Cursed: A Book Bite (Book Bites)

by H. D. Gordon

  They even seem to have charisma on their side; shifters of all types tend to be charming and able to adapt in social settings, which made it either highly beneficial or equally dangerous to get close with them in any capacity.

  Flora and I catch looks from several of the males as we continue toward the Quarter Moon—a bar owned, operated, and patriated by mostly wolves.

  I can’t help but feel like a doe that has wandered a touch too deeply into the glen. I’m acutely aware of the tightness of my black jeans and shirt—the way they hug the curves of my body.

  I second-guess my decision to come here.

  But I look over at Flora, and she is calm and collected, as usual. I draw from that strength as I keep my shoulders square and my face unconcerned. I may look weak, but I am not. I have my magic. And I am damn good at wielding it.

  Music pulses from inside the Quarter Moon as we approach, an upbeat, popular song that keeps playing on the radio, one that makes you want to move. The building front resembles a large log cabin, the enormous deck out back already reasonably full with people, drinks in hand, standing in clusters, some dancing while others are chatting and laughing.

  Another thing about the wolves; they knew how to party.

  There is no line to get in, but there are groups of people standing outside the bar, already getting rowdy and metaphorically howling at the moon. There is, however, an enormous wolf checking I.D.’s. Being a couple years past the 30-year mark, I hope that he’ll ask for mine.

  Since when had the hope flipped from “Please don’t spot my fake,” to “You better ask to see my identification, son...?”

  Good lord, was this what it was like to get old?

  I shake that question away. That was some society-created bullshit for your ass. Thirty-two was fuckin’ young. Hell, so was forty and fifty. People were living to be one hundred nowadays.

  The enormous bouncer gives our I.D.’s a thorough examination and hands them back to us. He jerks his chin toward the entrance. “Have a good time, ladies,” he says with a smirk.

  I wonder if he can smell the tinge of fear that surely underlines our scents, but put it out of my mind as we enter a dark, loud, and hopping barroom positively full of drinking wolves.

  The lights are low, the ceilings high with wooden rafters from which hang dimly glowing fairy lights. Cool air pushes out of vents and falls just short of balancing the heat of the bodies stuffed into the place.

  I lead Flora over to the bar, not knowing what else to do as I don’t see Milo anywhere. Was this really the best location in which to hold a fight-the-system meeting…? If that’s even what this meeting was?

  When I reach the bar in the center of the room I see there are three bartenders whirling around the island that is the space behind the bar. A mountain of various alcohols sits in the middle of the space, and taps run along the diameter. Two females and one male, they move as if in coordination, a dance of flipping bottles, making change, and pulling taps. The movement is constant, and one of the females is standing before me with a questioning look on her face before I can even blink.

  I look at Flora, who orders a beer, and I request a water for myself. The drinks are there in a few heartbeats and the bartender has moved onto another customer with the same swiftness as she’d arrived.

  “You made it,” says a familiar voice right beside my ear.

  I jump with surprise, then smile. I don’t even mean to; the expression just forms on my lips. My cheeks heat as I turn and look up into Milo’s hazel eyes.

  He takes a small step back, giving me space, and I have to resist the urge to lean forward. Good Goddess, he smells good. Like the forest after a fresh rainfall. He’s wearing a gray button-down shirt that fits him well enough that his strong physic is visible beneath. His slacks are a darker gray, a black belt cinched at his trim waist. His teeth are beautiful, straight and white as he smiles at me.

  I observe all this in the space between fluttered heartbeats.

  For his part, Milo does not run his eyes over the length of me. His gaze stays locked on mine, and something behind it tells me that he is not just any wolf shifter.

  Milo is an alpha.

  One need not be a wolf to see that.

  The prospect both excites and terrifies me. I remind myself that I am not here on a date, despite Flora’s earlier rib, but rather, a mission.

  He greets my sister and then looks back at me, jerking his chin toward the east side of the bar. “Come on,” he says. “We were just about to start.”

