Whatever for Hire

by RJ Blain

  I snorted. Armed and somewhat dangerous, I returned to my place behind the wheel. Malcolm gave up his act and watched me with open curiosity.

  “Any habits I should know about, Mr. Stewart?”

  “I get mean without coffee, I like beer, but none of that American swill they try to pass off as beer. I also eat a lot.”

  “You’d have to. Couldn’t keep those nice muscles otherwise.”

  “There’s going to be a manhunt for me.”

  “I know.”

  “I could help you get off lightly. Minimum charges.”

  “No can do.”

  “Why not?”

  “I like breathing.” I spoke the truth, too. The devil didn’t like it when people tried to screw him over. “I accepted the job, so I’m going to do it. You’re going to cooperate. I’m sorry about that. The not having a choice part that is.”

  “You realize I’m going to fight you every step of the way, right?”

  I got back on the road and headed west. “I figured that out the moment I saw the picture of you and those kittens. Men who go into burning buildings to save kittens and puppies tend to be stubborn.”

  “I prefer courageous, steadfast, and heroic.”

  I preferred naked and on the bottom. In what had to classify as a miracle of the highest order, I didn’t blurt that out. “Give me an idea of how screwed I am.”

  Oops. Fortunately for me, he had no idea that was a slip of the worst—and best—sort.

  “In those shorts? Pull over and find out.”

  Or maybe he did. I flushed and added sex-deprived womanizer to my list of Malcolm’s characteristics as a bonus entry on my growing list of regrets. Why hadn’t I tried to sleep with him before starting my brand-new career as a kidnapper?

  “I’m not sleeping with you, Scottish sex god or not. So, cut the innuendo. I’m not selling you into a sex-trafficking ring, either. And you know what? Just be quiet. I’m not interested.”

  I’d never told a worse lie in my life.

  Chapter Seven

  Liar, liar pants on became rather literal, much to my dismay. The cause of the accident remained a mystery. One minute I was minding my own business, carting Malcolm towards the west coast. The next, the damned SUV burned in a ditch, my backside roasting. To add to my woes, Malcolm was gone.

  Had I ordered him out of the vehicle? I hoped so. With him out of the car, I could worry about my immediate problems.

  The SUV was on fire, and I was stuck upside down in it. The seatbelt cut across my chest, my face throbbed, probably from a hard collision with the airbag. Next time someone sang the praises of airbags, I’d agree, but I’d also point out the damned things were torture devices.

  The rental company wouldn’t be happy with me when I informed them about their SUV.

  I shook my head, hissing at the intensifying heat. Worrying about my car woes would have to wait until I escaped. The first thing I needed to do was unbuckle my seat belt.

  The strap hadn’t caught fire, but it had gotten so hot it gave at my touch, scalding my fingertips. The plastic oozed, jamming the mechanism securing my belt. I took the hint; if I didn’t get out fast, the damned thing would become a flaming restraint. I didn’t need a lesson on what would happen next; I’d catch a serious case of dead.

  Car fires happened, and I’d seen enough pictures of them to understand what I faced. Flesh didn’t stand a chance in an inferno capable of melting plastic and metal.

  My first instinct was to shift, but I feared panic shifting wouldn’t help. Half the time it didn’t. Logically, I understood my best chance was to stay human and wiggle out.

  My body hadn’t gotten the memo. Feathers and fur burned really well, but my sex kitten claws could do what my burnt fingertips couldn’t. I clawed at the belt, put my inhuman strength to work, and tore through the torched material. I dropped, smacking into the SUV’s battered roof.

  I just loved when vehicles flipped. Air flowed through the broken windshield and fed the flames, but the gap left in the glass was too small for me to squeeze through. I checked the driver’s side door.

  It resembled a crunched soda can, which left me with the open passenger door. I twisted to crawl through the opening, made it a few inches, and came to a halt. I coughed at the smoke and lifted my arm to cover my mouth and nose, discovering the stench of charred fur made breathing even harder.

  First, I needed to escape. Then I could worry about my fur and feather problem.

