The Lion and the Artist

by Veronica Sommers

  I slide out of the door, pulling my huge canvas tote with me. Inside is a large sketchpad, a pencil case, a few personal items, my new phone, and a set of men's clothes—a simple pair of workout shorts and a T-shirt, wrapped inside a jacket of mine.

  I saunter toward the front doors of the building, trying to look nonchalant. The day is hot—barely a breeze stirring the trees—and the singing of insects thrums incessantly through the forest and in the bushes clustering around the animal pens.

  The building has a wooden facade at the front, probably intended to make it look more rustically attractive—but the extensions jutting out from it are plainly clad in dingy yellow siding.

  My soles crunch across the gravel and I wince a little at the rubbing sensation across my toes. Today is the first time I've worn shoes in a while. I bandaged my burned feet more thickly this morning and put on a pair of extra-large boots to ensure enough space for the wrappings. The discomfort is there, but bearable. I can do this.

  Hitching the tote higher on my shoulder, I pull open the squeaky door, expecting a cold blast of air conditioning. But it's not much cooler than outside. A rotating tabletop fan on the big front desk passes over me, sending my hair up in a cloud around my head.

  No one is at the desk, so I sidle up to it and peer at the papers scattered across its surface. There's a computer, too, and a badge with a lanyard curled carelessly on top of a manila folder. The badge looks like plain cardstock in a sleeve, not like an electronic access badge. Maybe this place doesn't have that kind of money. Maybe they use keys and padlocks for the cages—or worse—keypads. I'll have to find out which it is.

  I reach out and tap the bell on the edge of the desk.

  A few seconds pass, and then a plump woman shuffles from a back hallway. "Hello there. How can I help you?"

  "I'm Roberta Reed." I use my middle name, just in case. "Are you Hannah?"

  "Yeah."

  "We spoke on the phone—I asked if I could come by and sketch some of the animals for my graphic design project?"

  "Oh yeah. You know, when I mentioned our chat to my boss, he was kinda confused." She cocks her head. "He said UNC hasn't started classes yet."

  "Yes, that's right. This is a personal project of mine. I might be able to use it for class as well, but right now it's just practice and reference for me." I give her what I hope is a disarming smile. "I won't get in the way. Just an hour to do some sketches—that's all I ask."

  "Hm. Well, I suppose it's all right. You did drive all the way out here. Paul and Billy-Joe are busy with the owls right now, but you can sketch any of the animals along the main hall or in the back pens. No touching though. And don't try to make friends. Some of these critters haven't had the best experiences with people, and I don't want you rilin' 'em up."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Come on, then."

  She scrawls "Visitor" on a white label and hands in to me, so I press the sticker to my chest. I follow her down a narrow hallway into the depths of the building.

  "Sorry about the heat," she says, puffing. "We can't keep it too cold in here or some of 'em get shivery."

  "Of course."

  She points into a room filled with terrariums. "You interested in lizards? Snakes?"

  "Maybe later—do you have any larger animals?"

  "We got a beaver right now. A bobcat. Oh, and we just got in a big guy yesterday—a mountain lion. He's a little jumpy though. Not sure how he'd do with visitors."

  "Oh, but that would be so amazing if I could sketch it—him. Can we just take a peek? Maybe he won't mind me being there."

  "I guess it wouldn't hurt." There's an eagerness to Hannah's smile—she's excited to show off their latest acquisition. "I can't tell you how we got this guy, because it's related to a police investigation." She says the last two words with extra emphasis, her eyebrows raised. "It's quite the story. Quite the story indeed. And he's a beauty. Come on."

  "Is it safe?" I ask. "I mean, he's locked up, right? He can't get out?"

  "Oh sure. Big cat like him, we always put on a chain."

  Damn. I watched some YouTube videos about lockpicking last night, and I picked up a couple tools when I bought the boots—but I'm definitely not sure about my skills.

  Hannah pushes through another door, holding it for me, and we move into another, hotter hallway. One side is open to a series of large cages that jut out into the morning air. In the first cage is the bobcat, lying on its side and blinking at us reproachfully, its bandaged leg stretched out stiffly. In the third cage, a huge, sand-colored, feline shape lies against the metal bars, its face turned toward the woods.

