See, Dodge McCoy was a ghost from the late nineteenth century. He was born in the slums of New York City, died there when he was younger than Colt was now, and he’d been haunting Colt his entire life.
On the eve of Dodge’s hundredth death-iversary, Colt had the bad luck to be born to Terrence and Sarah Wolfe in a Para hospital close to where Dodge was lurking. Most phantoms had already found their anchor by their deadline but, for some reason, Dodge waited until the very last second to imprint on the newborn pup.
Initially, he haunted Colt because it was the only way to extend his life force. Sometime in the last twenty-six years, the smartass ghost had become more than an annoyance.
He was family.
Dodge knew Colt better than anyone except for Maddox; after his brother’s three-year stint in the Cage, Colt was willing to bet that Dodge might have even edged Mad out by now.
For a hot second, Colt wondered if he could hide his discovery from the ghost. And it was only a hot second because the instant Dodge glanced away from the television to greet Colt, his electric blue eyes—the only spot of color remaining on the faded specter—had widened, his lips curved, and Dodge tilted his trademark derby hat back so that he could get a better look at the panting, wound-up shifter.
He’d smirked, offering a quick, “Congratulations, pal.”
So of course Colt had snapped back, “Fuck you,” though his words lacked heat. Since he’d already decided there was no way in hell he was filling Maddox in on his predicament while Evangeline was still missing, it was kind of nice that he could share his bafflement with Dodge since hiding it was out of the question now.
Like Colt, Dodge didn’t bother with women. He knew he had someone that he called his ‘key’ out there somewhere, like Colt was his ‘anchor’, but Dodge swore that he didn’t ever want to meet the dame.
Colt always figured it had something to do with the reason behind Dodge’s untimely death, but he never asked. Just like Dodge let it go all those times that Colt announced that he didn’t want to be tied down to a mate like his brother was.
Knowing Dodge would only pop out again when he was good and ready, Colt had sunk down on his couch, propping his still-broken ankle up so that it might start to heal faster. After Dodge shorted out the television with a burst of kinetic energy, Colt told his friend all about what had happened since he brought the Moonshadow dresser over to his client’s shop.
At one point, Dodge jerked his chin over at Colt. “Just askin’, but… you’re sure, ain’t ya?”
Colt wished he wasn’t.
There were a few ways a shifter could pick out his mate. Because mating, at its heart, was a biological imperative as much as it was a pleasurable act, Colt would know his mate because she would be the one woman who could incite his body to be prepared to mate in the first place. Besides a hard dick, though, a scent that spoke to a shifter’s beast was another huge clue.
That’s how Maddox recognized Evangeline as his. He’d been out for a run when he picked up on Evangeline’s scent and knew—just knew—that whoever owned that inherently vanilla scent was meant to be his mate.
He’d been right.
Shea didn’t have a strong scent. That… that annoyed Colt. The whole ride back to his Bumptown, he dwelled on that since it was better than the throb in his ankle and the ache in his cock.
Everyone should have a scent. Humans did, though they usually covered up their inherent weakness with perfumes and soaps. Nightwalkers and Dayborn vampires smelled like a mix of rotten meat, blood, and carnage. Witches and their cursed spells stunk like too much baby powder. Othersiders either gave off heat or ice, depending on their allegiance.
Okay, he allowed. Phantoms didn’t smell like anything—but Shea was very much alive.
No denying that.
His ankle still hurt like hell. Even so, Colt couldn’t sit on his ass any longer. As he got up again, beginning to pace, Dodge called out to him.
“Hey. Maybe it’s a good thing, Colt. You ever think of that?”
Dat.
As Colt turned on his heel, urging it to feel better, he noticed that Dodge was pronouncing some of his th sounds with a d. When Dodge got annoyed or excited, he tended to slip into his old New York accent.
“I don’t have time for a mate,” Colt said, glowering over at the ghost as he pivoted on his good ankle. “What about you? I don’t see you going out looking for your woman, huh?”
Dodge flickered, going from visible to gone in a flash. When he reappeared, his lips were a thin line. “No need. It’s too late for me. Even if I found my key after all this time, what will it buy me? Another coupla months? Might as well spend ‘em lookin’ at your ugly mug.”
Colt went motionless.
A snarl began to build in the back of his throat. See? Already he was so wrapped up in a virtual stranger that he opened his mouth and stuck his boot right inside of it when it came to his oldest—and, okay, only friend.
He knew that Dodge was running out of time. Phantoms had an expiration date, their second—and final—death. Dodge was quickly approaching his.
Did Colt really have to remind the guy?