite drifted back to his desk casually, but he gave Jacks a parting glance. Maybe he was just curious because he hadn’t been part of such dealings before, but Jacks didn’t like that look.
Mrs. James’ office was a carpeted, wood-paneled room big enough for a gathering of twenty or thirty people. Jacks sat across from her at a tidy executive desk while she tapped up something on her keyboard. Her monitor faced away from Jacks. “Typically, we’re notified by the lawyers when one of our international customers passes away,” she said. “You traveled all this way to take care of this business yourself?” “Yes, from Manitoba,” Jacks said. The bank manager’s mouth made a little O. Jacks relaxed a bit. He had hatched a backstory for their exchange. He had been biking with Benoit in Canada. There had been a gruesome tractor trailer accident. There was no next of kin. But that was if he needed to elaborate, and he wasn’t sure he did quite yet. “Mr. Hemmingstone, my lawyer, told me he would call ahead.” Mrs. James frowned. “Lawyers,” she groaned. “What is it they say? What’s a hundred lawyers at the bottom of the ocean?” “A good start,” Jacks finished. She made a shrieking laugh, which sliced through Jacks and brought out a nervous chuckle from his throat. He rummaged his ice-cold hand into his pants pocket and scrounged out a long, flat, silver-plated key. “There’s also this,” he said. Jacks placed the key on the bank manager’s desk. Mrs. James looked down at the key and nodded. “Yes. Mr. Guichard opened several accounts with us and a safety deposit box. I only met him once. About a year ago. Such a nice, young man. Much too young to have left our God’s green earth.” Jacks gazed at her sincerely. In truth, Benoit hadn’t been nice, and he had been over two hundred years old. Not that Mrs.
James could have guessed his real age. She swiveled in her chair, searching for something in the credenza behind her. The moment of sentimentality was squelched. When Mrs. James swiveled back, she had papers. She pushed them across the desk. “Some forms for you to fill out while I make a copy of your passport.” The lines and boxes on the forms swam in Jacks’ vision. “We’ll also need a reference letter from your bank.” Mrs. James placed a business card on top of the documents. “There’s an e-mail address and a fax number on there.” “Oh, I’m not transferring his accounts.” Mrs. James’ eyebrows rose. “I’ve come to cash them out.” The bank manager regarded him as though she was expecting the punchline to a joke. Seeing as there was none, she folded her arms, assuming an instructive demeanor. “Did Mr. Guichard’s lawyer inform you of the nature of his client’s holdings with our institution?” His mouth opened and quickly closed. “Our Diamond customers find it beneficial to transfer their assets. Or they may choose to set up a new account with us. We have a brochure that explains an array of options.” She brought out a glossy tri-fold brochure from her desk. “Most of Mr. Guichard’s assets are tied up in investments and securities. If you forfeit them, there’s a significant penalty, in addition to local and international taxes.” It all sounded complicated and time-consuming. Jacks told her, “I’m only here for a couple of days.” “I’m afraid it will take longer than that. We are obligated to freeze an account for thirty days after notification of a death. It’s
a legal requirement in the event that anyone should come forward to contest the claim to Mr. Guichard’s estate.” Anxiety snaked through Jacks’ body. Farzan’s research hadn’t turned up that complication. Jacks didn’t think anyone else knew about Benoit’s offshore accounts, but thirty days would be an eternity to wait. What he really wanted was the contents of the safety deposit box. That’s what Bernard, the Hunter from The Glaring, had been looking for when he had tracked him down to get the key. Jacks had killed Bernard in self-defense. There could be other ways to get to the box, but it was risky. He needed to talk to Farzan. Mrs. James watched him with motherly sympathy. “Your lawyer should have explained this all to you. Here’s what we’ll do: I’ll print out the account statements, and you can take some time to decide how you would like to proceed.” She tapped some keys, and the laser printer behind her churned out pages. Then, she looked over her desk blotter calendar, took up a fancy gold pen, and circled a date: June 28. “If we issue a death notice today, the accounts will be released to you on July 28th. This can all be done electronically. We just need the forms filled out, your bank reference letter, and a routing number. And of course a way of contacting you during the period of public notice if we need to. Where are you staying on the island?” Jacks hesitated. “The Primrose Guest House.” A shadow of knowledge passed over Mrs. James’ face. Jacks’ insides sank. He hadn’t expected to need to share that information. The Primrose Guest House had the cheapest rooms on the island at $35 a night with a shared bath. It was a fortyminute bus trip out of town. Hardly the type of accommodations one would expect for someone claiming a sizeable inheritance.
“It’s just for a night or two,” he said. “I’ll forward you a number where you can reach me outside of the country.” Mrs. James handed him the print-out and the key, and she went to copy his passport in an adjoining room. Jacks’ knee bounced while what he had done sank in. There were so many lies to keep track of, and now this waiting period, during which there was a police investigation going on regarding Bernard’s death back in New York City. How long would it be safe for him to stay in one place? How could he give the bank a contact number when he needed to stay below the radar?
ALSO BY ANDREW J. PETERS Werecat: The Rearing Werecat: The Glaring
Praise for Werecat: The Rearing
“…steamy enough to satisfy romance-genre die-hards. Peters builds interest by seamlessly moving the narrative from past to present. Jacks’ struggle with identity and independence make him a sympathetic, nuanced character. An innovative take on the shape-shifter genre; this
first offering in a gay fantasy series should garner a large following.” — Kirkus Reviews “If you’ve ever wondered what it is like to live and love as a big cat, this is the book for you.” — Brian Holliday, Wilde Oats Journal “I LOVED this story. A new and intriguing twist on shifters…I thought both characters were well-developed, the story interesting, the suspense intriguing and I even liked the way the sex scene played out (not gonna tell you; you’ll have to read it and see).” — Cathy Brockman, The Cat’s Meow — Reviews That Purrrr “What a great start to the series. Kept me hooked from the beginning to the ending.” — Sean Norris, World of Diversity Reviews “Peters does a great job giving us the foundation for the series and helping us to understand Jacks and the struggles he faces.” — Jay, Joyfully Jay M/M Reviews & More
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Andrew J. Peters is the author of the Werecat series and The Seventh Pleiade and its forthcoming follow-up Banished Sons of Poseidon. He grew up in Amherst, New York, studied psychology at Cornell University, and has spent most of his career as a social worker and an advocate for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender youth. While writing, Andrew is an administrator at Adelphi University’s School of Social Work. He lives in New York City with his husband Genaro and their cat ChloÍ. Visit him at http://andrewjpeterswrites.com and follow him on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/andrewjpeterswrites, Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/AndrewJPeters and Twitter: @ayjayp.