  A moment later, it occurred to me my legs weren’t cooperating, and fear choked me even worse than the smoke. Through the gray haze filling the vehicle, I couldn’t tell if I was pinned from the crash or paralyzed.

  Either spelled death for me.

  Panic shifting seemed wiser compared to waiting for my death. I snapped to human form, and without the fur and my wings buffering me from the heat, the pain intensified.

  My new clothes also offered the flames a fresh source of fuel.

  I fell into a cycle of agony; first, the pain of shifting stabbed deep, then the flames burned me and undid the little healing transformation provided. Stubborn pride joined forces with my refusal to die from something so mundane, and I groped for the one form that might save my ass.

  When I finally exchanged hands for paws, the flames ate away at what remained of the vehicle, engulfing the passenger’s side completely and leaving me with the windshield as my only viable route of escape. I wormed through the broken glass, which melted from the heat. Every step hurt, and my body throbbed. Pain stabbed deep to my bones, and even the tip of my tufted tail hurt.

  The burning SUV offered plenty of light, illuminating the predawn gloom. Of Malcolm, I saw no sign. I limped to safety and turned, flinching as the fire consumed the vehicle. Mud filled the bottom of the ditch alongside the road, and I spotted tracks leading into the woods.

  Had Malcolm gone into the woods? If so, why?

  I gave the destroyed rental a look over, crawling forward enough to peek inside. Mud and water pooled on the roof, and I spotted the ruined leather of my wallet inside, still intact.

  I couldn’t afford to lose absolutely everything. Hissing my fury, I braved the flames to snag my wallet with a claw and drag it out so it wouldn’t be burned to ash. I’d have to carry the damned thing in my mouth, but it beat the alternative.

  A setback I could handle. Complete destruction of all of my plans, however, was a bit much even for me. Kissing most of my investment goodbye along with any chance of forcing Malcolm Findlay Stewart to cooperate with me, I grabbed my wallet with my teeth and picked it up.

  Gas, mud, and melted plastic tasted terrible.

  Shuddering, I turned away from the wreckage and followed the tracks into the forest at a slow, painful limp.

  The trail meandered through the woods, and I found Malcolm standing over a body with one of my guns, the Desert Eagle, in his hand. Had there been gunfire? I couldn’t remember hearing anything other than the roaring of the flames, the crack-pop of plastic bursting, and the hiss of melting metal plopping into the mud.

  Malcolm nudged the body with his toe. “Were you after me?”

  The body groaned.

  “Stop being a baby. I only hit you once. Well? Were you after me?”

  I took shelter in the shadow of a tree, my filthy wallet still in my mouth, and eavesdropped on the rather interesting one-sided conversation.

  Malcolm upgraded his nudging to a full kick, catching his victim in the ribs. “Next time, I kick below the belt. Who were you after?”

  The next time I needed a little encouragement during an interrogation, I’d have to ask Malcolm. His expression remained so cold and neutral I wondered if he cared if he killed the man at his feet.

  “Didn’t know there’d be anyone else in the car. Ordered to get rid of the cat bitch.”

  “Cat bitch?” Malcolm chuckled, and the sound terrified me. “How crude. Why?”

  “Don’t know. Ordered to kill her, so I did.”

  Snorting,
Malcolm shook his head. “The crash didn’t kill her. She’s unconscious, not dead.”

  “Is now. Did you think she’d be safe if you chased me? I’d already birthed the flames. You left her to burn to death, and she did. Guess it’s a les—”

  One bullet from my Desert Eagle put an end to the conversation. Magic could do a lot, but no one could survive a hole between the eyes.

  Then the dead man’s words filtered through the pain and shock. I could understand Malcolm being a target, but me? What the hell had I done to anyone to warrant an assassination?

  I thought about it, sitting back on my haunches so I’d put less weight on my burned and blistered paws.

  Being born counted as an offense, although my mother had solved her problems by shipping me to the United States. Had running away from my aunt’s plans to marry me into money been sufficient for her to hire someone to kill me? I doubted it; my aunt didn’t have a lot of money to waste, especially not on me.

  Over the years, I’d stolen a lot of things from a lot of people, including a few priceless family heirlooms.

  On second thought, it’d be easier to create a list of people I hadn’t annoyed into wanting me dead. It’d be shorter.

