Though what he’d wanted to do was feast.
That thought erased the smirk.
“You’d better not be smiling.” The Chief Superintendent stalked around the corner of his desk, his tall, lanky frame as stiff as a two-by-four. “The only possible saving grace for you in all of this is that the suspect seems to be quite mad. He’s been raving on about your eyes changing color and your teeth being sharp like an animal’s.” He shook his head. “I won’t be surprised if the tox screen comes back showing he’s high on something.”
Sully remained silent. He could guarantee forensics would show the suspect was high. Sully had smelled it on him. The Chief was right in one thing. It definitely worked in his favor if people thought the rapist was a strung-out lunatic.
Because everyone knew that werewolves weren’t real.
He clenched his jaw so hard it cracked.
“What’s gotten into you?” Glace crossed his arms, drumming the fingers of one hand against the opposite elbow. “You’ve been back from your holiday for two days, acting like a lion with a thorn in its paw.”
Make that a wolf, and he’d be half right—though the thorn wasn’t in his paw.
Which was why he was so surly.
“Sir—”
“Save it.” Glace walked around his desk and sat down, tipping his chair back. The slight squeak as he rocked back and forth grated on Sully’s already tightly drawn nerves. The Chief sat forward and rested his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers. His graying eyebrows beetled. “At this moment, Detective Chief Inspector Sullivan, you are on an extended personal leave of absence.”
“Leave of absence!” Sully scowled. “I don’t need a bloody leave—”
“Yes. You do.” Glace eyed Sully. “I could make it something of a more official nature, though I’d prefer not to have that sort of thing on your record.” He watched Sully, and when he didn’t respond, Glace went on. “Turn in your badge and car keys. You’re to conduct no official police business during your leave. You may keep your weapon.” He put the tip of his index finger on his desk blotter, pointing to the spot where the badge was to be placed.
Sully ground his jaw but did as directed. He yanked his badge off his belt and tossed it onto the blotter. Taking the car keys from his pocket, he plunked them onto the desk as well.
“Whatever’s eating at you, Sullivan, I suggest you deal with it while an investigation into this”—Glace waved one long-fingered hand—“distasteful situation is conducted. And hope that, because of the suspect’s unhinged behavior, police brutality charges aren’t brought against you.”
Sully repressed the urge to snarl. “Maybe I’ll go on another holiday.”
The Chief opened the top drawer of his desk and scooped Sully’s life into it. “Good idea. You do that. And get your head screwed on straight while you’re at it.” He closed the drawer and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “You’re a good policeman, Sullivan. A good man. I’d hate to see your career go arse over elbow.”
Sully nodded, the only thing he could manage at the moment. When Glace gave a wave of dismissal, Sully turned and strode out of the office.
By the time he got to his desk the rage had returned. He wanted to hit something. Someone. He wanted to run until he couldn’t run anymore.
What he didn’t want to do was talk to Declan, the sodding prat who’d gotten him into this mess. That Irish devil was a bastard of the first degree. Declan was a dirty, rotten son of a bitch who’d let him get involved in something dark and dangerous without giving him all the facts. As far as Sully was concerned, it was Declan’s fault he would turn furry once a month, starting…
He glanced at his desk calendar. Starting in two fucking weeks. Though he’d felt an urge to shift a couple of times already, he’d have no choice of it during the full moon.
Damn Declan. He was…
Sully scrubbed his hand against the back of his neck. Damn it. Whatever else he was, Declan was his friend. And one of two people who could help him through this.
“So?” Lindstrom leaned forward in his chair at the desk next to Sully’s. “What did the old man have to say?”
Sully brushed the edge of his suit coat aside to show where his badge would normally be clipped to his belt.
“Damn.” Lindstrom’s pale gaze met his. “I really was hoping he wouldn’t go that route.”
Sully sighed and sat down in his chair. Lindstrom was not only a good cop, he was a good friend. A good partner. “He really had no other choice, did he?” Sully stared at the top of his desk for a moment, gut churning with regret, frustration, and restrained rage. Biting back a curse, he pushed to his feet with enough force to send his chair rolling back to thud against the desk behind him.
“Oi!” The detective behind the desk looked up with a frown. “Watch what you’re about, Sully.”
“Sorry,” Sully muttered. He shoved his right hand into the front pocket of his trousers. He looked at Lindstrom. “I have to get out of here.” He couldn’t stand the thought of heading back to his terrace house or, God forbid, home to the family estate in Suffolk—it would send him ’round the bend if he had to go stare at four walls or pretend to his mother that he was fine.
He was far from fine. He’d never been further from being fine. He was about as fucked up as a man could get.
And, as much as he hated to admit it, he needed Declan’s help.
“I’ll probably be headed to the States for a bit.” He straightened a stack of folders on his desk and then met Lindstrom’s gaze. “Sorry to do this to you.”
Their caseload was horrendous, and the last thing the detective constable needed was to have to take the load by himself. But there was nothing Sully could do about that. He needed to get his head on straight and come to terms with this new twist in his reality.
“Don’t worry about it, mate. We’ll manage.” Lindstrom gave a slight smile. “You take care of yourself.”
Sully nodded. He said his good-byes and left the building, stopping for a moment on the pavement to stare at the New Scotland Yard sign. This was his job, his life, and he was damn well going to fight to keep it. Up to this point his record was impeccable, so he didn’t think the review would cause him to lose his job, though the timing of his next promotion would probably be affected.
To sit at home and wallow wasn’t in his nature. There was something he could do, as much as he might be reluctant to ask for help. Scowling, he yanked his mobile phone from its holder on his belt and punched in Declan’s number. As soon as Declan’s sleepy voice came on the line, Sully muttered, “I need your help, you son of a bitch.”
“Do you have any concept of time zones at all, boyo?”
Over the phone line Sully could hear the rustle of bed linens and pictured Declan rolling over to look at the clock. He glanced at his wristwatch and did the math. It was only three in the morning in Arizona where Declan was. Tough shit.
“I nearly bit the head off a suspect today. Literally.” Sully hailed a cab. As he climbed into the backseat of the black Austin, he switched the phone to his left ear and pulled the door shut. “Lyall Mews, Belgravia,” he said to the cabbie. The car pulled away from the curb, and Sully turned his attention back to the phone. “I’ve just returned from holiday only to be this close”—he measured a small space between thumb and forefinger—“to being suspended, you bastard.” He settled back against the car seat cushions.
“How exactly is that my fault?” Declan’s voice was heavy with sleepy irritation, which thickened his Irish brogue.