by Sierra Dean
After wandering into the living room with my coffee in one hand and my phone wedged between my ear and shoulder, I plopped onto the couch and turned on my TV. Cash returned with the fresh palmiers on a plate and sat next to me.
I mouthed the word Amelia to him. We’d been together long enough he knew all the important people in my pack life, even if he hadn’t met any of them. He placed a comforting hand on my thigh, giving me a squeeze of encouragement. Of all the people from the pack I talked with, Amelia was the one who often brought out the worst in me.
I flipped through channels until I found CNN, and I knew right away why Amelia was so worried.
A pretty blonde news anchor was posing in a serious way while a brunette woman with a smart, polished bob glowered back at her. I pulled out one earbud to better hear the TV.
“—don’t think you realize how dangerous these creatures are.”
“Are you claiming the werewolf community has done something to validate the threats they’re receiving?”
“Community.” The brunette made a noise of disgust. “We can’t talk about them like they’re people. These are monsters, plain and simple, and my group won’t stand to see them in schools, in churches, in our safe spaces.”
Cash’s hand went still, and I sucked in a breath. Maureen Cranston. I knew her shrewish, hateful face. She was the leader of the Coalition for a Pure America. Somehow they’d managed to make overt racism popular again, because it was okay to openly hate a werewolf.
I chewed on my fingernail until I remembered Amelia was still on the phone. “What’s this bitch up to now?” I spat.
Amelia sighed, and I realized my faux pas right away. Bitch. The word held a lot more weight to werewolves and wasn’t meant to be used flippantly. In fairness to me, Maureen was trying to ruin the lives of everyone I held near and dear.
The split screen changed three ways, and the familiar face of Tyler Nowakowski appeared. He was handsome in a generic way, with dark brown hair and thick, expressive eyebrows. His lean face looked more tan than usual, and I wondered what their team had been up to.
Tyler, along with his partner Emilio La Roy, were the two other parts of the special FBI unit Secret worked with to promote understanding and harmony between humans and supernaturals. They were considered the experts, so they tended to get a lot of screen time when issues like this popped up. Tyler and Emilio did, that is. Secret didn’t make the best impression with the media and had been pulled from interview duty indefinitely.
She’d called Piers Morgan a douchebag during a live broadcast.
Tyler, better trained to deal with insufferable d-bags, replied with a smooth, calm tone. “What Ms. Cranston fails to realize is these threats are far more serious than just words. We cannot allow this kind of aggression to persist against fellow citizens.”
“If CAPA has their way, they won’t be citizens much longer,” Maureen bit back.
Tyler was struggling to maintain his cool, governmental expression. G-men couldn’t be seen as aggressive or feeling in any way. Yet another reason my hotheaded sister wasn’t the poster child for the FBI.
Emilio tended to be the best of all of them when it came to being unflappable. I swear he was part robot, programmed by the government to be the perfect fed.
“Ms. Cranston, prejudice isn’t a valid reason to rewrite the Constitution of the United States. You can’t simply recall the citizenship of Americans because you don’t approve of their race.”
“Are you calling me a racist?” Maureen snapped.
“Oh, Jesus, is she serious?” Cash got up, scrubbing his hand over his face before giving the TV the finger. He and I rarely discussed the racism issue, but I knew he was frustrated about the word being used in reference to white, upper-class businessmen like my uncle.
Cash was a black kid from Louisiana. Until three years ago, he knew more about racism than anyone else in the country. Now his white girlfriend had to deal with more off-color, cruel remarks and media attention than he did. I wasn’t sure if he was annoyed on my behalf or angry because my people were now the center of a hatred whirlwind. It wasn’t the kind of conversation that would end well, so we avoided the topic altogether. But things like this made it difficult, and the tension hanging in the air was so thick I could almost taste it.
“Does CAPA support the threats of the Church of Morning?” Tyler sneered at the name of the church.