  A lot shorter.

  No wonder the devil kept bothering me. My name and good didn’t belong in the same sentence. My ethics stood on sandy shores, and a few nudges would knock it into the ocean. After I finished my obligation to the Lord of Lies, I’d take some time off and do a lot of thinking about the rest of my life.

  Then again, I had to survive the next half year before I worried about my current trajectory straight to hell.

  Since all clouds had a silver lining, I focused on the good news: I’d paid extra for full insurance on the rental, so I didn’t need to worry about the repair—well, replacement—bill.

  Malcolm straightened, inhaled, and spat curses, spinning on a heel and headed back to the trashed SUV. Flattening my ears, I waited for him to spot me.

  He didn’t.

  Following his own trail, Malcolm marched, lengthening his stride until he verged on breaking into a jog. It hurt to walk, and I had to stop every few steps to catch my breath. I considered leaving my foul-tasting wallet behind, but I soldiered on. The thought of being left behind—or losing Malcolm and completely botching my job—spurred me into an unsteady lope.

  The stench of scorched rubber and metal hung heavy in the air. At the tree line, Malcolm halted, his gaze locked on the wreckage. I stalked forward for a better look.

  Between the crash and the flames, the SUV had been reduced to a charred husk.

  “That mother fucking son of a bitch!”

  Heat flared from my bracelet, penetrating through my burnt fur deep to my bones, and the man’s rage strengthened with every passing moment. As a firefighter, I suspected he hated death from smoke and flame; the good ones did.

  I could ease his anger. It wouldn’t take much. I wobbled to him and dropped my wallet on his foot.

  It turned out white men really could jump; Malcolm defied gravity and landed several feet away in a crouch. The whites of his eyes showed, and he sucked in a breath.

  “You bitch!” Then he took a second look at me, his expression smoothed to an emotionless mask, and he rose to his feet, and closed the distance between us. “You’re burned.”

  Of course I was. I’d been burned, but I would live. I nodded, braced for the misery of transformation, and shifted, not caring which form I got.

  Nothing happened.

  Things had somehow gone from bad to worse, and I yowled my dismay for the world to hear.

  Malcolm was determined to wait for the police to show up, and since I couldn’t shift and order him to leave, I sulked in the deepest mud puddle I could find. Most cats hated water, but the muck soothed my burned pads and made the pain tolerable. From my spot, I got a good look inside my rental.

  Nothing inside remained, and I supposed it was for the best. With one look at the illegal merchandise I’d been carrying, the cops would have a field day. I’d have an unfortunate number of questions to answer and a lengthy stay in prison ahead of me.

  The only good news was the lack of evidence of my wrongdoing. Malcolm would obey me for at least another eighteen hours—maybe longer. As I couldn’t remember the crash, my phones were destroyed, and Malcolm wasn’t wearing a watch per my orders, I had no idea what time it was. The sun had risen, but it wasn’t noon yet.

  When the cops and firetruck finally showed up, Malcolm relaxed. Smiling, he waved down one of the firemen. “Samson!”

  “Oy, Malcolm. This ain’t your beaut. What’s goin’ on?” The firefighter slid down the muddy bank into the ditch, close enough to splash me with muck. I flattened my ears and hissed.

  Either Samson didn’t care he’d angered a lioness or hadn’t noticed me, but he strolled to Malcolm and they clasped hands. Malcolm’s smile widened into a grin. “Went on a ride with my new girlfriend and a pyro torched her rental. Possible ex-lover, as he really had it out for her.” The man pointed at me, and I didn’t like the glint in his eyes. “She’s been burned. She’s a shifter, and I think she’s hurt badly enough she can’t shift without help.”

  Samson frowned and twisted to look me over. “We’re not geared for lycanthropes.”

  “She’s not a lycanthrope. She’s an actual shifter.”

  I needed to take lessons from Malcolm on misleading people and lying. If he kept it up, he’d be the one with his pants on fire.

  “Huh. I never thought you’d get over Caitlin’s stunt. She’s a cat shifter? I guess that’s one way to do it. Is she a beast in bed?”

