The Lion and the Artist

by Veronica Sommers

  We're an odd collection, the four of us. Vaughn, the naked bear shifter, squeezed into the back seat with my unconscious panther shifter boyfriend draped across his lap. In the passenger seat, Laura, my fire-wielder best friend, fiddling nervously with her suppression cuff. And in the driver's seat, me, the plain old human, still stunned. Still not sure that what just happened was actually real.

  But traffic laws are real. Driving a car is real—something I know how to do, something I can manage. I center myself in the mundane task of driving, focusing on it until I can form words.

  "You helped us," I say to Vaughn. "Thank you."

  "She cursed me so that I couldn't hurt her myself," he says. "But I could stand by and let you do it. And now I'm free. I should be the one thanking you—and you, too, fire-starter." He leans forward, speaking to Laura.

  She twists her hands together nervously. "No problem."

  "Hey, how did you learn to control your magic so fast?" I ask. "You just started training like, maybe a week ago, or less."

  "I haven't learned to control it, really," she says. "But I can focus it a bit better now. Thessaly told me to imagine that there's a circle around me, like a ring of influence—a radius that defines the reach of my magic. If I let it get too wide, too big, the magic is unfocused. And when I'm worked up, fire could start at any point along the rim of that radius. So what I have to do is mentally draw that circle inward, pull it closer to myself. When it's smaller, closer to me, I have better control of where the fire starts."

  "Looked like amazing control to me," I say, glancing over at her.

  She smiles faintly. "Sort of. But I started another fire on the steps and one in the room above us when I set Emily on fire. You just couldn't see those, so it looked like I knew what I was doing." She stares down at her hands, clutched in her lap.

  "Hey. Don't lessen what you did in there. You saved all of us. And I think you rid the world of a really horrible wielder bitch. I didn't want Oakland to kill her, back when I first encountered her—but after today, seeing what she could do—" I shake my head. "Someone that powerful and that evil needs to be locked up or dead, and since we couldn't lock her up—well—"

  I hate saying it aloud, that she's better dead. That the world is better off without her. I've always raged against the death penalty—it's too final, and leaves no room for error, or for change. Ending a life entirely is so horrible, so irreversible, that I've never been able to handle the thought. But now I wonder if there might be a few, a very few, exceptions to the rule.

  At the next stoplight, I glance over my right shoulder at Oakland. His slumped body covers Vaughn's privates. Still, seeing two muscled, naked males in the back seat is a shock to my hormones.

  "Um, how is he?" I murmur to Vaughn.

  "Fine."

  "And you—how are you?"

  "Fine."

  "Can we drop you off somewhere? I mean, after we get you something to wear, of course."

  "You can drop me anywhere."

  I frown into the rearview mirror. "But—don't you have a home? A place to stay?"

  His dark eyes meet mine. "You burned it down. Along with the few things I owned."

  "I'm so sorry." Laura's voice is thick with suppressed tears. "It was the only thing I could—"

  He cuts her off. "It was the only way. I know. I've said thank you already."

  "Well, we're not leaving you out on the street," I tell him firmly. "You can come home with me. Us. We just need to stop by the store first."

  -17-

  End Game

  An hour later, we're back at my studio apartment with a couple sets of very large clothes, a pair of flip-flops, and some other necessities for Vaughn. His burly frame seems to fill the whole apartment, until he folds himself into a corner with a can of soda and a pillow. He's less intimidating now that he's clothed and seated, but he's still an unfamiliar presence, here, in my safe space. I have to shove down the anxiety and keep telling myself that he's a victim, too, that he needs a place to stay. And he did help me wash and dress the unconscious Oakland, who's now lying on my bed in a pair of dark pants and a soft white T-shirt, looking like a wounded bronze god. I have to make a statue of him sometime. Metal isn't usually my medium, but to do him justice, I just might have to learn how to manipulate it.

  Laura is still shaky and jumpy, her blue eyes wide as coasters. After showering, she fixes spaghetti and salad for all of us, while I clean up and take a pill for the pain in my shoulder.

  "Where do you keep the salad dressing?" she asks.

  I point to the right cabinet. "There should be some unopened Caesar in there. Nothing fancy, though."

