by Lexi George
It was that crazy orange moon.
She needed to keep her wits for Daddy’s sake. Anything could happen to him in a bar full of moon-drunk supernaturals.
She dug her nails into her palms. They were longer and sharper than they’d been a moment ago, thanks to the excitement and heat in the air. The pain cleared her head and kept her focused.
“Sonofabitchholyshitfriggingdamnbastard. It’s like National Freaking Geographic in here,” Daddy said.
He kept cussing, the swear words pouring out of him in a steady stream. It was like a dam had burst inside him, and maybe it had. Daddy had given up cussing along with booze when he found Jesus. Somewhere, Jesus was shaking his head in consternation, ’cause Daddy had lapsed tonight, in a big way.
Daddy’s eyes widened as a wild boar squealed and trotted across the room, its hooves skittering on the wooden floor. “Hawg,” he said in a strangled voice.
Poor Daddy was on overload. Beck knew how he felt. She was on overload, too. She had the shakes and her skin felt two sizes too small.
She shoved him to the floor behind the bar. “Stay down,” she said. He gaped up at her, his face slack with shock. “It’s not usually like this,” she heard herself say. Why was she making excuses? They’d gone their separate ways years ago. She didn’t owe him an explanation. “Most of the time, it’s pretty boring. It’s the moon.”
“Moon,” Daddy said.
A deer, startled by the noise—but even more by the hungry alligator slithering toward it—jumped through a window in a shower of glass. The alligator gave a hiss of frustration, snapped its jaws at a beagle, and missed.
Beck lost sight of the gator as Earl’s relatives poured out of the woodwork in a froth of slim-boned, narrow-faced fury, at least a dozen of them, male and female alike. That was the problem with Skinners. You took on one Skinner, you took on the whole sorry lot, and they were always spoiling for a fight.
There were several weasels in the pack, but Beck spotted a few possums, a couple of foxes, a raccoon, a bony yard dog, and a bobcat in the fracas, all with the Skinner crafty looks. They threw themselves into the scrap with gusto.
Animals fought in clumps or scrabbled across the slippery floor in a frenzy to escape. The noise level was incredible, a deafening cacophony of yips, squawks, barks, growls, bleats, grunts, and hisses. In a matter of moments, the place was a mess, the floor a landmine of overturned chairs, tables, and shattered bottles. Plastic glasses rolled across the floor between islands of discarded clothing and shoes. The yeasty odor of spilled beer mixed with the fumes of hard liquor and the musky scent of hot mammals.
A skunk walked by, tail held high in indignation. Beck clapped her hand over her nose and mouth at the pungent smell. Good Lord, it would take more than a mop and a bucket of Pine-Sol to get that out.
She glanced back at the two who’d started it all. The mastiff shook Earl, flecks of foam flying from his strong jaws. The dog flung the weasel aside. Earl hit the wall with a thump and slid to the floor. The mastiff turned his attention to the bobcat. The feline answered with a challenging yowl. Come on, POS, the bobcat seemed to say, I’ll eat yo’ lunch.
Behind the snarling, spitting pair, Earl shifted into an enormous boa constrictor. Beck blinked at the reptile in surprise. The snake was at least ten or twelve feet long and as big around as her thigh. Earl was either more powerful than she’d realized, or juiced up on something other than beer.
“Snake,” she screeched as Earl slithered toward the oblivious dog. “Bigass snake.”
The mastiff, deep in the grip of cat frenzy and oblivious to the danger, kept barking. Too late, the dog gave a startled yip as the snake wrapped him in its massive coils and squeezed.
“Lord a-mercy, he’s gonna kill him,” Beck said. Kicking off her girly shoes, she leaped over the bar.
“Rebekah, no,” Conall shouted.
She ignored him and made a beeline for the snake, or as much of a beeline as she could make in a room full of tumbling, snarling animals. The floor was a land mine of broken glass and slippery with spilled drinks. She pushed and shoved her way through the melee, thrusting her hands into clumps of snarling animals as she went. At her touch, animals shuddered and resumed their human form. They lay on the floor, panting and shivering, bleeding from various wounds, and too startled and weak from the abrupt change to move.
Her talent for undoing came in handy in a bar for supernaturals. She couldn’t undo everything, of course, but she could make a shifter revert, no problem. In her experience, it was easier to deal with a naked drunk than a riled-up animal, although neither ranked high on her list of favorites.
A few of the kith, including Beck and Toby, returned to their human form fully clad when they shifted. Most, unfortunately, did not. The result of Beck’s “undoing” was a bar full of naked people.
Naked, confused, ugly people.
Beck put her hands on a golden retriever with a graying muzzle, averting her gaze as an older woman with breasts like two deflated balloons appeared in its stead. The man lying on the floor beside her was no prize. Beck guessed him to be in his mid-forties, though he could be younger. Skinners had a reputation for hard living. He’d been a possum before she’d touched him. Patches of gray fur clung to his skin, and a skinny, hairless tail still twitched between his flabby butt cheeks. Ugh.
Something made her look back. Conall strode toward her, his face tight with anger. A cloak of shadows surrounded him, and his perpetual aura of kickass pulsed visibly hotter. Animals and people scrambled out of his way.
What was he so riled up about? It wasn’t his bar being torn off the hinges.
No time to worry about it. She had to stop Earl from killing that dog. Kith had never killed kith in Beck’s, and she meant to keep it that way.