On the bottom of the screen the news bar declared Church of Morning promotes violence against shapeshifters. What did that mean? The Church was a bunch of anti-werewolf fanatics, but they were more annoying than threatening. I’d never paid much attention to them in the past, maybe to my detriment now.
“Is the Church a serious threat?” I asked Amelia. Cash had left the room, and I could hear him banging around in the kitchen. All the positive happiness from our earlier smooching had vanished. I crossed my legs and settled into the couch, watching Tyler, Maureen and the CNN anchor argue about the Church of Morning.
It was one hell of a loaded name for a supposed church. Morning, meaning daytime, implied they were working in opposition to the night. So the church stood against werewolves, who were ruled by the moon, and vampires, who lived in the night.
Super clever, guys, you really brought out Team Metaphor for that one.
Amelia answered my question about the church with a prolonged sigh. “We’re not sure if they’re blowin’ smoke, trying to scare us, or if there’s more to it than that. But your uncle got an email this morning from their leader. It had a list of every single pack member and their addresses. There’s a chance they mean to make those lists public, and if they’re promoting violence against wolves, you could be in danger.”
“I don’t get it. The Church of Morning has been around for years. They put out all those fliers and stupid PSAs, but they’ve never been violent. Besides, everyone at school knows I’m a wolf. I’ve been on TV with Uncle Callum at his PR things. People know I’m a wolf.” Not to mention, based on the get-together outside, people already knew where I lived.
“That’s part of the problem. You’re too exposed, and all some people need is a push, Eugenia. There are people out there who hate what you and I are, and those people will use any excuse to hurt us. You’re not safe.”
We’d gone from this might be serious to you’re not safe in the span of a minute. I should have known this wouldn’t be good the moment Amelia phoned me, and now I dreaded asking the real reason behind her call.
“So…what do you want me to do?” I wasn’t going to volunteer what I thought she was angling for. I didn’t want to leave. I had no interest whatsoever in abandoning Tulane in the middle of a semester to run back to St. Francisville with my proverbial tail between my legs.
“Your uncle wants you to come home. Just until we know what’s going on.”
“And he couldn’t call me himself?” Maybe it wasn’t fair of me to be snippy with her, but I hated being at Callum’s command when he couldn’t be bothered to make a familial effort half the time. He might be king, but he was also the closest thing I had to a father. Would it be so hard for him to reach out and say, Genie, come home? I wouldn’t say no to him.
“You know he’s a very busy man.”
“Too busy. Too important. Yeah, I get it.”
“He cares about you a great deal.”
I exhaled dramatically, because I couldn’t argue. Even in my worst mood I knew Callum did love me, and if he wanted me to come back to the compound, it was because he was genuinely worried about my safety.
But it also served to remind me I wasn’t free. I was still on his leash; he’d just given me a little extra tether so I could pretend to be on my own. Now he was dragging me back, and part of me hated him for allowing me the illusion only to show me the man behind the curtain.
“Fine.” I didn’t bother to ask about whether or not Cash would be welcome. He was human, and the pack was in a time of crisis. He would not be invit
ed to join me, and I wasn’t going to suggest it to him.
He’d say no on account of classes, and it was a valid reason, but I knew it was only an excuse. He seemed to understand things were better if my life with him was divided from my pack life.
I hung up with Amelia and threw the phone onto the empty cushion next to me, staring at the TV until they changed to a story about an oil-rig explosion. The Church of Morning situation would be an ongoing topic throughout the day, but it bothered me to know they even had to debate whether or not it was okay to promote violence against shapeshifters.
We were a long way away from being accepted, in spite of the fact we’d coexisted with humans for literally hundreds of years and posed no risk to them whatsoever.
As soon as I turned the television off, Cash returned. He had changed for class and looked extra handsome with his close-cropped goatee and dark charcoal blazer. I got up and adjusted his tie to give myself an excuse to touch him. He pressed a kiss to my forehead and smiled, but this time it wasn’t a genuine smile.
