The Shifter's Secret Baby Girl

by T. S. Ryder

  I spend the next three days wracking my brains to figure out a way of getting dragon hair. On the fourth day, I get an email from Glance.

  Dear Ms. Redwood,

  We are happy to inform you that you have been selected for an audition.

  You are requested to visit Glance Modeling Agency (GMA) tomorrow, between 3:00 - 5:00 for a portfolio shoot.

  Please do note that this is only the first step. Should your shoot capture our interest, you will be signed by us. If the decision is otherwise, you will be informed via email.

  Best wishes,

  Erin Vam

  I call Bats the second I get the email.

  “Batsy! You won’t believe what just happened,” I squeal with delight.

  “What, you’re not calling me Bathilda anymore?”

  “You broke my window.”

  “I am sorry. I had to get you to the meeting.”

  “Whatever,” I say, not wanting to talk more about the incident. “I might be becoming a model. I have been selected for the audition. If I make it, we are so going to take Hollywood by storm.”

  “Good for you,” she says, not even trying to hide her indifference.

  “Bitch, you’re jealous.”

  “I am not bothered in the least,” she says. “If I wanted to be a model, I would have come up with a spell for it ages ago.”

  “Is that even allowed?” I ask, not knowing whether she’s serious or just fucking with me.

  “Is love potion allowed?” she retorts, taking a jab at me. It’s the only potion I use—I am hot, I know, but I can’t play games so I use the love potion instead when I need to get laid.

  “Just tell me!”

  “You’d know if you listened to Minerva, or listened to any of us in general.”

  I hang up the phone. I am happy, excited and have no tolerance for a buzzkill right now.

  That night, I find the grimoire in the kitchen, in the cabinet under the sink where I keep the broom, cauldron and other crap related to magic. I try to read, skim through a few pages, but then I get bored and just turn a few more pages without looking at any of them until I finally put it away. That shit is boring.

  The next day, I head to GMA for my audition. I lean against the brick wall outside, pull out a pack of Marlboro from my purse and light a cigarette. I flick the cigarette butts out on the pavement as I wait for my name to be called. The other girls wait inside, in the waiting room, giggling together, taking selfies, caking their faces with makeup and preening. Suddenly I remember that I forgot to put on base to hide my freckles, but I ain’t going to ask any of those stuck-up bitches for it. If I don’t make it, it won’t be the end of the world.

  After almost an hour, my name is called. A tired receptionist points me in the right direction without even looking up. The second I step inside the audition room, it is as if I have been transported to a different world, possibly third world. It is nothing like I expected.

  The room is starkly simple. There’s a huge green screen serving as the backdrop. A guy is hunched behind a camera while another is adjusting lights. An old man with pale blonde hair is standing opposite the screen, probably to tell girls how to pose and a small woman is flitting about, doing god knows what.

  “Go stand there,” says the blonde-haired guy, pointing toward the center of the screen. I am offended by the way he orders me, but I do as I am told. My light auburn hair is long, slightly rough, with natural curls that reach my ass. I always leave them open, untied.

  “Tie it up,” he says.

  “Tie up what?” I say, defiant.

  “Your hair, dimwit.”

  “Take that down a notch, will you,” I say, pissed at his condescension.

  “Yael, throw this one out,” he shouts to the small woman.

  “I’ll walk out,” I say, glaring him in the eyes, then start walking toward the door.

  “Come back,” he calls after me.

  “What?” I look at him square in the eyes.

  “Too much attitude,” he says, suddenly calm.

  I hold my head high, my straight-edged nose cheekily returning his earlier condescension, “Deal with it.”

  “Patrick, that’s the one. That’s what I am looking for.”

  The blonde-haired guy suddenly becomes nice, calls Yael—who is his assistant, I find out—to help set my hair the way he wants. Then he comes to me and adjusts my face and posture, using his hands on me like I am an inanimate object.

  “Ready,” he says to the cameraman. I flash a smile for the photo.

  “Don’t smile,” he says. “Not what we are after. Show us that attitude.”

  Once the shoot is done, the blonde-haired guy—his name is Fred—escorts me outside and tells me that I will hear from him soon. Apparently he’s second only to Erin and his chief job is finding new talent and signing models.

  I saunter my way home, happy to be a potential candidate for a job where I won’t have to work.

  Chapter Three - How to Find a Dragon

  Cyrene

  The week that followed the audition is a blur. Erin, I heard, loved me and I was presented with a contract that I readily signed. The offers were coming in and the agency was booking some serious gigs for me. The days were spent with shoots in studios, shoots at different locations and more shoots. I got fired from my morning job because I had to go for shoots.But I was still working, juggling shifts with my other job. I wasn’t making any money from the modeling yet and the rent wasn’t going to pay itself. I told myself the Sufi adage “This too shall pass,” constantly. I knew good times were right around the corner, that things were about to change. I just had to wait a little while longer.

  After my evening shift at the coffee shop, I come back to my apartment, ready to crash. It has been a long day with shoots all morning and work right after it. I get in bed, wrap my arms and legs around two pillows and stare out the broken window. And then it hits me: I have to find dragon hairs! The next coven meeting is in seventeen days and I have to score a clump of dragon hair before that. But the question is, how do I find a dragon?