  "There he is." Hannah points. "I've never seen one so big."

  My eyes flicker over the cage door, noting the massive sliding latch and the two thick chains. But the chains aren't clasped with padlocks—they're secured with huge metal carabiners. I nearly laugh with relief. I wonder why Oakland didn't let himself out at night—but maybe he couldn't fit that muscled arm of his through the narrow gaps between the bars. Or maybe he didn't want to risking transforming and being caught by a night guard. I'm sure they must have one here, even if their other security arrangements are lacking.

  "He's beautiful," I say softly.

  At the sound of my voice, the mountain lion's head whips around, and two emerald eyes lock with mine.

  "I don't think I'm disturbing him," I say in measured tones. "If he stays calm, may I sit here and sketch a while?"

  "Sure." Hannah nods. "Take your time. I'll come back and check on you in a bit. You stay long enough and maybe you can observe when we tranq him."

  "Tranq him?"

  "Yeah, we're gonna do a full workup on him when Doc gets in. Gotta check this big boy out, make sure he's healthy."

  "You don't get animals like this here often, I'm guessing?" I ask.

  "Nope. The bobcat's the biggest we've had. Well, and an injured buck, one time. But no predators this big." She leans against the cage, apparently settling in for a chat. "I did work with big cats years ago, at a zoo in Ohio. Got to see the lions mating one time."

  "Oh—um, was that—interesting?"

  "Oh yeah. Happens fast though—blink and you'll miss it. The male kinda holds down the female, and she's yowling and screeching—she doesn't like it one bit. Those big cats—lions, tigers, panthers—they got barbed penises, all of 'em. So it's painful for the females. Procreation's a bitch, amiright?"

  "I guess so." I force an awkward laugh. "May I sit here?" I gesture to a metal folding chair standing against the wall.

  "Sure." She pushes herself away from the bars. "You get comfortable. Want some water or anything?"

  "No, I'm good." I unfold the chair and sit, pulling out my sketch pad and pencils. "Thank you so much for this."

  "No problem, honey. I'll be back soon. Just come tell me if he starts to get worked up."

  She shuffles back down the hallway, and the door closes behind her.

  -12-

  Ready For It?

  I spring out of the chair instantly and rush to the cage, gripping the first carabiner and pressing my thumb on it, hard, until I can work it free of the chain. The mountain lion rises and paces to the door.

  "Oakland?" I whisper, even though I know it's him. I'd know those eyes anywhere.

  He chuffs and bobs his head, smushing his face against the bars.

  "I know. I'm hurrying." The second carabiner is being a bitch. It's jammed or something. I angle my body so my left hand can help my right, and I finally pop it free. Now it's just the sliding latch.

  I dash back to my tote bag and retrieve the shorts and T-shirt. Poking them through the bars, I snap, "Quick! Shift and put those on."

  His shape quivers and turns transparent briefly before solidifying into broad tanned shoulders, firm chest, rippling abs, and strong thighs flanking a patch of curly dark hair and a package that I'd very much like delivered to my apartment. He pulls on the shorts swiftly, and I force myself to refocus on the sliding latch. The cage
door whines as it swings open, and I cringe.

  "Hurry! Someone might have heard that."

  Oakland tugs on the shirt. "Shoes?" he asks, brows raised.

  "Damn it! I forgot to bring you shoes."

  "No problem—I'll just walk out of here barefoot. That won't look suspicious at all."

  "Shut up." I struggle to stuff the sketchpad and pencils back into my tote with my one good arm, until Oakland reaches around me and stretches the mouth of the bag so I can slide everything in.

  "Is there a back door?" I whisper.

  He nods, pointing to the end of the hall. "Down there. But I think the two men are out there right now. They'll see us."

  "Crap." I chew my lip. "Okay, let's do this—you duck into one of the other rooms, and I'll distract Hannah. Then, while I've got her occupied, you slip out the front door and go to my car. It's the Hyundai. Here." I shove the keys into his palm.