“Pack calls?” The way he said pack made it seem like a foreign word he hadn’t yet learned to pronounce properly.
“Yeah. Callum’s worried about this new church problem, so I’m going to go home for a couple of days to put his mind at ease. Once he realizes there’s no threat, I’ll be back. You can stay here if you want.” Cash lived in an apartment with a buddy of his from his undergrad frat days, but Everett tended to have a revolving door of ladies over, and Cash found the constant sexcapades distracting. He had a key to my place, and I didn’t share the space with anyone else. He might as well enjoy the silence while I was away.
He kissed each cheek and my forehead. “I may take you up on that.”
“If you do, just replace the milk, ’kay? I think it’s on the verge of going bad.”
This time his grin was real, his teeth gleaming white and the lines around his eyes crinkling merrily. “Next thing I know you’ll be asking for rent.”
I gave his ass a squeeze and kissed him softly. “Nah. You pay me in other ways.”
Chapter Three
The drive from New Orleans to St. Francisville was slightly less than two hours, but the whole way I was a writhing bundle of nerves. I’d had to turn off the radio because the news kept talking about the new threat from the Church of Morning. Apparently everyone was convinced they planned to make good on it, and thanks to Maureen’s appearance on the news that morning, people were also sure CAPA was endorsing the action.
What a mess.
I was so distracted, my blue Dodge Dart kept edging over the center line of the highway before I’d catch myself and steer back onto the right side. Drama and danger were things I’d had my fill of during my twenty-one years alive. I didn’t need any more death threats or excitement, thank you. If I could make it through the remainder of my years without any stress outside of my exam schedule, I’d be perfectly content.
Fat chance in hell I was going to get so lucky.
The sun was almost blotted out by a thick covering of trees, the shimmering green light offering the only solace I’d felt since leaving the city. I resisted the urge to take a detour to the local swamps that were more like home to me than Callum’s estate, in spite of the last several years spent back in civilized society.
For four years, following my disastrous first attempts at shifting into my wolf form, I’d gone to live with my great-grandmother in the bayou. She’d helped me control my magic to a point I was able to be both a wolf and a witch without any dangerous fallout. I hadn’t been back to see La Sorcière since I was seventeen, but in spite of her advanced years I didn’t worry whether she was still alive. The witch would outlast us all.
With things being such a mess I could have used a bit of great-grandmotherly wisdom. The cool, detached way she handled the worst kind of situations meant she would probably have a solution for this. Or at least she’d know a few good wards to keep would-be assassins at bay.
I snorted and gave my head a shake. How ridiculous was it to want my eighty-something-year-old great-grandmother to save my ass?
The funnier part was knowing she could.
If I thought I might be able to get away with trawling through the swamp looking for a crazy magical senior and not terrify the rest of my family with worry, I would. But the bayou had a strange way of shifting and moving, and though the land itself didn’t change, I’d been gone long enough I would probably get lost if I went after her right now. I couldn’t afford those extra hours.
Nothing felt like home anymore. Not the swamp, not New Orleans. I’d become disconnected from my moorings, and nothing felt like terra firma these days. Feeling lost was one of the oh-so-fun side effects of almost dying. I’d been thrown down an open elevator shaft from over twenty floors up. No shit. And the only thing that had saved me was magic. Now part of me felt like I was supposed to be dead, but I was still haunting the world in a living form.
Near-death was weird.
I turned the radio back on, but the stations had gone fuzzy thanks to my distance from anything resembling civilized society, so I switched over to the default CD in my deck. Tom Waits’s eerie voice crooned about lost love, and I glued my attention back on the road. “Focus, Genie,” I whispered. Today would be a bad day to get into a car accident just because I was a hopeless flake.
A car appeared in my rearview mirror, coming out of nowhere, giving my pulse a kick-start. I’d been driving over an hour with almost no other signs of life, and the black sedan stuck out like a sore thumb against the green-and-gray backdrop of the previously empty highway.
He was driving awfully close to me, wasn’t he?
