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Lycan Packs 1: Lycan Instinct
Brandi Broughton © 2006
www.cobblestone‐press.com
Lycan Packs 1: Lycan Instinct
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.
Lycan Packs 1: Lycan Instinct
Copyright© 2006 Brandi Broughton
ISBN: 1‐60088‐006‐1
Cover Artist: Cris Griffin
Editor: Roseann Armstrong
Excerpt from Breaking in Levi by Ann Cory
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in
print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in
reviews.
Cobblestone Press, LLC
www.cobblestone‐press.com
Brandi Broughton
Dedication
First, to my parents, who taught me to dream big, love strong, and live life to the
fullest. I’m eternally grateful. I love you. To my husband, who lets me hog the computer
and overlooks my faults. Thanks for being my hero, lover, and friend. To my son, you
are my heart. Words can never express how much I love you both.
To my writing buddies: Jackie, who found the picture that inspired me to write
the Lycan Packs trilogy, I owe ya, girl! Leanne and the DARN IT ladies—past and
present—thanks for all of the chats, ideas, advice, support, and your invaluable
friendship. Raq, give that husband of yours a huge hug for me, for putting up with all
of my crazy questions and for sharing his law enforcement expertise. Tammy, what can
I say? Thank you for sharing the journey and loving my characters as much as I do.
To Mark Donahue of Chicago’s Fraternal Order of Police. Thank you for fixing
all of my goofs regarding CPD procedures and hierarchy. (Any mistakes that remain
are entirely my own.)
To my editor, Roseann, thanks for putting up with my stubbornness. To Sable
and Deanna, thanks for believing in me. And to Cris G. for her artistic talent—you
amaze me!
Finally to my siblings and friends—you know who you are—to list everyone
who played a role in making this story what it is today would require its own full‐
length book. So suffice it to say, thank you all.
Lycan Packs 1: Lycan Instinct
“One owes respect to the living;
but to the dead one owes nothing but the truth.”
Voltaire
Chapter One
Some philosopher once said death is peaceful. What the hell did he know?
There was nothing peaceful about the body lying at Mackenzie Lyons’ feet.
Tragic. Gory. Even terrifying. Those words fit the crime scene perfectly.
“The perimeter is secured, Detective,” a man’s voice said, interrupting her
thoughts. “Coroner and forensics are on their way.”
One look at his ashen face and she decided not to bother correcting his
terminology. Only a rookie would call the Chicago Medical Examiner a coroner.
“Thanks, Officer...” She read the nametag on the man’s starched and perfectly creased
uniform. “...Baker. Who found the body?”
Staring at the victim’s tattered flesh, she tensed against the shudder that raced up
her spine. She dug her hands deeper into jacket pockets and blamed the chill on the
autumn wind.
“A woman flagged me down. I called it in.” Baker avoided looking at the corpse.
His back was ramrod straight, eyes forward, but his breathing was too shallow. Beads
of perspiration dotted his pale face. Probably his first dead body, although he hadn’t
tossed up his last meal all over her crime scene. That alone was worth a point or two in
his favor.
He aimed a thumb at the building to his left. “She said she was climbing down
the fire escape and stumbled over the deceased. I think she’s a prostitute trying to avoid
the manager of this joint.” He paused, seemed to catch himself. “I stashed her in the
back of my patrol car. She’s not too happy about it, but I figured you’d want to talk to
her.”
Brandi Broughton
Yep, a rookie. A little uncertain, but good instinct. He’d get used to seeing death;
learn to deal with it as she had, if he lasted on the force. When overwhelmed, fall back
on training. But he’d never forget, never lose feeling something for the victim or his
family. Not if he was a good cop.
“You’re right. I’ll take her statement after the ME arrives,” she said, purposefully
using the standard abbreviation for the medical examiner. “Until then, keep her inside
and away from any media that may show up.”
“What...what do you think did that?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out.” Mackenzie looked at the body again. Male
victim, older, his hair matted and gray with dark red, almost black, stains. Although he
was bloodied, there wasn’t much blood around him. None splattered on the stone wall
of the nearest building or pooled under the body. He lay curled, in a fetal position.
“Was this the way he was when you arrived? Did you or anybody touch him?”
Baker’s gulp was audible. “No. I mean, yes, he was like that. It was obvious he
was dead. I didn’t touch him. No need to check his pulse.”
The officer drew himself up straighter, forcing Mackenzie to tilt her head back
farther to look him in the eye.
“I thought it was more important to clear the scene and call it in.”
“Okay, thanks.” Using a rubber band, she yanked her shoulder‐length hair back
into a haphazard ponytail and then snapped on some latex gloves. She wouldn’t touch
the body either, at least not until after crime scene photos were taken. “Keep the alley
clear.”
Baker gave her a crisp nod, spun militarily on his heels, and left her alone with
the corpse. She dropped to one knee to study the condition of the man’s face and torso.
They couldn’t use his face to identify him, not enough of it left. No wallet. No
clothes at all. For now, John Doe was just another crime statistic for Chicago’s
Southside, but he wasn’t your average victim.
He was no casualty of a drive‐by shooting or typical mugging, and he didn’t
commit suicide. Such deaths offered signs easily recognizable to most law enforcement
officers, even one new to homicide investigation, like Mackenzie.
“Shit. Somebody made mincemeat out of this guy, didn’t they?”
She rose to face Pete Tancock. His skin was pale, but not from seeing the results
of a grizzly death. He spent most of his time in labs with dead people. She couldn’t
recall ever seeing the nocturnal medical examiner in the sunshine.
“You have a talent for the understated, Tancock.”
“I do my best.” His grin beamed lightning quick, and he tugged her ponytail
playfully. He stood a few inches taller than her five‐foot‐five‐inch frame and several
inches wider around the middle. Working with the dead made for a healthy appetite in
Pete’s case, despite his wife’s efforts to keep him on a perpetual diet.
“Victim’s ID unknown,” she said. “Prints possible. Dental, too.”
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