  "Marilyn, I—"

  "Just shut up and do it okay? We'll talk later."

  I place a hand against his broad back and shove him in front of me, toward the door that leads back into the main part of the building. Sweat seeps along the back of my neck, under my hair, and trickles along the groove between my breasts. Once we're through the door, I push Oakland into the reptile room and hurry ahead to the front office.

  "Hannah?" I say sweetly. "I'm sorry, but could I get some of that water after all? I'm feeling a little faint."

  "Sure honey. It's in the break room. We got some snacks in there too, if you need somethin' to eat."

  "Would you mind showing me where?"

  "Yep." She heaves herself out of the chair. "Right over here." She motions, and I follow her through a doorway into a room with a couple of battered tables, a humming refrigerator, and a crusty-looking microwave. A basket on one of the tables holds a few packaged snacks. Hannah rummages through them. "I try to keep these stocked, but the boys are always eatin' the good ones before visitors can get to 'em. Not that we get many visitors here." She chuckles. "You like pretzels?"

  "Sure." I accept the package of pretzels and the water bottle she digs out of the fridge. "So tell me again which zoo you worked at before?"

  I chat with her for about five minutes before I say, "Well, I'm feeling better, but I think maybe I should head home."

  "But you didn't get to sketch very much," says Hannah.

  "I know, but I think I need to rest. May I come back some other day?"

  "Sure, honey! Be glad to have your sweet face around this place. Gets boring, you know." She glances at my sling. "I meant to ask—how'd you get hurt?"

  "Bike accident," I say.

  She raises her eyebrows. "Motorcycle?"

  "No, regular bike."

  "Good, good. Motorcycles are death-traps on wheels if you ask me."

  "Oh, yes," I agree, nodding and backing toward the door. "Well, it was so nice meeting you and talking to you."

  "You too—what did you say your name was again? Rhoda?"

  I sidestep the question. "I'll be in touch. Thanks again!"

  I hurry out the front door and climb into my car, scooping up the keys from the driver's seat. I glance into the back seat. Oakland's large frame is scrunched into the space. "Go," he says, so I start the car and drive away from the Bertram Wildlife Rescue center.

  Once we're clear of the place, Oakland clambers into the front seat, striking my temple with his elbow. "Ow!"

  "Sorry." He settles in and buckles the seatbelt. "I have to say—this is an unexpected rescue."

  "What happened?" I say shortly. "Did your job for Emily go wrong?"

  "Very wrong." He sighs. "They had more night guards and higher security than we thought. I almost got caught in human form—which would have been a disaster—a trial, prison, and all that. But I was able to change in time, and they sent me there." He jerks his chin over his shoulder, in the direction of the wildlife center.

  "You're lucky I saw the news headline and put two and two together," I say. "Otherwise you might have been tranquilized and prodded and poked by the vet."

  "Probably." He grimaces. "I would have figured out a way to escape sooner or later, though."

  "Maybe not before they drew your blood and figured out there was something weird about you." I don't like that he's brushing off my successful rescue. He's making it sound as if he didn't even need me. "I saved you, Oakland Ashton. Deal with it."

  "That's one, then. You've got to save me twice more."

  "Are you planning to be in danger again anytime soon?"

  "Well, there's the danger from Emily," he says ruefully. "She would have left me to rot at the wildlife center, but once she hears that I've mysteriously disappeared from their custody, she'll be looking for me."

  "So she knows where you live."

  "Yes. I'd probably be safe at my parents' house—there are wards and protections to keep unwanted wielders away. But they live hours away, up in the mountains. And school is starting soon—it's a hell of a mess." He rubs the back of his neck. "I'm not sure what to do."

  "Hey, Oakland, where is Laura?"

  "Oh, she's at Rathton College. Well, not yet, but she's enrolled there for this fall. Right now she's out in some cabin with a tutor, learning to control her magic. They gave her this suppression charm she can wear, to prevent the fire-starting deal whenever she's not practicing."

  "You just left her there? Alone? With some stranger?" I glance at him, frowning.

