by Hettie Ivers
“Of course,” I merrily agreed. “I’ve been hoping for an invitation.” I waited a few seconds for the set of his shoulders to relax minutely before adding, “And an opening to ask for a few favors of my own.”
Avery
“Cyn-thia?” I peered over the rim of my dark glasses at the polished man seated across from me. He’d made an effort to dress down this morning. And still, even amid the backdrop of the tacky, twenty-four-hour, empty dive diner we’d met in, he’d managed to pull off a look that said casual Armani chic.
“You do this to fuck with me, don’t you?” I drummed my fingers against the Formica tabletop, staring at my new passport. “And … Pressley? I’m supposed to pass for a Cynthia Pressley Blackwood? Tell me that’s not the name of some bitch you banged in boarding school.”
“She left a lasting impression,” he deadpanned over the pen in his mouth as he proceeded to shuffle through the tidy stack of papers, manila envelopes, and folders inside the briefcase balanced on his lap. “Sign these.” He tossed a folder onto the coral pink surface in front of me, prompting me to reach forward and borrow the pen from his mouth.
“Full signature by all green markers, please. Initials only by all blue.”
“I have a Ph.D., you know.”
“Copy that. Not as Cynthia P. Blackwood, you don’t.”
I worked the pen, doing my best to replicate the signature on the passport. “Putting ‘black’ in a name doesn’t make it a black girl name, Wyatt.” I glanced up in time to catch his pink lips parting, his white teeth revealing themselves, softening his anxious features.
“No? And here I’d hoped to offend your Latina heritage this time.”
“Who says you didn’t?”
“Navajo, too?” His grin broadened, but it was forced.
I groaned. “Hellfire, you smell nervous. You should come out with it before I start imagining something worse than whatever your bad news is.”
“Coffee?” a pitchy female voice interrupted. A matronly server in a fuchsia apron approached with a fresh pot in hand.
“Yes, please. She’ll take it black,” Wyatt informed the waitress, his eyes on my face as the woman proceeded to pour my cup. “She’ll also have eggs Benedict over an untoasted muffin, with one side of hash browns and a double side of bacon.”
Wyatt was the only man alive whose balls I wouldn’t take for ordering on my behalf.
“Thank you,” he said with a smile once she’d finished dispensing coffee and scribbling down the order. He issued a perfunctory nod of appreciation in the woman’s general direction that somehow managed to charm her to the point of blushing, when in reality it was classic Wyatt body language for “you’re dismissed.”
As she departed, I shook my head at him and muttered, “I hated guys like you growing up.”
“Excuse me? Guys like me?”
“Why aren’t you eating?”
“It’s almost two a.m., Cyn-thia. I ate earlier—closer to midnight—while I was waiting. Don’t change the subject. What guys like me?”
“Right. Sorry about that …” I shifted my position on the sticky vinyl bench seat. I’d forgotten how late I was. “Got held up at the airport.” I cleared my throat. “With things.”
His brow arched. “How many things?”
I brought my coffee mug to my lips and blew. “Eight.”
He made a noise of irritation in the back of his throat and ran long, shapely fingers through his full head of brown locks that were beginning to show signs of grey. “Where?”
“C terminal. Rogue hunter welcoming committee.”
“Fuck. They knew you were coming then.”
Not a question. So I ignored it. I decided not to mention the surprise attack on the light-rail ride from the airport.
Within werewolf society, rogues had long been universally demonized. And annihilated without exception. Given that my initial werewolf encounter had been with a rogue who had slaughtered the closest thing I’d ever had to a family, I should’ve been inclined to agree with the popular werewolf society assessment. But if my years of scientific study had taught me anything, it was that not everything that deviated from nature was abhorrent. I still believed in positive genetic mutation.
And while I may not have been a rogue in the true werewolf sense, as far as the species’ spectrum of “normal” went, I wasn’t exactly within range either. My daughter was off the charts completely.
“Ever play anymore?”
“What?” Wyatt snapped, his composed demeanor cracking.
