by Lisa Ladew
But that meant there were questions that needed answering. She freshened her coffee, grabbed her laptop, and snuggled into her overstuffed couch to dig for answers to them. Work could wait. She wasn’t supposed to be in at all until her tenure hearing. She had until then to decide what the hell to do, if no one from the college contacted her first.
Easy enough to find the councilman she’d attacked. She winced as the first search engine response to the query she typed in screamed:
Councilman Attacked by Crazed Woman on Shady Pines Campus.
Perfect. Great. What happened to “mentally ill”, or was that only for lone gunmen now? Cora scanned the article, finding no mention of her name, just crazed woman. But there, at the bottom, was a picture with the name Mitch Garner beneath it.
A frisson of hatred coursed through her as she studied the picture, quickening her heart rate, causing bile to rise in her throat. She held her hand up to cover her mouth as she read the councilman’s bio and tried to make sense of what she was feeling.
Mitch Garner was new on the political scene, a wildly successful businessman. Now in his late thirties, he’d spent his early career as a hedge fund manager who’d shorted the housing bubble before it burst. While most Americans were floundering, Garner had walked away millions of dollars richer.
Garner had used his wealth to scavenge businesses that were failing in the harsh climate of the Great Recession. In the last decade he’d bought furniture factories, apartment buildings, adult bookstores; anything with previous owners who were up their ears in debt and desperate to sell. Six months ago he’d joined the Victory Party, whatever that was. Two months before, he’d run uncontested and been elected to serve on the Shady Pines city council.
She moved her hand. Garner’s campaign photo came into view and Cora’s adrenaline spiked again, her heartbeat accelerating, her hands itching to rip at his skin. She tore her eyes away and searched the room for her purse. The numbers to the therapists were in there. She would call one. Today.
She scrolled quickly down the page, away from the picture, and found a link for the Victory Party. She’d heard of them, probably in the break room at the college, where the news played all day long. She hadn’t paid much attention and didn’t know what their platform was about. Their website didn’t add anything of note, most of it a repetitive mish-mash of watchwords- patriotism, integrity, national purpose- that didn’t give a clue to their politics. What was clear was that it was the first party to give Republicans and Democrats actual competition in… ever.
An hour passed as Cora delved in head first, like she always did, scrolling past pictures of Garner when possible, holding her hand over them when it wasn’t.
The Victory party itself had been formed eighteen months ago, but in that short time their candidates had won every race they’d entered. Running her finger down the list, Coralie counted at least two dozen victories, from city officials all the way to a Senator who’d been voted in by special election after his predecessor resigned.
Conspiracy theory much? But she’d never heard of anything like it, and the more she read, the more the one-sided victories scared her. She ran a wider search on the party. Page after page of results streamed back, news articles and interviews, the writers almost invariably gushing about the altruistic motives of the Victory candidate they were covering.
That didn’t sound anything like the American politics she knew. Cora’s gut twisted with a vague apprehension. She freshened her coffee yet again, then sat back down and limited her search further, focusing on the Victory Party’s presence in her own state. A new result popped up that was the first she’d seen with an opposing view. “Triumph Over Victory,” it read.
Jackpot! The link led to a simple one-page site, directed at those who weren’t “feeling the love” for Victory Party that most of the nation appeared to have. They held frequent meetings to discuss the party, and there was one that very evening in Turner’s Mill, just on the other side of Nantahala Gorge.
She would be there.
A notification popped up on her screen. A message from Thorn. She ignored it, not able to deal with him at that moment, but her eyes flitted across the room nonetheless, to the most prized piece he’d acquired for her. A small traveling case with worn leather, brass buckles, and a velvet lining. Inside was a wooden stake and vials that were said to have contained holy water and garlic oil.
Thorn had resented finding her the kit, classifying it as more pop culture prop than work of art, talking like its very existence offended his highbrow sensibilities. But he’d offered it and taken her money anyway, and she always thought of that kit when she thought of him.