  We follow him to a stairwell that is manned by two wolves as large as the one stationed at the front door. Milo nods to them as he passes, telling them that Flora and I are with him.

  My sister and I exchange the briefest of looks. Then we follow him down to a closed door, where yet another guard is stationed.

  But this one is not a wolf.

  This one is a warlock.

  One I have met once before. In my bedroom.

  Alexandre Antonio Alabaster.

  “Triple A!” I say, and then feel like a dork for the exclamation.

  The warlock smirks. “Double M,” he replies. He nods at my sister. Then purses his lips and looks at me. “So it seems that all we had to do to get you to come was send the pretty one to get you.”

  Now I’m sure my cheeks are flaring. I am going to throw some retort at him when Milo clears his throat.

  “Be nice, Alex,” Milo says, and moves past him, nodding me and Flora along. “And stop calling me pretty.”

  Alex snorts and smirks as we go by, shutting the door behind us and following us in. I watch as he casts a spell around the door, sealing us in.

  Flora and I both open our mouths at the same time, but Alex holds up a hand.

  “Relax,” he says as he strolls by. “It’s for your protection, not your entrapment.”

  That does little to comfort me, but now I am moving deeper into the large space, which is quiet despite the ruckus taking place upstairs.

  Three of the four walls are made entirely of glass, and the dark water of the Delaware River laps about midway up. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I take in the amount of magic that surrounds this place.

  Before I can observe much else, a deep voice says, “Welcome, and thank you all for coming.”

  A lump forms in my throat as I recognize the speaker.

  Akim Algernon, the future alpha and head of the Philadelphia wolf pack.

  13

  10:30 p.m.

  Akim Algernon.

  I’ve never met him in person, but a supe from Philly would truly have to live in a bubble in order not to know of him.

  The thing is, the wolves have taken the brunt of the human public backlash since the world found out about supernaturals. It doesn’t help that the media keeps portraying them as violent, mindless beasts, drumming up a general sense of fear among the humans.

  In fact, wolf shifters have been in the news constantly, and the female standing beside Akim is no exception. Several months back, she’d been caught on a convenience store camera using her supernatural speed and strength. No matter that she was using those abilities to stop an armed gunman from robbing a convenience store. No matter that she’d risked her own life to help the man who’d ultimately turned the footage over to the media and outed her true identity to everyone.

  There wasn’t a soul in Philly who didn’t know the name Harper Beauregard. I remember the how bad I’d felt for her when I saw the story on the local evening news. To have everyone know your most intimate secret—a secret that made you a target of hate groups—seemed to me like a violation of basic privacy.

  In the months since, hundreds of pictures of Harper had been posted to social media, and in many of them, Akim Algernon had been by her side, so the popular theory is that the two are mates. Another popular narrative is that Akim is next in line to be alpha to the Philadelphia Pack’s throne.

  I feel a little guilty as I realize how much I know about the two wolves, and
not by any choice of their own. Was this really the world we lived in now?

  Ever since the Big Reveal, sometimes things seemed to be moving so fast that I could barely keep my head from spinning.

  The urge to run out of here comes over me, a strike to the gut, but some other part of me knows this is the right thing to do.

  And there’s the matter of that magical barrier blocking the door.

  “All right, everyone,” says Harper Beauregard. “Find something comfortable to sit on and let’s get down to it.”

  There are maybe thirty people in the room, mostly wolves, but a few other races as well. There is a fae couple, their features soft and lovely, skin as smooth as silk. They wear a glamour that conceals their true selves, but I am a witch, and as such was kissed at birth by the Goddess’s Blessing, which grants me True Sight and Blessed Being.

  So I know the fae for what they are. Masters at deception and bartering, their skin has an alluring glow, the approximation of an aura. Their hair is long, past their waists, flowing and braided, with fluffy, colorful feathers tucked in at various places.