  "It's okay. Anything will taste good. Emily didn't feed me today."

  "When did she capture you?"

  "I got into town yesterday evening, late, and I went to Oak's place to check on him." She hesitates, glancing at me, and I understand what she's not saying. That she cares for him. That she was worried about him—worried enough to leave her training and drive to his apartment. Maybe she was hoping something would happen between them last night—the night that Oakland and I were here, together.

  Laura takes a deep breath and continues. "Anyway, he wasn't there. Emily answered the door, and at first I was jealous, but then she said she was just a friend with a key. So I trusted her. And she told me she might know of one more place where we could find him. I left my car at Oak's and rode with her to the house, and then she used her magic on me."

  "Oh, no. I'm so sorry."

  "It's okay, it wasn't much. Just enough to distract me until Vaughn could grab me and tie me up. After that, all I could do was sit and wait, until you two arrived. Honestly, Marilyn, I didn't expect to see you there. I thought you two ended things back at the beach." She grips the serving spoon, her knuckles white, and I'm suddenly, vitally grateful for the suppressor cuff around her wrist. I hope it's strong enough to handle the emotions coursing through her right now. "Did Oakland call you when he found out I'd been taken?"

  There's no point in lying to her. "No," I say softly. "Oakland was here last night. With me."

  "He was with you," she repeats, as if she needs to hear it again to believe it. The pitch of her voice rises. "But you didn't want him. Not before the beach week, and not after. You—you didn't want him, and I did. You knew that."

  "Laura, you're exhausted," I tell her gently. "Please, just stop and lie down. I'll inflate one of those air mattresses."

  "Don't tell me to lie down!" she snaps, her eyes sparking. Literally sparking. Two glowing sparks leap from them and float down to the floor, turning to dead ash along the way.

  She crumples to the hardwood, dropping the serving spoon with a clink. "This isn't happening. Not again."

  "Not again?" I ask, confused.

  She looks up, her eyes pools of sorrowful blue. "I never told you, but I had a thing for Jeremy before you guys started dating. I got over it pretty quickly, and of course now I'm like 'bullet dodged,' but now this, with Oak—it's just—why don't guys ever like me?"

  "They do," I say, but she cuts me off.

  "Sure, for a quick lay. Like the guy I hooked up with at that stupid costume party. He said the worst things to me afterward. And there was the guy I met at the nightclub, the night Jeremy attacked you. Cliff and Carynne and I were at the club, and this guy was talking to me—he seemed really sweet and smart—well-off, classy—and then he leans over and asks if I want to do it in the alley."

  I dart a quick glance at Vaughn in the corner. He's watching us, a dark, inscrutable expression on his face. "So did you screw him in the alley?" I ask.

  "Yeah. And I was mad the whole time."

  "And that's why the duplex burned down."

  She nods. "I attract the losers. And when I go for a good, sweet guy, he falls for you."

  "Jeremy wasn't a good, sweet guy," I say.

  "True, but he seemed so at the time. And Oakland—I mean, he's a dream. And now you've got him, too."

  I stand he
lplessly, unsure what to say.

  "Don't mind me, though." Laura's laugh is too fragile, pitched too high. "I'm just exhausted and starving."

  "Let's get you some food, okay?" I help her up, and she follows me meekly to a chair, where I settle her in with a pillow, a blanket, and a plate of food. Vaughn rises, expanding to his full height again, and quietly helps himself to a heaping plateful of spaghetti.

  Maybe it was the loud conversation, or maybe it's the scent of garlic and sauce in the air, but Oakland stirs, moaning faintly and laying one hand across his abdomen and the other on his forehead. "Oh hell," he mutters. "Oh shit. I feel terrible."

  He reaches down, feeling between his legs as if he's checking to make sure he's still intact—and then he opens his eyes to all three of us staring at him. "I thought it might have fallen off, after all that," he says sheepishly.

  A loud guffaw startles me, but it's only Vaughn, laughing deep and loud with his mouth full of pasta. He almost chokes, tears welling in the corners of his eyes; and then I realize I'm laughing too, and Laura is giggling, and Oakland is grinning, even though he still looks exhausted. We laugh until we're all weak and gasping.