  I think hard, really hard, return to the grimoire, flip a hundred pages and then decide that this task should be left for the weekend when I finally have some time off.

  During the next three days, I end up getting to know three other girls who have also been signed by GMA. They are all as fake as anyone can get, but they pretend to be friends with me and I play along. They plan to go to Greystone Manor, a place where the Hollywood royalty and the elite come to party. One of the girls, Maya, comes up with a bet to see which one of us can land the hottest guy when we go to the club. I pretend to not be interested, but I am determined to show them what I am capable of.

  I check my purse and see that I am all out of love potion, so I make an excuse with the girls and tell them I can’t go with them today. They don’t mind either, naturally, they need hours to dress and doll up before heading to the club. We agree to go the next day, which happens to be a Saturday night. It buys me enough time to brew a love potion.

  When I get back home, I instantly remember my dragon hair quest and I postpone that to Sunday because I have some serious business on Saturday night. I head to the kitchen and lay the ingredients for the love potion on the counter:

  5 grams of moonstones

  A cup of moonshine

  A spoonful of rose thorns

  A handful of nightshade

  Adder’s fork

  A strand of my own hair—this makes sure that whoever drinks it falls in love with me

  I may not like being a witch, but I am a pro at brewing potions. This recipe is my own, a modified version of the original love potion. With this recipe, the charm wears off in just twelve hours, so by the time you wake up, the guy is already gone.

  I place the Adder’s fork and a strand of my hair in a pot and place it on the stove, turning the heat high, until the tongue is absolutely burnt to crisp—this is for deception, a key ingredient. I crush the burnt Adder’s fo
rk with the back of a spoon, turning it to smooth powder, turn down the heat and pour moonshine over it. The pot hisses as cold moonshine dances over its silver surface. Then I throw in the nightshade and rose thorns and let the mixture boil; meanwhile, I crush the moonstone in a grinder—they aren’t that hard. As the mixture comes to a boil, I turn off the heat and sprinkle the moonstone powder over it, twirling the mixture with a spoon. Perfect!

  I pour the mixture into five tiny vials and then I am all set for tomorrow. I look at the grimoire lying on my bedside table, opened randomly from the middle and contemplate whether or not to try to find out something about the dragon thing. Then I close it and turn on the TV instead. I figure, if I am going to go through the grimoire, I might as well start from the beginning and study every page carefully.

  On Saturday evening, I stand in front of the mirror, dressed and ready to go. I am wearing a tight black dress that falls to the floor—very witchy of me, I know—and puts my boobs, a fantastic pair of DD’s on display, my bra pushing them closer together. I let my hair loose, as usual, letting light auburn curls fall all the way to my waist, both at the front and the back. I look at my face up close, my freckles covered in powder as translucent as my skin, my lids heavy with simple green eyeshadow and black eyeliner, made heavier still by my mascara; I can scarcely keep my eyes open, I look drunk. I put on bright, pink, glossy lipstick and smack my lips one last time before I leave.

  I meet up with the girls outside Greystone Manor. The line is very long, but we have the passes from GMA. We skip the line, people shouting at us and wave our passes in front of the guard’s face. He doesn’t stop us.

  Although all four of us go in together, we keep a fair distance between ourselves when we enter. We are all standing at least an arm’s length from each other. None of us wants to share our spotlight, in this dark bar. The music is blaring through the speakers. The dance floor is filled to the brim and slowly overflowing, as drunk girls continue throwing themselves at guys. We make our way to the bar and order our drinks. Then we sit on the barstools and sip on our cocktails, eyeing the crowd, looking for the guy that we will try to win.

  And then he enters. Maya almost coughs out her drink, choking, the instant she sees him. The guy is radiating heat even in the dark. He’s fucking radioactive! And then I realize that the girls have teamed up against me, trying to set me up for failure, not knowing what I am capable of.

  Anna, one of the girls, swivels her barstool and turns to me. “Let’s start with you, Cyrene.” Maya and the third girl, Liz, nod in approval. “That guy,” she says, her manicured hand holding her drink, a long finger pointing in his direction.

  I turn my head but keep my eyes fixed on the guy, as the girls giggle like a bunch of morons. “Two shots of vodka,” I say to the bartender and search blindly in my purse for a vial of love potion. The bartender pushes the shots toward me as I find the vial and clutch it between my fingers. Then I see the guy looking in my direction and wonder if he’s checking out the girls or me.

  But he’s hot and I need to get laid—and win the bet. So I pour the potion in his drink, mix it with a finger and walk toward him with the drinks in my hand.

  “Vodka?” I extend my arm toward him, pushing the glass towards his face. He pauses for a moment, looks at me and then smiles. His savage grin reveals rows of perfect, pearly white teeth that glow in the neon lights. As his lips part, I pour the charmed drink in his mouth.

  “Dance?” He grabs me by the waist and leads me to the dance floor without waiting for my answer. I take my shot, turn around to see the girls gawking, quickly turning their eyes away from me. “I win,” I say to myself under my breath.

