Detective Quentin Lance Novels & Stories

With that, I looked at the other elders and said, "Just now I heard your concerns. I have a few points to say. First of all, I agree with Mr. Sidon's words that we cannot remain silent about this matter, whether it's for others or ourselves. Regarding the witnesses you mentioned, I think the strongest witness is Teresa. Kincaid told us where Teresa is being held. I think she will stand by us. In addition, I have another thing to tell you." I said calmly, "I realize what was going on after I listened to Kincaid's words. Just now, an elder said that Quintin had no reason to target at us. In fact, it was not. I am the Lycan he has been secretly searching for, and since I knew nothing at all abo

We were greeted by a tall man with dark gray hair and a scuff. "Actually, She's the detective." Chain explained. "Detective Mhorein Layla Agustin." I introduced myself. He led us to his office and offered us a seat. "Thank you, I want to talk to the suspects about the case of-" "Amy Marcus ... Yes we know. Wait for me here. I'll call them." He said and left us in the room. Within a few minutes he returned with a nurses and two patients. One is smiling and one looks really, really bad.

Arnold asked him and he shook his head sideways in negation. "No Alpha, we couldn't find their location no matter how hard we tried" He answered. "No information about them at all?" Arnold asked again and Zayn nodded his head once again. "We found no leads about them, but I will keep trying. The patrol omegas are still on the look out and I've also employed the help of detective Lance on the issue" He said and Arnold nodded and sighed. "You can leave" Zayn bowed and exited the office immediately. Detective Lance is one of the best detectives, infact, the best detective in New York city and he works undercover for the Moon Stone Pack, he is literally a werewolf, a member of the pack.

A voice from a lifetime ago, laced with a wry, cynical warmth I hadn't realized I’d missed. I turned. A man leaned against a vintage, well-kept motorcycle, his arms crossed. He was older, his hair more silver than black, lines etched deeply around his eyes and mouth, but the smirk was the same. Detective Lance Crowe, retired. The man who had investigated the Bianchi case, the one who had looked the other way because he believed, in his own gruff way, that I’d done the world a favor. We’d shared a charged, unacted-upon chemistry in the aftermath of the shooting, a "what if" that had been buried under the weight of my life with Arthur.