  "No," he says indignantly. "I stayed for a few days to make sure she was okay. And it's not just some stranger—it's Mrs. Thessaly. She's an admissions facilitator for the college. I met her when I toured Rathton, summer before my senior year in high school. You don't need to worry—she's used to dealing with cases just like Laura's."

  "You almost went to this Rathton College?"

  "Yeah. They weren't too keen on having shifters in the program though." He snorts. "Wielder elitists. But you should have seen Thessaly's eyes light up when I told her what Laura can do."

  I remember Emily's eyes, the greed in them when she spoke to Oakland of how badly she needed him. If this Thessaly woman has the same possessive attitude about people with powers, she might be more dangerous to Laura than Oakland thinks.

  "But they're going to help her, right? Train her, not just use her?" I ask.

  "I think so. I hope so. But I didn't have much of a choice, Marilyn. The girl's a mess. That one fire she sparked killed three people, you know. She's a wreck about it. When we met up on the road, I took her way out in this empty field so we could talk, and I brought a couple fire extinguishers just in case. Good thing, too, because she started crying her eyes out, just sobbing, almost screaming, and she set a fence on fire. A whole section of the thing just burst into flames. Took me forever to get it put out and calm her down."

  "So you calmed her down?" I keep my tone measured and even.

  "I tried to. I guess it worked, mostly. She didn't set any more fires while we were traveling together—at least not that we knew of."

  They traveled together. Spent the night along the road, probably—maybe shared a room. Considering my brush-off at the hospital, Oakland would have considered himself a free man, of course—and knowing his appetite for beautiful women, and Laura's attraction to him, I'm sure they slept together. My fingers tighten on the steering wheel.

  Oakland's warm palm curves over my right hand. "Why don't you pull over and let me drive, so you don't have to do it one-handed?"

  "I'm perfectly capable of driving one-handed."

  "I didn't say you weren't."

  "Thanks for helping Laura."

  "Of course—she's a friend. I care about her."

  "Of course you do." I let a little acid leak into my tone.

  "Ah. So that's what this is. You're jealous?"

  I pinch my lips together and refuse to answer.

  Oakland removes his hand and crosses his arms. "You have no right to be jealous, Marilyn. You told me you didn't want to be involved with me, with
all of this. I respected that. And you should respect my right to move on."

  "So you've moved on?" I laugh derisively. "You want me for a year, and then in a week you're over it? Wow, Laura's vagina must have magical powers."

  "I didn't sleep with her."

  I'm breathing too fast, too hard. "You didn't?"

  "No."

  "Why not? She's pretty. She likes you. Getting laid would probably relieve some of her stress."

  "Oh, she wanted to. But I told her, very gently, that girls tend to experience very strong—um, feelings—when they're with me, and I said that I didn't want her to accidentally burn down the motel. So we—we—cuddled—instead."

  "Cuddled?" I glance at him again. His cheeks are red. "Cuddling is almost worse. Did you kiss her?"

  He groans. "Why are you interrogating me?"

  "Because—she's my friend, and because—I want to know."

  "She kissed me before I left her at the cabin with Thessaly."

  "Seriously?" The word escapes as a squeal. "She probably thinks you're in love with her now!"

  "I never said anything of the kind."

  "This is what you do, though. You make girls fall for you, and then you leave. You leave. You walk out. Without even fighting for it—without even trying to make it work—without calling or texting or—" I'm almost crying, and I hate it. I hate it.

  "Marilyn," he says gently. "Pull over. Please pull over."

  With another squeal of frustration I wrench the steering wheel, and the car grinds to a halt on the bumpy shoulder. We're on a desolate stretch of road, rimmed with trees. The pavement and grass are spattered with dark green shadows. I push the car into park.

  "I didn't call or text you because you told me you didn't want this." His deep voice ripples through my skin, right into my bones. I shiver and look away, out the window.

  "Hey." He takes my chin and turns my face back to him. I blink away tears, staring into those jewel-green eyes, wondering what he'll say next.

  And he says, "Let me drive."

  "Fine. Bastard." I reach across my sling-wrapped left arm and open the car door. He's out of his seat and around the car before I can manage to get myself out.