She shoved her phone away, needing to think, to figure this out. She would exercise, maybe something would come to her while she was out. A run and then a good stretch was exactly what her aching body needed. A quick change and she was out the door, covering three miles before she even settled into her pace.
Three miles later her head cleared of anxiety, her body responding to the steady rhythm with a gradual release of tension. Too bad she felt watched again.
The sensation followed her home, a tingling sting between her shoulder blades that made her want to keep checking her back even though she knew there was nobody there. Once inside her house she double-checked the locks, closed the curtains, and tried not to think about any of it.
She had a meeting to go to, and even if it was a long shot for answers, it was better than sitting at home and waiting to hear she was fired, her future destroyed.
Chapter 15
Jameson stayed quiet, wondering at the way Carick’s fingers flew over the tiny keyboard of Jameson’s smartphone. For years he’d considered them a necessary evil of modern times, but Carick had immediately fallen in love. They were in Jameson’s truck, speeding down country roads, heading to a neighboring town for what might prove to be a bust. Or maybe not.
Last Jameson remembered, he had been contemplating what could signify to the coven houses it was safe to return from wherever they had gone. He must have fallen asleep again, and his phone fell out of his pocket, because when he woke up, the sun was overhead, and Carick was poking him, demanding he “stir the electricity in the contraption.”
Carick had figured out the phone scary fast. Jameson was reminded of Leloo in The Fifth Element every time Carick pulled the phone close to his face and muttered something under his breath.
He’d stared at the phone while Jameson had sat him in a chair and buzzed his shaggy hair off, then trimmed his beard close to his face. Carick hadn’t spared a glance in the mirror when Jameson was done, trying to walk outside with his head down, eyes glued to the phone. “My looks are of no consequence,” he’d muttered when Jameson had prompted him.
But an hour ago it had become obvious Carick was using the phone for more than funny cat videos. He’d turned the screen to Jameson and said, “Humans are fighting the vampires, or at least the party they run as. We need to be at this meeting.”
Jameson knew what party that was. The Victory Party, charming humans out of their votes and their rights.
But Jameson had immediately realized Carick was right. If there were human meetings, there was a chance they could find switches there. Shifters, too.
Jameson turned into the building parking lot, a library, the meeting scheduled for its assembly room. He parked, and he and Carick jumped out of the truck and headed in, Carick finally slipping the phone in the pockets of the big and tall jeans Jameson had bought for him. Jameson already saw a few cars he recognized.
Inside, he sized up the decent-sized crowd, which was mostly humans in various states of outrage. But he saw Flint and his younger brother Bryce immediately, the two bears who lived next door. Flint saw him back and raised a hand, then moved on to study Carick. The surly bear lifted his nose into the air, trying to catch a scent.
Jameson stopped to size up Carick, wondering what other shifters would think of him. He looked acceptable enough, maybe like a lumber
jack who came from a rich family, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, and heavy work boots. He had a touch of silver at the temples of his close-cropped hair and a scowl on his face. Big enough to be a bear but absent of any such scent. Living proof that something was strange in Five Hills.
Flint caught Jameson’s eye again, then raised his chin at another male across the room. Riot. Interesting that he had come. The young male with the rock star hairdo was leaning against a side wall, hands shoved in hoodie pockets. His menacing mountain lion scent preceded him, lean and hungry, like that of one much older than him. He saw Jameson and gave a short lift of his head in acknowledgement. Jameson nodded back.
Flint shot Jameson a look, that Jameson couldn’t decipher, until Flint spoke up so Jameson could hear, his rumbling baritone turning heads. He gestured at Riot. “You believe that, Bryce? The damn cat done dragged itself in.”
Riot shot a dark glare Flint’s way, with a hint of a snarl on his lip before his eyes shuttered and he returned his focus to the room around him, dismissing Flint altogether. Like bears were no big deal. Flint would hate that.
Jameson hurried across the room to Flint, leaving Carick to figure himself out. He spoke softly to Flint “You still got a problem with that kid? When you gonna get over that?”