“Piano,” I clarified, my eyes on his long fingers that were now yanking distractedly at the roots of his hair. “Ever play?”
“No.” He frowned. “Never. Why would you ask?”
“No reason. Just something I’ve wondered about. I always mean to ask you—”
“Stop. You’re a terrible subject-changer. Avery, we can’t keep thi—”
“Am not. I was admiring your hands, asshole. Remembering the way they used to look when you played that summer I—”
“Wait—admiring my hands?” he pressed with a bemused grin. “As in … finding them attractive?” He held them out in front of him over the table, flipping them back and forth, palms up and down, making a great show of inspecting them. And proving once again that the same old tricks still worked on him. “By God, I believe you’ve accidentally complimented me, Ms. Blackwood. You know, ‘guys like me’ do tend to have damned fine hands.”
“’Course you do.” I pushed the last of my signed paperwork into said hands. “Make them useful and put that away before I change my mind and demand a cooler identity.”
“Copy that,” he said with a laugh. “By the way, you’ll find a backpack for Ms. Cynthia Pressley Blackwood under your seat.”
“Mmmm … I knew I smelled overpriced leather. Very nice …” I mumbled as I recovered the hidden treasure beneath my bench seat. “Ms. Blackwood hauls around a men’s black leather Louis Vuitton backpack? Interesting touch. And … wowza!” I gasped as I began to rifle through the fancy backpack. “Baby, you shouldn’t have,” I gushed as I took inventory of the weaponry, gadgets, and stacks of cash. “I love it when you go all Bruce Banner on me.”
“You mean Bruce Wayne. And you’re welcome.”
“Who? Oh, thank God,” I exclaimed upon spying a ziplock bag of pill bottles amongst the goodies Wyatt had brought me. I was nearly out of my supply of ovulation suppression hormones. “Wait a minute …” I lowered my sunglasses to the tip of my nose in order to better peruse the contents of the bag on my lap. “Is that a hush puppy? Dr. Banner, you know I don’t do silencers.”
“It’s Wayne. You mean Bruce Wayne. This is the city, Avery,” he lectured, speaking just above a whisper. “If you’re going to use a gun, you need a silencer.”
“It fucks my aim, Banner. Isn’t this still a red state?”
“Wayne. Banner is the Incredible Hulk’s alter ego. Purple. Colorado is still a firmly purple state.”
“Whatever. Either Bruce. Doesn’t matter; this is all awesome. But I’ll never use the silencer.”
“Either Bruce? Doesn’t matter? Aside from being completely different superheroes, one’s out of Marvel Comics and the other’s DC.”
“So?” I shrugged. Taunting him.
“So?” he parroted, eyes widening with exasperation. “So they’re entirely different comic universes.”
I’d long ago discovered the fun of watching mature, sensible Wyatt become rankled over my professed ignorance of comic books—his one sophomoric obsession. It was a game we played that never got old.
The truth was I knew a lot about comic book superheroes. Because during the darkest week of my life, while I was chained up inside a cage in the basement of Wyatt’s Connecticut estate awaiting the initial change that would classify me as an X-files creature forevermore, Wyatt had relayed story after story to me about every single superhero and supervillain he knew of.
He’d stayed by my side through it all—even throug
h the final three days of the disgustingly vile, excruciatingly painful transformation that should have killed me—safely on the other side of reinforced metal bars and holding a tranquilizer gun, of course.
I grinned and reached across the table to pinch his cheek. “Whichever one has cool gadgets and secret spy shit and tosses around wads of cash is the one you remind me of. Thanks for the backpack of goodies and the new identity, Daddy Warbucks.”
“Daddy Warbucks?” His hand flew to his heart. “The crotchety bald billionaire from Little Orphan Annie is not a superhero, and you fucking know it.”
I grinned in the face of his feigned outrage as our server arrived with my order. I thanked her, even as I eyed my plate with apprehension.
“Better than it looks,” Wyatt assured me once she was beyond earshot. “Presentation’s not their strong suit at this particular establishment.”