  "Glad I could afford you some entertainment," Oakland says at last.

  "How do you feel?" Vaughn's deep voice rolls across the room. "I've never seen her do that to anyone before."

  "Let's just say I'm glad I'm a shifter," Oakland says. "Otherwise she might have killed me."

  "That would be tragic," I murmur. "Death by orgasm."

  That sets Vaughn off again, and since his particular brand of laughter is contagious, we follow, one by one, like dominoes, cascading into merriment. It's therapy, and relief.

  "Marilyn, beautiful, would you get me something to eat?" Oakland says plaintively, after the laughter has died down. "I'd get up myself, but I'm afraid I'd fall over."

  "Of course." I leap up and fill a plate for him.

  "And now," he says. "You all have to fill me in on what happened after I—well, after."

  So I tell him. And after the story is done, Vaughn announces that he's leaving. "You don't know me," he says. "You don't have to let the torturer's enforcer hang out with you, okay?"

  "You can stay with me, at my apartment," Oakland interjects. "You saved my life, and their lives. It's the least I can do in return."

  Vaughn hesitates, but then he nods. "I swear I'm not a killer, or a thief. Not now that I'm free of her."

  "I believe you." Oakland leans back again with a sigh. "And if you do steal from me, I'll just have to hunt your ass down."

  "Oh, you think you can beat the bear?" Vaughn grins, but there's no malice in it. "Go ahead, let me see what you're working with."

  "He's too tired," I say. "Oakland, don't—"

  But Oakland is already rising from the bed and peeling off his shirt and pants. "Actually, being in cat form for a bit might help me feel better. It's been a while since I shifted."

  "How long can you go without changing?" asks Vaughn.

  "A week or two if I have to. But I like to change more often than that, or I start feeling—off."

  "Yeah, I get that," says Vaughn. "I try to shift every day if I can. Keeps the jitters away. So you gonna do this, or you gonna talk about it some more?"

  "Oh, I'm doing this." Oakland sheds his boxers and shifts, taking on panther form in the blink of an eye. And there he is, perched on my bed, all tawny fur and lithe muscle. His head lowers, his shoulders hunch, and he snarls fiercely at Vaughn, who doesn't seem one bit cowed.

  "Aw yeah," he says, rubbing his massive hands together. "Cool, cool, man. Can you do that mountain lion scream thing?"

  "Not in here—" I start to say, but Oakland lets out a terrifying screech, like a witch being boiled in her own cauldron.

  "Damn it, Oakland!" I scold him. "I have neighbors!"

  He flops down on the bed, his green eyes blinking sagely at me. The thick black markings around his eyes look like eyeliner, and the white tufts of fur inside his ears look so soft. Long pale whiskers arch from either side of his nose.

  "You're so pretty," I tell him, stroking the side of his massive, tan-colored shoulder. He looks at me, every inch the regal, disdainful cat; and then, bunching his shoulders and hindquarters, he springs off the bed and prowls around the apartment, sniffing everything. When he brushes past Laura, she withdraws, moving so that she's no longer in his path. She stares at him as he paces, and I can't tell if her expression is curiosity, or revulsion, or longing, or a little of all three.

  After half an hour or so, Oakland pads into the bathroom and changes back to human form. "Vaughn and I should leave," he said. "So you girls can sleep."

  Saying goodbye to Oakland is awkward, because Laura is here. He kisses me, but I pull away quickly, not wanting to make her feel weird—and he looks a little hurt and confused. His lips part as if he's going to speak, but he changes his mind and follows Vaughn out of the apartment.

  Laura and I wordlessly and mutually agree to get ready for bed as quickly as possible, so we don't have to talk about anything complicated. We share the bed, and I can't help remembering what Oakland and I did in this very spot last night. I wonder if similar thoughts are running through Laura's mind.

  I check my phone one last time, setting my alarm for seven the next morning; and as I'm about to turn it off, a text from Oakland appears. I tap on it.

  "I'm sorry about today," his text says. "I couldn't control what Emily did to me. I know it upset you, and I'm sorry you had to see me like that. I laughed it off but honestly, I couldn't be more ashamed. And I understand why you didn't want to kiss me after that."