Flint sneered. “Soon as your boy gets over his anger management issues.”
Jameson shook his head. “It was a year ago, Flint. And you’re the last one to talk.” Jameson liked Flint, but he could get along with Riot, too, if Flint would just get over himself. They were going to have to start working together, all of them. Jameson had a flash of what the future could look like, then shook his head and pushed it away. Things were different now, it would never work.
He studied Riot instead, wondering what had brought him. The big cat was a rock climbing instructor who often volunteered to lead excursions in the Natanhala Forest. Jameson had heard through the workvine that the inked-up shifter was normally quiet but respectful, not just of the rangers but the environment as well. He stuck to the trails, avoided nesting sites, and made sure his groups left no trace of their visit. Jameson had never had reason to personally dislike him, and he knew enough to leave sparring disputes at sparring.
Flint caught Jameson’s gaze and snarled, showing even white teeth, then spoke, pulling his attention away. “Your boss know you’re here? Aren’t federal employees supposed to be non-partisan?”
Jameson waved him off. “Who’s running this thing, anyway?”
Bryce leaned forward from Flint’s other side to stare at Jameson. “Everyone.” His blond hair and russet cheeks made him look younger than his age, but he was a solid kid with a good head on his shoulders. Jameson liked him a lot.
Jameson frowned, not sure what Bryce could mean, but Bryce broke in. “Seriously, J. I walked around before the meeting and checked out the name tags.” He pointed around the room as he spoke. “Over there you got the head of the Democratic Party of North Carolina, she’s talking to the Republican rep who got his ass handed to him by Victory Party last year. And on the other side of the aisle, that group is full of Green and Labor representatives, the Constitutional Party, and the Libertarians. This is nuts. Unprecedented to have so many rival parties working together. They must be shaking in their boots that Victory Party is going to sweep the elections: President, Congress, Senate, all of them.”
Jameson agreed. And they were probably right. He spoke to Bryce. “What are you two doing here?”
The younger bear shrugged. “After your speech at the BBOC, we felt like we should do something.”
“You believed me?”
The two males exchanged glances. Flint was the first to speak. “Of course I do. Bryce, what about you?”
Bryce nodded. “Yeah I do. Most of the guys did. The female cat, too, I heard her saying she believed every word. That she was ready to kick some vampire ass.”
Jameson let out a breath. Good news. Flint bumped his shoulder, gesturing at Carick who was stalking the perimeter of the crowd, scowl still firmly fixed on his face, black eyes glittering. “Who’s your big friend with the brand new clothes?”
Jameson didn’t hesitate. “The Steward.”
“No shit!” Flint hissed, standing to get a better view. But a man near the front of the room moved the front of the podium, switching the microphone on and raising his hands for quiet.
The human was in his early sixties, Jameson would guess, and although it was clear he’d once been fit, maybe a soldier, time had left his midsection soft and the crown of his head shining bare. He wore wire-rimmed bifocals and introduced himself as Mr. Bunn.
Jameson ignored him, studying the crowd instead. Children with their parents, young adults, middle-aged couples, all the way up to seniors. Rich and poor and in-between. Jameson scented only a few shifters among the bunch, and the crowd was small, twenty-five to thirty people at the most.
If the vampires were charming humans through the televisions, what made these people immune? He looked around again, not trying to hide his curiosity. And were there any switches in the bunch? How would he even know? He’d asked Carick in the dead of the last night, how to identify a switch, and Carick had growled in reply, “She’s the one with magicks spilling off of her while she kills vampires.”
Helpful.
The door on the side of the room opened, making Jameson’s muscles freeze in place, his breath bottleneck in his throat as the sweet scent of mountain flowers swirled to him.
He stared at the woman entering, her face hidden by wavy brown hair. She was petite, but her shape was all woman. He’d found her! The woman from the diner. Or rather she’d found him.