  When you look at them with the glamour, their appearances are as vanilla human as can be. Sensible haircuts, jeans and t-shirts, walkable shoes, tightlipped smiles.

  They offer a friendly nod as Flora and I claim two of the several wooden chairs that are placed about the room. Like the bar above, the space is arranged with all the chairs facing toward a central point.

  This way everyone present can look at each other. We can all see each other’s eyes and faces. The chairs, I notice, are also all identical, none more ornate than the other.

  Most of the wolves are standing together, and I notice that one of them is very upset, simply fraught with tears. I look away quickly, the way one does when they see someone crying in public.

  Along with the wolves and fae, there is also three demons, two angels, a human, and—curiously—a vampire.

  My heart quickens at the sight of him, my mind reeling back to this morning, right before Edmond Harvey Jackson’s death, less than twenty-four hours ago.

  Goddess, a lifetime could happen in a day.

  And on any given day, at that.

  The vampire sits terribly still, like a statue, posture perfect. He is wearing all black, but his clothes are not torn and dirty the way many of the vamps in the city are from living mostly in the sewers. His are clearly expensive, well-fitting, almost professional.

  He is also handsome. Despite the panic and racing heart the sight of him causes me, this is undeniable. His face is carved as if from stone by a master hand.

  As if he is reading my thoughts, his deep scarlet eyes flick to me.

  My breath catches in my throat. I thank the Goddess that I do not gasp.

  His gaze is intense, but not crazed in the way that all the other vampires I’ve come across in my lifetime are, which admittedly is mostly limited to those that inhabit the city. Instead, his countenance is that of a predator, yes, but also highly intelligent.

  I am thankful when Harper speaks again, breaking the trance that seems to have fallen over me and the vamp. I feel as though I can breathe again.

  I do not look over at him again. I am ashamed of it, as he has done nothing to threaten me, but I am scared of him. My still speeding heart and sweaty palms are evidence enough of that. And with the sensitive noses and ears in the room, I’m certain most every being here knows it, too.

  I am genuinely grateful that Harper Beauregard is so captivating as all the attention in the room goes to her. With long auburn hair and alabaster skin, it is her controlled, confident demeanor that makes her even more arresting. Her voice is strong and level as she gazes around the room; an alpha in her own right.

  “My name is Harper,” she says. “This is Akim. I know most of you, but some of you are new, and we’re glad you’re here.” She sighs, is silent for a moment. Then says, “As many of you already know, we lost another brother last night to senseless police violence… Edmond was a valued member of the Philly Pack, and we are devastated about his loss.”

  “They murdered my baby!” shouts the older female wolf that I noticed being upset earlier.

  My stomach flips over, churns.

  I realize who the crying wolf must be.

  Edmond Harvey Jackson’s mother.

  I am not a mother myself, but I’ve loved my two nieces like they were my own since the day they were brought into this world.

  My sister had been less than twenty when she’d had them, with a man that was good and loved my sister, but was also a hopeless alcoholic. He’d wrapped his car around a tree when Echo was only three months old, and Winter just over a year old, and ever since then, it has been the four of us.

  Along with my sister, I was the one who changed their diapers, woke up with them in the middle of the night, took them to doctor appointments and school activities. I didn’t plan to have kids of my own, because I knew firsthand how hard it was, and also because I could not imagine a bigger love than that I had for Winter and Echo. As far as motherly ambitions went, I had that in spades with the girls.

  All this is to say, that as I sit in this secret room with these various people, and watch the mother of Edmond Jackson cry, I do not care about the fact that she is a werewolf, or that her skin is darker than mine, or that she likely worships a different entity.

  All I see is a grieving mother.

  And it is, by far, worse than anything I’ve ever had to witness. It is as if each tear is a drop of blood from her veins.

  My heart lodges in my throat, the air in my lungs. Her grief is so strong it’s as though it is my own. I think of Edmond’s face, of the deep shade of brown that was his eyes. I remember the warmth, the strength of his arms as he’d scooped me up, carrying me away from the hungry vamps.