With a snort at his use of “establishment,” I dug in. I was famished. To my delight, I found that he was correct. “Not bad.”
“See? When have I ever led you astray, my Orphan Annie? Trust me, you need that silencer.”
“Now who’s the bad subject-changer?”
“Certainly not me. I just made a perfect segue from ‘I’m right about this diner’s food’ to ‘I’m always right about everything,’ and therefore you should listen to me with regard to the silencer.”
“Can’t believe you’re still single,” I managed over a mouth stuffed with eggs Benedict. “Do you list ‘expert know-it-all’ on your date-a-billionaire-dot-com profile?”
He gave me a tight-lipped smile and leaned forward on his elbows atop the table. “Well, Cyn-thi-a, between my busy schedule of constantly covering your tracks, not to mention your daughter’s very existence, altering your crime scenes, and bribing countless witnesses and officials, there’s not been much time for dating.”
Ouch. “Point taken. I’ll use the silencer. I’ll be less conspicuous and try to blend in more—” I started to promise, until a shout of disbelief from the opposite side of the table halted me. “What?” I huffed. “I will!”
Wyatt bent closer and said, “Avery, you couldn’t ‘blend in’ before you were the shape-shifting mother of an unholy berserker who the entire supernatural world is determined to destroy.”
“She is not an unholy berserker!” I admonished in a whisper-shout.
“No, ’course not. Speaking of which, so sorry I missed little Sloane’s ninth birthday celebration. If the police statements, fire department reports, insurance claims, and five lawsuits are any indication, the party was an incomparable success.”
My gut knotted. Wyatt had tried to tell me the party was a bad idea.
“About that …” I withdrew my sunglasses completely in order to look my only friend in the eye as I prepared to eat crow.
To my surprise, he was already smothering laughter behind his fist, his blue eyes bright, awash with humor. His laughing countenance took years off his face. It also made him look like his late little sister, my best friend, Sloane.
“Wait—” I shook my head, my body settling in relief. “You’re really laughing about this? Wyatt, I swear to you, I didn’t know before that pizza party that Sloane could start fires with her thoughts,” I spoke truthfully of my daughter, who was his late sister’s namesake.
“No?” He chuckled, canting his head to the side and bestowing that whimsical grin that had given me butterflies as a teenager. “Can’t imagine why you wouldn’t just assume that at this point? Pretty sure our little supernatural problem child could unleash a nuclear explosion with her thoughts were she so inclined.”
I ignored the way my heart warmed at his use of “our.” I knew it to be a slip of the tongue rather than a proprietary claim. Wyatt had never cared for my daughter—had pleaded with me to abort her in the womb. But Wyatt loved me. And he loved his late sister Sloane. Two things I shamelessly continued to use to my advantage where my daughter Sloane was concerned.
“In any case, I own what’s left of that entire strip mall now if she ever feels the need to practice her pyrokinesis skills again.”
“I’ll pay you back every penny—”
“Ha!”
“I will! How much are strip malls in Cleveland going for nowadays?”
“Stop being absurd and eat.” He gave me his stern big brother look that meant the conversation was over. “You might not be hungry after what I have to tell you.”
“Ah. See? I knew you had fun news coming.” I tapped the side of my nose. “Canine olfactory never lies. So what’d you find out down in South America about this breed of superbeasts coming for me?”
Alcaeus
The ostentatious homecoming reception and extravagant evening feast held in the renovated banquet hall of the Reinoso pack’s palatial estate in Morumbi was exactly the type of event I’d spent the past ten years avoiding.
The memories of what had happened the last time I’d been inside that dining hall were still too fresh. Too painful.
But as soon as I saw Jussara and Milena rushing toward me, tears in their eyes and arms outstretched, I felt like the world’s greatest coward for avoiding it for so long. If they could move past the horrific events of that fateful day nearly ten years ago in that hall, then surely so could I. And seeing them both standing there in the space that had haunted me was worth the painful reminders of it that had kept me away.
