by D. Fischer
Remote in hand, he taps it against the table, and the rest of the pack follows, swiveling in their seats to peer at their alpha. Behind them, large windows are evenly spaced along the stone walls. The view of the spacious back yard’s grass glitters the colors of a sunrise. The trees fencing the neatly trimmed lawn are every color of fall, and a gusty wind blows leaves free from the branches’ hold.
I look back to my beta, ignoring the urge to let my wolf run and play with the leaves. Instead, I focus on the nervous energy radiating through Rex down the pack’s link. Rex runs a tight ship. Fatherly, almost. For a beta, he’s an alpha’s dream. I’m surprised he’s nervous to tell me anything. That’s not like him.
Reese, a doctor and our pack healer, exits from inside the kitchen, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. She passes it to me while tucking a stray brown hair behind her ear, and I nod my thanks. My eyes roam over her hair, trying to discover what’s different about it but failing to figure it out. Maybe she cut it?
I purse my lips to keep my mouth shut. Women don’t like it when you can’t tell what’s different, and it’s better to remain silent on the matter. Through Allie, I’ve learned that the hard way. Of course, some are offended by that as well. Not saying anything at all about a change in appearance can do more damage than trying to guess. There truly is no winning for the male variety.
Reese is still in her scrubs, and contrary to popular belief, she doesn’t have the personality of the doctors seen on TV. She’s more mousey and tentative, and she spends her days delivering babies now instead of sewing up the injured. I suspect she’s had enough of battle wounds for a lifetime. Maybe even two.
Cradling the hot mug, I turn back to Rex then flick my eyes to the mute TV. “What is this?”
He rubs the back of his stubbly red hair. I frown, immediately zoning in on his nervous gesture. He’s typically bolder with his choice of words. Blunt and honest with a great sense of morals.
“They found a body.”
“Yeah?” I shift my weight from one foot to the other. The screen plays a video of the area and the rusted factories that almost reach the clouds. It’s not unusual for that part of town to have murders occur within them.
“And?” I question further and then blow at the steam rising from the rim.
He purses his lips, and his hand thuds back to the table’s surface in a business-like gesture. “Something’s wrong here, Jacob.”
And there he is, I think to myself. The fatherly Rex has finally arrived.
He’s been telling me for weeks that there’s something wrong with our city. Perhaps the world, if his paranoia eventually stretches that far. There’s been a spike in shifter murders, but to me, that doesn’t seem unusual for how many rogues are around these days.
I open my mouth to remind him that Evo will be appointing someone else to the task of our species epidemic, but Reese leans, whispering a further explanation. “Suspicious murder.”
“Is that so,” I say, blinking at the screen before they switch back to the anchors. “You’re thinking vampire?”
A vampire would be a more difficult situation. There are still some lurking after the war, stuck on this realm instead of the Death Realm. We’re to kill them on sight, but they’re harder to track.
“I’ve heard they’ve organized and become more civil since the Realms War. We haven’t had a problem with them in some time,” Trevor says. I blink at him then his twin, Travis. Their jet-black hair is spiked to its usual disarray, and if it weren’t for scent, I’d never be able to tell them apart. They hardly ever speak, preferring to listen and watch instead.
Rex shrugs, his muscles tense. “We don’t know.”
“All right then.” Propping against the entrance wall, I slurp a scolding sip and grimace as it burns a path down my throat. “Let’s hear it.”
“Well . . .” Rex taps his foot impatiently as though trying to categorize his thoughts as quickly as he can. I cock my head to the side, waiting.
“His head was almost severed,” Cinder blurts. I move my attention to Cinderson whose blond hair is purposely disheveled to fall over the bridge of his nose. He whips it to the side, and I raise an eyebrow at his interruption.
Cinder’s a rude shit, and if he wasn’t so damn funny, I would have shoved him to a new pack by now. If it wasn’t for his dead sister … But, as a bar owner for the only creature bar in town, he’s connected to other packs in ways that most aren’t. Even covens whose witches frequent the bar. His charming personality and good looks generally get him everything he wants.