The woman (switch) lifted her face to the front of the room, allowing Jameson a generous view of it. Lovely. Beautiful. Special! Two painfully bruised black eyes barely starting to heal made him snarl. How could she have gotten them? If a man gave them to her, he would kill the bastard. Rip his throat right out with his teeth. He ground said teeth and studied her, ignoring the purple and black of the injury.
Everything about her said feminine and dainty, almost fairy-like. Her cheekbones were long and sharp, her jaw line, too, and her eyes had an almond shape and slant that was at once exotic and completely at home with the rest of her face. Her lips were pouty and the perfect Cupid’s bow shape. So delicate and elven, like a brunette Tinkerbell with her hair down. Jameson wouldn’t have been surprised to discover her ears were pointed.
His stomach did a nosedive as he struggled to get air. She was having an even stronger effect on him than she had in the diner.
The woman stood by the door and focused on the speaker. Jameson watched her with hooded eyes, finding pleasure just in gazing at her, forgetting for a moment his need to talk to her. He took in every detail.
She wore a gauzy peasant-style blouse with embroidery at the neck and sleeves reminded him of simpler times. Years past, when cotton and wool had made up the bulk of the clothing he wore and indeed “polyester” hadn’t even been a word, that’s what he recalled when he looked at her. Her navy blue shorts came to mid-thigh, revealing a splendid view of her toned legs and shapely ankles, all the way to her dainty feet in metallic-looking, clockwork-embellished sandals. He knew that style. Steampunk. Like the Jules Verne books he’d read as a child. He loved that only one thing she wore pointed to it. She was understated. Subtle.
Her toenails were painted a shade that reminded Jameson of pearls from the ocean. His throat clicked as he tried to swallow. She was the perfect woman, and he was a goner. She wasn’t a shifter. But for the first time in his life, it didn’t matter. None of it. Keeper. Carick. Vampires. Shifter alliance. He could happily give up every miserable moment of it and spend the rest of his life following her, hoping for a glance or a kind word. Being there if she needed something.
He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t hear a word that was being said. Was he drooling? Her style was feminine without being overly flowery, unique without being loud. The clockwork sandals remind
ed Jameson of the days when tinkering had been his full-time job, making nostalgia float through him.
She was so… light.
Her face changed as he watched, her expression morphing from attentive and interested to pissed. Murderous even. She was staring at a slide the speaker had put up. Jameson shot a look at it. A picture of a candidate, a male with red eyes that only Jameson could see. Vampire. He whipped his head back to the woman by the door. But she was gone. The door clunked shut behind her, cutting off a ray of green light that had prismed in from the dark beyond.
Jameson shot to his feet, to follow.
Chapter 16
Jameson parked his truck in the lot outside Black Bear Outfitting Company with a jerk and threw it in park, twisting the keys viciously, destroyed that the woman had gotten away from him. By the time he’d wound through the chairs and been able to follow her, her car had been pulling away from the lot, he couldn’t see the plate or even the color. He could have shifted and followed her down the road, even at 50 mph, but the area was not ready for the white wolf to be seen. Not in the middle of 2017. He hadn’t been spotted by a human in over fifty years, and that had been in the forest on the night of a full moon. Nobody believed that shit.
He’d sulked, then retrieved Carick and told Flint and Bryce he would see them in an hour at the BBOC for sparring practice. He’d taken Carick shopping to get him soap and more clothes, thinking about the fairy woman the entire time, then they’d headed to BBOC.
Jameson didn’t wait for Carick, but headed for the building. It was good that Carick was there. A perfect opportunity for him to be introduced to the shifters who came from sparring, maybe get his message out that they were looking for switches. (You already found one.) Jameson shuddered, and pulled open the door, still thinking about that woman.
Could she possibly be a switch? She almost had to be, considering how he’d reacted to her at the diner and the fact that she’d showed up at the meeting. What had happened to blacken her eyes? And how was he going to find her now? He still had hope that the waitress who had been at the diner that day would know something, but so far she hadn’t returned from the backcountry.