It’d been over a year since Milena and Jussara had last visited me in the States, and it was good to see them again. I was happy to see Milena so happy. Happier still to see how close she’d become with Jussara—who seemed to be doing well, too, near as I could tell. Unlike Milena, who wore her heart on her face, Jussara had always been a tough read. Like her mother.
Aside from my disappointment at my sister Alessandra’s absence, it was a fine affair. Sure, there were moments throughout dinner when seeing Alex sitting there at the head of the table looking so calm, so utterly content in his domesticated bliss made me want to punch his head through the nearest stone wall. But that was likely to remain a normal, knee-jerk impulse where my bratty baby brother was concerned for at least another century, given all the bullshit he’d put me through since becoming my responsibility when he was five.
In truth, I was genuinely happy for him. Not to mention grateful and happy for myself that he was finally settled and no longer a constant cause of worry to me. Settled with a hall-monitor type with a solid moral compass, no less. Evidencing once again that sometimes the fates really did get it right when it came to the whole mating bond business. They’d done us all a solid by pairing Alex with Milena.
“What’s her fixation with Europe?” I asked my stepbrother Remy as we strode through the woods later that evening, following behind a small group of guards and other higher-ranking Betas headed to witness some grand display of Milena’s new abilities that Alex had been bragging about.
“Fixation? Whatever do you mean? I don’t think Jussara cares for Europe any more than she does the States.”
Jussara? “I’m talking about Milena,” I said with impatience. “Milena’s fixation with searching for the Rogue in Europe.”
Why would Remy assume that I was speaking of my ward Jussara? And how the fuck would he know her feelings on Europe or the States, for that matter?
“Oh, right. Of course you are,” Remy said with an anxious chuckle, his face coloring in a way that alarmed every protective instinct I possessed for Lupe’s daughter. “Not sure. But you make a good point. I suppose Milena has been somewhat focused on scouring Europe. Particularly the western countries,” he continued to ramble at a fast clip, further rousing my suspicion and concern about his initial Jussara presumption. “Although, she did just complete a tour of the eastern countries. But then she’s planning to search France yet again.” He laughed harder than necessary at whatever joke he thought he was making. “You know, I was saying to Alex the other day that I think she must simply love the food there, because I can’t imagine there’s a rogue le
ft to be found in all of France at this point.”
I was suddenly gripped by a strong instinct to wrap my hand around Remy’s throat and remind him that Jussara was off-limits, when the object of my concern turned from where she’d been strolling ahead of the group with Milena and Alex, to call back at me.
“Tio, come on!” Jussara’s face was alive with excitement as she dashed over, inserting herself between Remy and me and linking her arm with mine. “I’ve been dying for you to see this. You’re not going to believe how amazing Milena’s abilities are,” she gushed, pulling me ahead and away from Remy. It mollified me to note that she hadn’t even spared him a glance.
I should’ve known better than anyone that Milena was destined for greatness. My father and I had once met the powerful werelock whose legacy of incomparable blood power she’d inherited. Hell, I’d even personally held that blood power for her for a brief period of time during her initial transformation.
Yet nothing could’ve prepared me for how well Milena had managed to develop and expand upon her given abilities in the short years that I’d stayed away from Brazil.
My initial jubilance over her demonstration swiftly waning, I stared, dumbfounded, as the angry sky opened up above me, my eyes unblinking even as electricity lit up the night and drops of water fell to cloud my vision.
“He who controls the weather will control the world.”
This couldn’t be real.
Milena couldn’t possibly have developed some power of empathic hydrokinesis. Or electrokinesis. Or was it called meteorokinesis? Fuck, whatever it was called, it was big.
I forced my eyes from the heavens and glanced around to gauge the rest of the group’s reactions. Kai’s face reflected awe. Alex looked like he was trying to calm an erection.
“Way to go, Miles,” Jussara cheered, bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement.
“Thank God she’s on our side, right?” Remy muttered next to me, beaming like a proud mother hen.
I nodded slowly in agreement as I felt my own smile fade. “Right.”