“By what? Axe? Dagger?” I ask, skepticism dripping in my tone. Neither are common weapons. Not on this realm.
Rex licks his bottom lip, worry lines wrinkling his forehead. “Neither. They think someone’s fighting dog preyed upon the man.”
I chuff for the second time in less than ten minutes. Dogfighting pits are a disgrace to our species, and it really is too early for this kind of news. I’m beginning to think it’s not a vampire attack. Vampires care more about blood than the actual flesh. They’d never be so messy in their feedings while they try to remain hidden.
“And how did you learn of this?” I ask.
Cinder tents his fingers together. “I was working at my bar last night when a call came in. The bar isn’t far from the crime scene. The Cloven Pack dude, Evo or whatever, tipped me off. He said he tried calling you but there was no answer.”
I suck on my teeth guiltily, having left my cell phone in the office last night. By the time I realized I didn’t have it in my pocket, I was already halfway to my room. In my exhaustion, I had figured if there were a true emergency, Rex would wake me.
Cinder digs into his pocket, pulls out my phone, and tosses it to me. I catch it easily and lay it softly on the table. I’m not surprised Cinder knows the details before the gossip could be dripped to the public like a leaking faucet.
Reese disappears inside the kitchen, returns with a fresh blueberry muffin, and sets it on the table for me. I sit, placing my cup of coffee in the middle, and run a hand down my face.
“Anything else from Evo?”
“Brenna says hi,” Cinder adds after a few seconds of silence, and Reese sniffles behind me. Any mention of the Cloven Pack members reminds Reese of Irene who used to be a wolf in my pack before she found her mate in the Cloven Pack. She was Reese’s best friend and died when Flint did. Before the Realms War, when one mate died, it tugged the other to the Death Realm right along with them.
“She’s pregnant, by the way,” Cinder adds, crossing his arms and tilting back his chair. “Two or three months from delivery or something like that.”
“So I’ve heard,” I mumble and bite into the sugary top of my muffin. That pack has been through hell and back. A little good news has been heavily celebrated amongst their dwindling numbers.
I contemplate Rex over the rim of my mug, then Cinder. “All right. Since you both seem the most intrigued by it, I’ll leave it up to the two of you to find the information we need. I want to know who and what killed this one and why it was done in the manner it was.”
“I’m opening and closing the bar tonight,” Cinder says in the way of ‘I can’t.’
I sip my coffee and eye him narrowly.
He licks his lips. “But I’ll ask around while I’m there. See if anyone knows anything about throat eating beasts.”
They may not be able to find the answers, but at least it will keep them busy for a while. They clearly suspect there’s something more here. Me? I’m just tired of looking for trouble.
CHAPTER TWO
Jinx Whitethorn
The darkness fades, and my vision returns with sporadic, spotty yellow lights. It’s like I’ve been rubbing my eyes too hard for several seconds with the ache to prove it.
In front of me, short and tall liquor bottles line several wood shelves with a square, streak-free mirror at the center. The bottles sparkle in the dim spotlights, and my sensitive eyes pick up shimmering rainbows that flo
w with an array of colors I can’t name. I can smell the liquid in the bottles and the quick sting or slick syrupy aroma.
The ringing in my ears fades, and I quickly pick up subtle sounds of my surroundings – a fly buzzes by my head, the ice maker hum, and the tick of the clock crookedly hanging over the front door. It’s a place I recognize, and I release a slight breath of relief.
This is how it always is – unconsciousness, yet clearly, I’m not because I wake in a completely different area than where I had blacked out.
The first few times it happened, I was unsettled and scared. And every time I black out during the fight for my life, I miraculously survive.
Once, the very first time, I had woken in the passenger seat of a moving truck driven by a farmer making his way down the highway. I had screamed and was crippled with fear, afraid I had been kidnapped with no memories to prove otherwise. The driver swerved the car, the tires squealed, and the cab vibrated when he pulled to the gravel on the side of the road, demanding I get out. He thought I was crazy. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s right.