  Tears pour out over my cheeks as I sit there. I am not alone. The eyes of most everyone present are glossy now, red and moisture-rimmed.

  “He was only seventeen,” says Anita Jackson. “My baby was only seventeen. He was such a good, loving boy. He didn’t deserve to die. I just don’t understand why. Why did this have to happen?”

  More sobbing follows. I can barely stand it. I look at my sister through the blur of my tears. I see the answer written on her face.

  We both know what we must do.

  14

  10:45 p.m.

  My sister clears her throat beside me.

  With the sensitive ears in the room, everyone hears it, and all eyes swing to Flora. I see her swallow, but her shoulders are square, her voice smooth and reverent.

  She opens her mouth and looks at me.

  I nod, resolved.

  “My name is Flora Meadows, and this is my sister, Miracle… We’re, uh, witches. We live in Old City.”

  The room is silent, waiting to see where Flora goes. I swear I can hear my heart beating somewhere in my throat.

  Flora looks at Anita. Her face softens and crumples, one mother empathizing with another. “My sister was with Edmond when the police shot and killed him last evening… Your son, he…He saved her life.”

  Tears fill Flora’s eyes now, but she plunges onward in my stead. Speaking the words I dare not. I look down at my hands as tears fall from my chin to my shirt. I am embarrassed, ashamed, even, but I cannot help it.

  “She was on her way home, passing through the Red Zone, when she was attacked. Edmond carried her to safety.”

  The room falls into stunned silence.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt out. The words sound pathetic, but I say them anyway. “I’m so sorry.”

  I don’t know what reaction to expect. I certainly don’t anticipate it when Anita stands and approaches me, opening her arms. I can only stand and accept her embrace. I can only hold her as she sobs into my shoulder.

  “Of course he helped you,” Anita says as she pulls back and looks at me, tucking a lock of my blond hair behind my ear. “That was my Edmond. He would never turn his back on someone in trouble… Tell me, dear. Tell m
e what happened.”

  Flora opens her mouth to speak for me, but I tell her with a look that I will speak now.

  On the way here, we stopped in Center City and picked up a potion from Madame DéLa Rosa.

  My lips are free to tell Anita Jackson exactly what had happened to her son…

  But if I do, the Coven will know.

  I look at Anita, and the words exit my mouth before I can reconsider. I don’t regret speaking them. Not right at this moment. At this moment, all I can see is Anita Jackson’s eyes, the same deep brown as had been her son’s.

  I tell her about what happened as gently and truthfully as I can manage. It feels as though I am finally regurgitating something foul that I’ve eaten, spilling some poison I’d swallowed, setting myself free from one cage only to fly straight into another.

  To my astonishment, when I am done, Anita thanks me.

  I’ve never felt more unworthy of gratitude in my life.

  Anita Jackson takes her leave not too long after, ushered out of the room by two younger female wolves who share her facial features. Family, no doubt.

  “Those motherfuckers, man,” says another wolf as soon as the door is closed behind Anita Jackson and she has receded up the stairs. The wolf sits with her arms folded over her chest, and I realize she is the one who had been speaking to the crowd at the Market earlier today. She looks to Akim and Harper. “When will it stop?”

  “When we burn it all to the ground and rebuild it from the ashes,” says the vampire. “I’ve seen enough human history to know that… And, even so, it will regrow again in a new way eventually. This is simply its latest vessel.”

  There are nods of agreement. I wonder how old this self-contained vamp had to be, both to have seemingly gained control of his morality and physical composure, and to have witnessed the self-destructive nature of humans in its various formations over the years.

  He doesn’t look a day over twenty-five.

  He looks directly at me. I sit up a little straighter, forcing myself not to flinch under his scarlet gaze. “Mira Meadows, would you be willing to testify?” he asks.