  “Sorry, what?” he whispers in my ear, his breath hot against my neck. “Nothing,” I say and walk to the dance floor.

  “You are stiff,” I say to him, trying to raise my voice high enough that he can hear me. He can’t. So I grab his hand and take him to the bar. We get a bottle of vodka and then walk out of the bar.

  “Want a drink,” I say, offering the bottle to him. He declines. “More for me,” I wink.

  “You are cute,” he says.

  I laugh and take a swig from the bottle. We walk away from crowds, my heels clacking on the pavement. I know the potion has taken effect, I can see it in his eyes that he is smitten by me. I want to take him home, I want to take him, but I am tipsy and enjoying walking out on the streets of Los Angeles with him on my side.

  I take off my heels and hook my arm with his.

  “Want me to carry you?” He asks, smiling a brilliant boyish smile. It’s uncanny, really, how easy scoring him was. I wonder if he’s that easy in real life.

  “No, I’ll walk.”

  The moon is nowhere to be seen and the cars disappear like stars behind clouds as we turn another street into a residential area, not knowing where we are going.

  “Let’s sit there,” he says, pointing toward a bench outside someone’s garden. I take another swig of vodka and sit next to him.

  “Have a sip,” I say, “it will help you loosen up.” He shakes his head, but I get up and pour directly into his mouth from the bottle. He drinks, and then pulls me onto his lap. As I take another swig, he takes the bottle from my hand.

  “That’s enough,” he says.

  “I am hardly tipsy,” I protest, but he empties the bottle into the garden. Suddenly, a clearing between the clouds in the sky reveals the moonlit sprays us with moon dust and as I look into his eyes, I see him looking into mine. His eyes are blue, like sapphires, shining brilliantly. He pushes a stray strand of hair away from my eyes and cups my face in his hand, rubbing my cheeks gently with his thumb, wiping away the foundation.

  “You are so beautiful, why do you hide it with this powder?”

  I shrug, leaning my head back, letting my hair fall back. He pulls me closer, caressing my back, his hands soft as the wind.

  “I am Dell, by the way.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I say, “you won’t remember any of this by morning.”

  “Of course I will,” he says.

  I lean in to kiss him. He keeps his mouth closed but doesn’t push me back. “Not now,” he says, “you are too drunk.”

  For a moment there I am dumbstruck. He notices the change in my expression and begins to explain, “I just want you to be yourself when you kiss me.”

  I force a smile. The potion didn’t work. How is that even possible?

  “What’s your name?” Dell asks.

  “Cyrene,” I say. “Cyrene Redwood.”

  I try to wrap my head around it. The ingredients were the same as always. I gave him the spiked drink, poured it down his throat myself, so how can it be? How can the potion not work on a human?

  Then it hits me.

  I am not with a human. Dell is not human.

  I am with a dragon, a Dragon Shifter.

  Chapter Four - The Odd One Out

  Dell

  The crowd is a blur as I enter the Greystone Manor. There are tens of black shadows drinking, dancing and huddled over tables whispering in groups. Among all the silhouettes, there is just one that stands out, looking at me out of the corner of her eye. She doesn’t just standout, she’s outstanding. Her pale skin luminous in the neon lights, her gaze fixed on me. She orders two shots and pours something in one, which she later makes me drink. I know instantly that she’s a witch, but she has no idea what I am.

  She is in possession of ethereal beauty and it seems fitting. No human can look this good. I lead her to the down floor, her hands soft in mine. I look into her eyes, green as spring leaves, sprinkled with turquoise. She dances in front of me, drunk, swaying to the beats. I can’t stop looking at her. I am smitten, I know and it’s not because of the potion she mixed in my drink. Those don’t work on my kind.

  “You are stiff,” she says. I try to dance, I can dance well, but I am mesmerized by her gorgeous face and can’t stop looking. She takes me by the hand, gets a bottle of vodka from the bar and takes me out. I wa
lk with her, just enjoying the view of this serene creature as she saunters beside me. She is lost in a world of her own, taking me for granted, just going with the flow. Or, perhaps, she thinks her potion has worked and she won’t have to try.

  She keeps offering me the drink, but I am already drunk from her touch. Every time I try to talk, she beats about the bush, refusing to answer. We end up sitting on a bench in a quiet street in LA, and as she pours vodka down my throat, I pull her onto my lap. She wraps a long strand of curly hair around her finger, looking at me in the eyes. Then, out of nowhere, she leans in to kiss me. I don’t stop her, but I don’t kiss her back. Not like this, that’s not how I want to do it. When I kiss her, when she kisses me, I want both of us to remember.

  She looks offended. Her beautiful expression is suddenly serious. It seems that she’s not good with getting rejected, although I didn’t reject her. I only told her she was too drunk.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Cyrene,” she says. “Cyrene Redwood.”

  She remains silent for a moment, her head turning to look around the empty street. Then she looks back into my eyes.

  “You could really use a haircut,” she says.

  “No, I am fine,” I say, holding her gaze.

  “I am serious,” she tells me, reaching for my hair.

  I push her hand away gently. “Don’t touch my hair. I am touchy about them. I go for what I want.”

  She puts a finger and thumb in her mouth and whistles loudly.