However, when it happens now, it’s not as big of a deal. I’m still surprised I’m breathing, but it’s a far cry from previous experiences. I don’t wake scared because, on some level, I’m aware of what’s happened even before I fully wake. I’ve grown accustomed to my problem – my illness – and it’s easier to mask when I come around. It comes in handy if I have an audience.
I had asked my mother, a witch of the Lotus Coven, about it. A worried look had graced her face surrounded by tall plants in the coven’s garden. “Darling, you’re fine,” she had reassured me.
But I knew better. I saw her staring as I bent to help her gather fallen mint leaves. She thought I wasn’t looking, that I couldn’t feel her watching me with a nervous sort of energy. Still, she didn’t relent with whatever suspicions she had. Besides not being able to cast a single spell myself, whatever is wrong with me is beyond abnormal. I’m a broken witch.
As if just noticing, I grip the cool dewy glass I hold, my fingers firmly wrapped around the base. A sip-worth of golden liquid is all that’s left. The rest of it had already been consumed if the burn of my throat and the fire in my belly is anything to go by.
Maybe I should call her and press on the matter. Perhaps telling her about being hunted is the daughterly thing to do, but I don’t want to bother her. I’ve made it clear that it’s time for me to find my way in this world, and since I can’t produce a single spell, I’m of no use to the coven. I’m determined to find out who I am without them.
The glass and my wrist are rested against a newly refinished, slick bar top, and I contemplate grabbing the nearby napkins to wipe it away.
My mother raised me on her own with the help of the other women in the coven. Witches never know our biological fathers. It’s not our way to take on a relationship, nor marry them. In fact, it’s discouraged and usually punishable. The only thing I know about my birth father is his last name because my mother had let me keep it.
She and the Lotus Coven are the only family I’ve ever known, and now, I feel as different to them as a human would. Maybe that’s what I am. Just human. Or maybe I don’t fit anywhere.
A sense of calm overcomes my unease as I inspect the bar then the ceiling where, on the second floor, my apartment is. This is home – my home. Well . . . my commandeered home. A place I feel safe. Four walls where I’m not considered a freak of nature. An abominable beast.
How I got here tonight, I have no idea. I must have made my way and settled on a stool for a drink.
What happened tonight? Where did my hunter go? And how am I still alive? Is today even today anymore?
I glance at the digital calendar by the clock above the door and internally shrink. Almost a whole day has passed, the clock about to strike four. What the hell have I done all day?
A throat clears, snapping me from my thoughts. I flinch in surprise while the bar owner comes from inside the bar’s kitchenette, double doors rudely swinging.
“I’ll have another, Cinderson.”
The blond-haired, tall man picks up a wet glass, snaps a towel from his shoulder, and dries it behind the bar. Finally, he lifts his eyes, quirking a brow behind the hair fallen from its usual, albeit disheveled, swept to the side position.
“How many times do I have to tell you it's Cinder?” he corrects. “And that would be your fourth, Jinx. Free, might I add, because you’ve never handed me a dime.”
Be Deviled Bar is Cinder’s pride and joy. He owns and runs it by himself, and occasionally, I help behind the bar in the evenings so he can go home to his pack, wherever or whoever his pack is. I’ve never met any of them, and Cinder is the only shifter I call a friend, although sometimes I wonder if he expects more than friendship.
Once. Once we had sex in the apartment upstairs before it became my home. In my defense – or our defense – we were extremely intoxicated with itches to scratch. I think it meant more to him than it did to me, though, because that sparkle of anticipation in his eyes has only increased over the weeks since. The next day, I had moved into the unfurnished apartment, fixed it up, and claimed it as my new home. Cinder was paralyzed. Probably horrified, too. Maybe even a little turned on.
I twist my lips at the very vague memory of our sexual encounter. It was good – more than good – but I don’t want more from Cinder than what we have now. He’s my friend, and I don’t want to tarnish the friendship more than we already have.