  With that one question, I remembered why I’d forgone men for the past few months. Inhaling, I roared at him for assuming girlfriend was another word for slut.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Malcolm replied, ignoring me. “We’re dating. That doesn’t mean we’re sleeping together.”

  Judging from his tone, he’d meant to include ‘yet’ in his statement.

  “What’s the point then?”

  If I killed Malcolm and his friend, would it count as a provoked murder? With over fifty thousand down the drain, jail didn’t seem like too bad of a deal. I’d be clothed, I’d have shelter, and I’d be fed healthy food three times a day without fail. Better yet, the devil wouldn’t be able to visit me.

  The good prisons had protections in place against teleportation of any sort.

  Yep, I regretted everything.

  “Samson, I’m in the middle of trying to skip town with her when I should be heading to work in a few hours. Can we get to filing the paperwork so I can get back to it? If possible, I’d like to keep this quiet. My plan is to take her to the hospital and resume skipping town.”

  “What about the pyro?”

  Malcolm shrugged. “Killed him. It was him or me, and after he tried to murder my girl, I wasn’t going to end up a victim, too. His body’s in the woods; he tried to run after he came to make sure he’d killed us. Shot him with my girl’s gun.”

  Calm as can be, Malcolm rooted through my wallet, pulling out permit after permit until locating the blue one for Tennessee. “She’s an enthusiast. Lost her two other guns in the fire, unfortunately. I took this one since it was in reach. I couldn’t get her out, not with a pyro on the loose. He tried to light me up.”

  One of the cops slid down the bank to join us, regarding the torched SUV with a frown. “Self-defense, open and close case. You’re cursed, Mal. We already called for an ambulance, but it’ll be twenty minutes until it can get here. Why don’t you show us the body while we’re waiting. You can tell me more about your lady, too.”

  “Her name’s Kanika, and she’s a queen of Egypt.”

  Next time I gave the man orders, I’d make sure I gave him a very short leash—or better instructions. Damn it, I only had myself to blame for the man’s words, and I hated it.

  “Pretty?” the cop asked, and his interest in my fake relationship with Malcolm unsettled me.

 
“Too strong to be pretty.” Malcolm smirked and headed for the trees, leaving me behind and taking my wallet with him. “She has legs worth risking death over, though. They’re about a mile long and curved in all the right places.”

  What a pig. Next time, I would remember innuendo didn’t cover all things sexual.

  “Oh-ho! Better than Caitlin’s?” Samson crowed, hurrying to follow.

  “So much better. I can understand why a pyro would burn with jealousy. There’s no describing what she can do a mere man like myself. Anyway, the body’s this way, but he may have smoldered by now. You know how it goes with pyros.”

  “Sure do,” the cop replied. “Hey, Carlos! Keep an eye on his girl, would you?”

  One of the firemen looking over my rental sighed and shook his head. “You three gossip worse than girls.”

  I had the feeling truer words had never been spoken.

  It occurred to me we should’ve been far from where Malcolm worked or volunteered, yet he seemed to know everyone. The ambulance arrived shortly before the trio returned from their hike in the woods, and they confirmed my would-be killer’s body had smoldered to ash.

  Maybe Malcolm would be able to offer the paramedics a clue; neither knew what to do with me, and they argued over how to treat my burns without catching lycanthropy. Malcolm ran his hand through his hair and scratched the back of his head. “Why not take her to the hospital?”

  “We don’t treat pets,” the younger one snapped.

  Burned paws or not, when I got a hold of him, I’d leave him a few reminders that I was not pet. Teeth bared and hissing, I lunged for the paramedic. Malcolm caught me around my belly and hauled me back with a grunt. Since I couldn’t hurt him without defeating my purpose, I roared and thrashed, careful to keep my claws sheathed.

  “She’s not a pet.”

  “Looks like a cat, sounds like a cat, that means she is—”

  Rage blazed through me. If I couldn’t rip the paramedic to shreds as a feline, I’d get satisfaction through any means possible. I exchanged charred fur for raw, red, and blistered skin. Malcolm’s hold on me turned an already painful transformation into agony, and my fury extinguished under the onslaught of pain.