Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing about this story...the writing is all L.L. Raand's and the Characters are all from various television shows (South of Nowhere, The O.C., Orange is the New Black, Lost Girl, The Fosters, and The L Word) Credit goes completely to all listed above


"Dr. Carlin?" The ER charge nurse knocked softly on Spencer's call room door. "Are you awake?"

"Yes," Spencer replied gruffly. They'd cleared the board of patients shortly after four a.m. and she'd retreated to her on-call room. She didn't expect to sleep, but she needed the solitude to sort through her riotous feelings. She couldn't get the episode with Ashley Davies out of her mind. Whenever she recalled the ferocious way Ashley had attacked Kyla's wound, as if she could defeat the injury through sheer force of will, Spencer shuddered with excitement. She understood the physiology of an adrenaline high—she'd experienced it frequently after an intense life-and-death struggle. And those few moments in that cubicle surrounded by the unbridled aggression of the Weres, particularly the Were Alpha, had been some of the most exhilarating moments of her life. What she couldn't so easily explain was how sexually aroused the episode had left her.

Hours later, the image of Ashley's eyes glowing wolf-gold and the gleam of lethal canines against her sensuous lips made Spencer's clit quicken. Lying alone in the dark, she couldn't deny her arousal and she couldn't pretend ignorance of the source. Ashley Davies fascinated her—beautiful, powerful, viciously aggressive, exquisitely tender. Spencer shifted restlessly, so agitated even her skin was hypersensitive.

"Spencer?" the nurse asked again.

Spencer bolted upright. God, she needed to get control of herself. "Yes. I'm sorry. I'm coming." Running her hands quickly through her hair and checking to be sure that her scrub shirt was tucked into her jeans, she pulled open the door. "Problem?"

Sasha Miller glanced worriedly down the hall. "A Detective Foster is asking for you. I told her you weren't available, but she insisted on speaking to you now. Said it couldn't wait until end of shift. I'm sorry."

"That's all right," Spencer said. "Where is she? I'll talk to her."

"I put her in the private waiting room."

"Okay. If you need me, come and get me." Spencer stopped in the small kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee, then walked to the far end of the L-shaped ER to the family consultation room. It was nothing more than an exam room that had been converted, by adding a round table and a few chairs, into a place where staff could speak with families of seriously ill patients. The walls were still institutional gray, the floors a nondescript patterned tile, the lights inset square fluorescents. Harsh, bare, and barren. Definitely not a warm and cheery place. The woman waiting for her looked right at home. Her face—though flawlessly featured with delicately arched brown brows over midnight eyes, narrow nose, and elegantly refined bones—appeared as cold and emotionless as a magnificently carved marble statue.

"Spencer Carlin," Spencer said, extending her hand. "I'm one of the ER attendings."

"Detective Stef Foster," the woman said, rising to return the handshake. She was dressed in tight, tailored black pants that shimmered with some kind of metallic thread woven into the fabric, a body-hugging dark silk shirt, and black leather blazer. A round gold shield glinted at her narrow waist. Her fingers were long, strong, and cool.

"Coffee?" Spencer lifted an eyebrow toward the cup she held in her hand. "I have to say, it's pretty bad."

"No, thank you."

Spencer pulled out a straight-backed plain wooden chair and sat down across from the detective. She spoke to hundreds of people every week and considered herself very good at reading nonverbal cues. She couldn't get a thing from this woman who sat absolutely still, appraising her. She might have been looking at a painting. She sipped her coffee and waited.

"I'm investigating a report of a stabbing in Washington Park around ten p.m. last evening," the detective finally said. "I understand you treated a girl for a stab wound about that time."

"Your information isn't quite correct, Detective," Spencer replied, thinking furiously. She hadn't filled out any paperwork because she hadn't actually treated Kyla. She wasn't certain why the police were involved, but instinctively, she wanted to protect not only Kyla, but Ashley Davies. The reaction didn't make any sense, but she trusted her gut feelings. "I did not treat anyone with a stab wound earlier. What's this all about?"

The detective leaned forward, resting her arms on the table and folding her hands. Her voice was perfectly modulated, calm, and seemingly unperturbed. "What's your relationship with Ashley Davies?"

"I'm sorry. If I had a relationship with Ms. Davies, I don't think it would be anyone's business. But I'm afraid I don't know her."

"You're not acquainted?"

"Not personally, no."

Detective Foster pushed a folded newspaper that had been lying next to her right arm across the table. With one efficient flip of her finger, she opened it to the front page. "This says otherwise."

The photo above the fold on the front page of the Sacramento Observer, the local version of the National Enquirer, showed Kyla lying on a stretcher in the examining room with Spencer holding her down. In profile, Ashley Davies, with canines gleaming, snarled in rage at Spencer. The headline in 50-point block letters read: WERE COUNCILOR LOSES COOL—ANIMAL REGULATION, NOT RIGHTS?

"Jesus," Spencer muttered.

"Would you like to amend your story?" the detective asked in her preternaturally calm voice. Preternaturally calm.

Classically beautiful. Emotionally enigmatic. Cool. Literally.

Spencer took her time studying the detective, who stared back at her with a faint smile, her eyes fathomless obsidian pools. Finally, Spencer said, "Foster. You hear that name in the news a lot these days. I don't suppose by any wild chance you're related to…"

"Councilor Frank Foster is my father," Stef said.

Frank Foster was the U.S. Special Councilor on Vampire Affairs. Ashley Davies's counterpart in the Praetern Coalition.

"Does that make you a friend or foe?" Spencer asked, nodding to the newspaper.

"That makes me a detective. Did the girl have Were fever?"

Spencer glanced at her watch. 5:50. The sun was up. She didn't know this detective and had no reason to trust her, but she couldn't control her automatic surge of concern. "Shouldn't you…uh…be somewhere safer?"

Detective Foster smiled, a full smile that turned her from simply beautiful into breathtakingly spectacular. "I'm not dead, Dr. Carlin. Exposure to direct sunlight gives me a headache and occasionally makes me nauseous. But it doesn't kill me within a matter of minutes. It won't—not until I animate."

"So you're—forgive me if I use the wrong term—a living Vampire?"

"We prefer the term pre-animate, but basically, yes." Stef tapped the newspaper. "The adolescent in the photograph. She's a Were, correct?"

"Yes," Spencer said. "Look, I really didn't treat her. I don't know what's wrong with her."

"Have you seen any other adolescents with Were fever within the last few months?"

"No. You should know as well as I they rarely seek emergency care."

"These wouldn't be Weres," Stef said, with the first sign of emotion flashing in her eyes. "These would be humans."