I don’t help him serve the customers because he asks. He's never asked. I do it because I owe him. I feel terrible about not having any money to pay for my own drinks, let alone the apartment upstairs. And he’s graciously not asked me to leave.
I stretch my arms to the sides. They tingle at the joints. “Just pour me another.”
He cocks his head and slaps the damp towel across his shoulder. For a bartender, he’s muscular, and the towel molds to him like silk against a wet body. He’s attractive, I’ll give him that. I can see why the ladies love him.
“You better slow down. You came here in a daze, little girl –”
“Jinx,” I correct with a growl.
He continues as though I didn’t say a word. “Confused almost. If I had to guess, I’d say my bar isn’t the only bar you’ve been at today. Do you know it’s only four o’clock? And though you seem to be coming out of your drooling stupor, that alcohol will hit you like a ton of bricks in a few minutes if you don’t slow down.”
I gulp, forcing my mind not to wonder where I’ve unconsciously been. “How many times are you going to father me?”
“Until you hear me.”
I roll my eyes pettily. In his opinion, I must seem like a bum, desperate for direction and lonely beyond all reason. He may be onto something there. I stroll in here, dazed, downing scotch like it’s water, and yet, he’s kind, if not playfully snooty.
Since I met him, he’s been careful not to pry, but I can tell his patience is coming to an end. I insist on being friends but refuse to share information that normal friends would. I’m a witch without magic. Naturally, he’s curious, and according to him, I smell funky, like my scent is off. I had tried not to let that get to me when he first announced it, but I’ve come to realize it’s not a bad scent. After all, we did sleep together. Who would sleep with a smelly person when the bar is full of other women to choose from?
Even if he had questions he voiced aloud instead of the constant quirked eyebrow, I wouldn’t have answers to give him. No one has given me any to give.
“Where is everyone?” I ask, realizing the bar is empty.
He shrugs. “Probably avoiding your stench. Didn’t you wear that yesterday? When is the last time you showered?”
I glance at the mirror beside the shelves of liquor, my view partially obscured by Cinder’s broad shoulder. He sighs, pivots, and lifts a bottle of sparkling gold liquor from its throne.
My jeans and black short-sleeve shirt are stiff with salty dried sweat, and my s
ocks feel like they're swimming in my twenty-dollar tennis shoes.
“Are you going to share?” he asks.
I scowl, keeping my eyes on myself. “Share what? The tequila?”
He grabs the glass from my now limp grip. “No, not the liquor. I don’t need the alcohol, but you seem to. Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you? Why you reek and,” he leans across the bar, sniffs, and sneers. “Is that blood, too?”
And there it is.
I ignore him for now, continuing to stare at myself, hoping my eyes hold the key to the answers I seek. If he can smell blood, then I must have continued to fight off my attacker last night. Perhaps I knocked him unconscious. Who the hell knows these days? I never see the same attacker more than once. The only thing that’s the same is the tribal welt.
There is a long line of answers I’m bound to never get.
I’ve been told I’m pretty, but I don’t see it. It’s clear that I have a Native American background by looks and by last name, neither from my mother’s side. She’s of pale skin and dark chocolate, greying hair. Her youthful hair color is that of my own, but it’s a trait normally seen by my father’s heritage as well.
In the mirror, I see a lost woman. Lost. Confused. Maybe even sick. My mind drifts. That’s what I feel like I am: sick. I have no other explanation for the memory loss and blackouts, and I don’t have buckets of money for medical help. Besides, I can’t just stroll into any normal doctor. They’d test my blood, and with my witchy heritage, they’re bound to find anomalies. I have a friend, a fellow witch, Sara, to keep me company, but still, the loneliness clings uncomfortably like a wet shirt.
I’m alone, so if I die, it’s not like it’d matter. The ‘ninjas of the night’, or whoever is after my ass, would return to their rabbit hole, too. There would be nothing left to chase but bones. Unless I’m not the only one they’re after.