“Just pass,” I grumbled, cutting my gaze from the road to my mirror and back. He was riding my ass now, the front end of the sedan dangerously near to my bumper. What was this asshole thinking? The opposite lane was wide open, and he could have whizzed past me no problem if he was in such a damn hurry.
The sedan bumped me, and the realization of what was happening struck me at the same moment. He didn’t want to go by me.
He was trying to run me off the road.
My heart pounded, and my palms were instantly damp and itchy with nervous energy. Of all the things I’d prepared contingencies for, this wasn’t among them. I’d foolishly assumed when someone came to kill me, they’d do it when I was standing on solid ground so I’d have a chance to fight back. Ramming me off the road with a two-ton hunk of steel wasn’t playing fair.
Not that assassins cared much for fair play.
I gripped the wheel as my car jerked towards the shoulder of the road, and steadied myself, steering closer to the center to allow more rebound room. This plan would bite me in the ass if a car came towards me, but I was hoping to have enough time to react if that happened.
The music coming through my car stereo was slow, Waits singing “I Hope That I Don’t Fall in Love With You”, which was sweet and melodic. The pounding of my pulse in my ear bumped the tempo up a few notches, and my mind was racing.
The car slammed into me again, and I yelped. At least no one was in the car with me to see how pathetic I was in a time of panic. Some badass werewolf leader I would make.
Gritting my teeth, I scolded myself for letting my concentration drift. It wouldn’t matter how tough I was or wasn’t if this guy succeeded in killing me. The itch in my palm was a sign of magic, but as I tried to conjure a ward, he hit me a third time, making me lose my place in the spell. This was hopeless. I needed to be able to concentrate to perform magic, and he wasn’t giving me enough time.
Spotting a flash of daytime headlights in the distance, I had a truly terrible idea, one so idiotic it might be perfect.
I veered into the opposite lane, and the sedan followed me, scraping against my bumper, making my car jerk spastically. I was grateful for small favors because my attacker hadn’t opted for a higher car. There was no chance he’d be able to see around me thanks to how closely he
was hugging my ass.
The lights in the distance drew nearer, and I sucked in a breath, issuing a silent prayer to the gods. It was a big gray delivery van, and hopefully the driver had quick reflexes, otherwise we were all in trouble. The van’s horn blared, and I yanked the steering wheel at the last second, hauling my car back into the right lane. The sedan wasn’t as lucky, not expecting the van to be there when I pulled aside.
Both the van and the car swerved, and I slammed on my brakes, sending gravel flying as I hit the shoulder. Tires squealed from all three vehicles, and my car came to an abrupt stop, dust settling around me like smoke. The van skidded to a halt next to the edge of the ditch. The sedan spun around in a full 360-degree turn and came to a stop facing me from a hundred yards away. I got a good look at the driver, a clean-cut blond man in his early fifties. His cold stare showed bitter rage and the unspoken promise that our business together wasn’t through.
He restarted his car and reversed hard, sending more dust and gravel spitting out before he spun back onto the highway and hauled ass out of sight. I memorized his plate number, for all the good it would do me.
A tap on my window made me scream.
The driver of the van was standing beside my door, wearing a pissed-off expression. I considered going for the gun in my glove compartment, but this guy’s bad mood was the least of my worries at this point. My better option would be to play the sympathy card.
I burst out into tears, cupping my face and letting my shoulders tremble with exaggerated hiccups. I rolled down the window and between shaky breaths I said, “Th-thank God. I thought he was going to k-kill me.” I gave the van driver my best wide-eyed innocent expression, hoping my eyes had changed to that really dark shade of green that I’d been told made me look extra sad. Cash once said they turned almost emerald when I was in a foul mood, but normally they were a bright shade similar to celery.
“You okay?” All his rage vanished, and he had the nervous look of worry men often got when they saw a woman cry. Most guys didn’t know how to deal with a sobbing woman, and I was hoping for that kind of uncertain footing.