  The texts pop up fast, one after another, and my heart breaks. I text him back quickly. "That wasn't it at all. I didn't want to kiss you because Laura was here, and she's got a huge crush on you. You know that."

  He responds, "Oh." Then, "But the other stuff bothered you, didn't it?"

  I can't lie about this. "It did. I'm mostly jealous that I didn't get to make you feel that good."

  "It wasn't all good," he texts back. "I wasn't in control. I didn't have a choice. I didn't want that from her. So... not good." And then he says, "Being with you just once was more than I ever hoped for. More precious than any other time I've been with a woman. I'm yours, Marilyn. Body and soul, your devoted slave."

  I smile in the darkness, pressing my fingers to my lips to keep from squealing like a teenage girl with a crush.

  My thumbs hover over the on-screen keyboard for a second. I want to tell him I love him, right now. But telling him by text isn't the way, not the first time. I want to look into his eyes when I say it.

  "Meet me now," I type recklessly.

  He texts back, "Are you serious?"

  "As death."

  "Where?"

  -18-

  Despacito

  There's a spot a few blocks over where a half-empty strip mall backs up to a weedy lot rimmed with shaggy oaks. Before I met Jeremy, I went there with a boy from school, and we made out for an hour. It was a good spot—no cameras, few people passing by. So I text Oakland the address, and then I slip out of bed, snag my purse, and ease the door open. I lock it quietly behind me and pad down the hall with my bare, bandaged feet, in my tank top and shorts.

  There's no one in the elevator or the lobby. Even the parking lot is dark and empty, the cool night breeze wafting away the day's humidity. Crickets and cicadas chorus in the bushes as I pull open my car door and hop in.

  When I arrive at our meeting spot, Oakland is already parked at the back of the building, right at the edge of the field. He must have driven fast to get here before me.

  I hop out of my car and into his.

  "What's so urgent that you couldn't wait till morning?" he asks, smirking.

  I lay both hands on his thigh and look straight into his eyes, giving each word the weight it deserves. "I love you."

  His eyes burn into mine. "Are you sure?"

  "I realized it today, when the house was burning
. I didn't know if Vaughn would come back for us, and I couldn't move you. I thought I should probably run out and save myself, and leave you behind."

  "And so you should have," he says soberly.

  "No, you don't understand. It made sense, sure, for one of us to live rather than both of us burning. But then I realized that it wouldn't really be living at all." I choke on the words, and on the tears rising in my throat. "I'm messing this up, but what I'm trying to say is—I realized that I wouldn't be happy if you died and I lived. I could never be happy, not like that. Not if I left you behind. Because I love you."

  He seizes my face and crushes his lips against mine. I stroke his curly hair, his cheeks, his neck, until he breaks away and stares at me, his eyes sparkling. "I'm happy, Marilyn. So happy I'm having trouble figuring out what to do with it." He laughs, breathlessly.

  "Well, I know where you can put some of that happy," I tell him. "Unless you've had enough for one day. Maybe you need to rest it for a couple days."

  "Maybe I would, if I were human." His voice is a sensual purr. "But I'm not." He reaches for me, running his thumb over my breast, through my shirt.

  "Back seat?" I whisper.

  He's out of the front seat and draped across the back bench before I can say anything else. I slip out of the front and slide into the back with him, closing the door behind me.

  "I can't compete with what Emily did," I say. "And how can you even be excited again, after all that?"

  "Shifter stamina?" he shrugs. "And it's you, Marilyn. For you, I will always rise to the occasion." He leans forward, pulling me closer and settling me on his lap. It's close quarters, for sure, and I have to be careful not to hit my head against the car ceiling—but it's exhilarating, being in this situation.

  "Can I tell you a secret?" I whisper between kisses. "I've never done it in a car before."

  "So you're an auto virgin." He kisses my neck, and the spot right below my ear.

  "I guess you could say that." My skin shivers with a different kind of fire, the kind that burns without charring, consumes without killing. His hands are hot, roving the peaks and valleys of my shape. He tugs aside my shirt with his teeth, drags his fingernails down my back while I arch and hiss with pleasure. Frantically I work at the button and zipper of his jeans. "Why'd you wear these damn things?"