Page 26 of The Hive Queen

The ringof my phone jars me from sleep, and I reach for the nightstand only to have my hand bump against something warm and furry. I instinctively recoil before a wet nose nudges against my palm.

Behind me, Pen grumbles and scoots lower beneath the blankets, her face pressed against my spine.

The ring comes again, and Flint reaches across Pen’s body to smack me in the shoulder. “Get your damn phone.”

“I’m trying.” I shove Anny aside. “Your familiar is in the way.”

Pen kicks her feet under the blanket, nowhere near the fox. “Off the bed.”

Instead of listening to her, Anny trots across our bodies to where Flint lies on the other side of the bed. His grunt precedes a quiet welcome, and Anny’s tail wags back and forth, smacking me in the back of the head with every swish.

My phone rings a third time, and I snatch it off the nightstand, pressing answer. “Sharpe speaking.”

“Out of bed, boss.” Johannsson’s voice rings in my ear, far too boisterous for my level of consciousness. “We have another body, and this time there’s a witness.”

Pen’s voice comes muffled from beneath the blanket. “Exploding dicks?”

I repeat her question, and Johannsson grunts an affirmative. “Nasty way to die. I’m sending you the location. Get here fast. Bailey’s people are already creeping in.”

The line goes dead, and I toss my phone back onto the nightstand before rolling onto my back and pushing the covers down. “You heard the man. Everybody up.”

Groans come from Flint and Pen, but they drag themselves out of Pen’s large bed. Pen stumbles toward her dresser, while Flint shuffles out to the hall and across to his room, with Anny trotting at his side.

The clock on the nightstand says we haven’t been asleep for more than a couple of hours, and weariness fills me. Killers rarely escalate this quickly, but this isn’t our average, run-of-the-mill criminal. This is officially a serial killer, and they’re moving fast.

With a last, long blink of my gritty eyes, I roll out of bed and head back to my room to get dressed. Once I’m in motion, the fog of sleep dissipates quickly from my mind, and I pull on slacks and a dress shirt, then join Flint in the bathroom at one of the two sinks.

For a cabin custom-built by the Cleaners, it has distressingly few options for bathrooms, unless someone wants to go down to the one in the garage, which is freezing this time of year. Thankfully, we’d all showered last night, and after a quick brush of my teeth and scrape of the razor across my jaw, I’m ready to go.

Pen passes me on my way out and her way in. Her eyes are still half closed, and her short, ash blond hair lays in entangles around her shoulders. When she shuffles over to Flint’s side to lean against him, he gently directs her to the open sink.

She’s going to need a lot of coffee before her brain kicks into gear. When I first moved in with them, it surprised me to learn how slow Pen is to wake up.

She’d always struck me as someone who would be a morning person, alert from the moment she opened her eyes. It’s kind of endearing how rumpled she looks with her cargo pants only half buttoned and the fitted black thermal shirt she wears twisted and rucked up at the back.

While they finish, I head to the kitchen and press the start button on the coffee machine. There may be a murder scene waiting for us, but there’s no way we’re heading out without fueling up first.

While the machine works, I pop English muffins into the toaster and scramble some eggs, throwing them into the microwave. It’s not ideal, but it will have to do until we can get something better later.

By the time Flint and Pen join me in the kitchen, I have our to-go cups ready with breakfast sandwiches wrapped in paper towels sitting on top. Pen’s hair had been tamed into two French braids and her clothing straightened, likely thanks to Flint, since she still looks half asleep.

Nose twitching, she tucks her sandwich into the large pocket on her pant leg and grabs her coffee cup, lifting it to her lips and chugging. She doesn’t even flinch at the scalding liquid. Within seconds, her mug is drained, and she pops off the lid to thrust the cup back at me.

I refill it with the last of what remains in the carafe. “Savor this one, because it’s the last you’ll get until after we finish with the crime scene.”

My warning receives a grunt before her lips lock onto the cup once more.

Flint does the work of steering her to the basement stairs, Anny racing down ahead of them. Going to the closet, I grab my holster and badge before pulling on my coat to cover my gun.

A minute later, I follow them down to the garage to find Flint behind the wheel of Pen’s sedan, and her slumped against the passenger door. Anny sits on top of Pen, but she doesn’t fight it. Her closed eyes and slack mouth say she’s already fallen back to sleep.

Icy wind blows in through the open garage door, showing a world still dark outside. The snow hadn’t lasted long, and the roads are now bare. In a few more weeks, it will be spring, but winter hasn’t given up its hold yet.

I lift a hand to Flint as I stride past and slide into my company car. Slapping my phone into the holder on the dash, I pull up the address, then back out and head up the steep driveway that runs along the side of the cabin.

At the top, I idle until Flint’s headlights appear in my rear-view mirror, then continue forward, hitting the button for the gate that blocks access to our home when I’m within range.

The wrought-iron gate rolls backward out of the way, and I cruise past. Flint sticks tight to my bumper to make it through without having to open it a second time.

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