She’d almost reached them when a long, trembling shriek stopped her in her tracks. A second horrible scream followed, shattering the night. The hair on the back of Beck’s neck rose, and cold fear slithered down her spine. The sound came from somewhere outside in the darkness, the cry of a prowling panther combined with the anguished wail of a dying woman. She’d never heard anything like it.
Toby burst in off the porch and skidded to a halt, his chest heaving. His gray braid had come undone, and he sported the beginnings of a black eye.
“Wampus Kitty,” he shouted, his mismatched eyes wide with fright.
There was a moment of frozen silence and then everybody moved at once. Earl released the dog with a hiss of alarm and slithered out the door. The mastiff scooted after him, tail between his legs. Animals and naked people trampled one another in their haste to reach the exit. In a matter of moments, the bar was deserted. From outside in the parking lot, Beck heard the roar of engines starting and the screech of tires on gravel as folks fled in their vehicles.
She glanced around the bar, trying to assess the damage. The lighted MILLER sign on one wall was busted, there were a few broken chairs, and one of the windows had been shattered, but otherwise the damage seemed minimal. Aside from the clinging odor of skunk, that is. She’d have to remember to ask Cassie Ferguson if she had an anti-skunky funk spell in her repertoire.
Most importantly, the glass bar was still intact, she noted with relief. If those demons had gotten out, all hell would have broken loose. Things had been quiet for so long that she’d never worried about it.
That wasn’t the case anymore. Two bar fights in a matter of weeks. Tomorrow she’d ask Conall to take custody of the demons. One less thing to worry about.
Toby whimpered in disgust. “I smell skunk.”
“No kidding,” Beck said. “What’s a Wampus Kitty?”
“It’s an Ewah, an evil critter that walks on two legs in the form of a mountain lion.” Toby glanced over his shoulder, like he expected something horrible to burst through the door. “My old granny was part Cherokee. She said when the Wampus Kitty screams somebody’s gonna die and be buried in three days.”
“It’s just a story, Tobias,” Be
ck said. “Nobody’s going to die.”
“You heard that scream.” Toby shuddered. “You saw the way everybody hightailed it outta here. The Wampus Kitty is real, all right.”
Tommy came in from the porch with Annie on one shoulder. “Is it over? Did it work?”
“Did what work?” Beck asked.
“Folks were fighting outside,” Tommy said. “Then they started turning into animals. I saw Toby get punched, and people going at it in the bar. I told Annie we needed to stop it before somebody got hurt, and so she did it.”
“Did what?” Beck asked.
Tommy reached up and rubbed Annie’s ears. “Show ’em, Annie.”
Annie’s mouth dropped open, growing wider and wider, the vast cavern bristling with teeth. A familiar, terrifying scream echoed from the enormous opening.
Toby’s eyes bugged. “Holy shit, Annie’s the Wampus Kitty.”
Annie hushed and her mouth shrank to its former dainty size. Lifting a paw, she proceeded to wash her face.
“Ain’t she something?” Tommy said, looking pleased as punch. “ ‘Annie,’ I says, ‘we got to stop that fight ’fore they wreck the place.’ Next thing I know, she lets out a scream. Some folks were so skeered they jumped in the river. I almost jumped in after ’em, and then I remembered the gators.” He shivered. “They’d eat a ripe one like me, for sho’.”
Toby snarled deep in his throat and backed away. “Get that damn cat out of here. She’s bad luck.”
“Toby, you don’t mean that,” Beck said.
“The hell I don’t.”
Annie jumped off Tommy’s shoulder and streaked into the night.
“Annie,” Tommy cried. He gave Toby a wrathful glare. “You hurt her feelings. You better hope she comes back.”
“Or what?” Toby said, glaring back at him.
“Or I might decide to eat yo’ brains after all,” Tommy said. “That is, if you had any, you superstitious hick.”
He lumbered out the door after the kitten.
“Well, she is bad luck,” Toby said defiantly. “And it ain’t superstitious if it’s true. A zombie’s bad enough, but we can’t have no Wampus Kitty in a bar. Bad for business. She’ll run the customers off.”
“You’re prejudiced,” Beck said, wanting to shake him. “You don’t like cats. That’s what this is really about.”
“I’m a dog,” Toby said. “I’m supposed to hate cats. It’s in the handbook. And this ain’t no regular cat. This here is a feline harbinger of doom.”
“She’s a kitten with a big meow. You’re being ridiculous, Toby.”
“You’ll get rid of that cat, unless you want the customers peeing themselves.”
“The kith have enough problems without turning on one another,” Beck said. “Annie broke up the fight. You owe her an apology.”
“I ain’t apologizing to no damn cat, especially that one.”
“Fine, be that way,” Beck said, limping for the door.
She shrieked as she was swung off her feet and pressed against a hard, warm chest.
“Let me go,” she said, scowling at Conall. “I have to find Annie and Tommy.”
“No, you are hurt. Do not worry about the zombie and the kitten. They are commiserating at the end of the dock.”
“How do you know?”
“I am Dalvahni.”
Three words, but they were spoken with casual arrogance. I am Dalvahni. End of subject. Of all the pompous, egotistical . . .
He was so full of hot air it was a miracle he didn’t float off into space. The only thing he didn’t add was and you’re not. But he might as well have. It was sure as hell implied.
He strode toward the kitchen with her in his arms, his shoes crunching over broken glass and bits of plastic.
“I’m fine,” Beck said, squelching the urge to kick her feet like some helpless movie chick. “I need to check on Hank and the band.” She caught a glimpse of her dad standing behind the bar, looking dazed and lost. “And Daddy. I need to make sure he gets home all right. He’s not used to this.”
“He is not alone,” Conall said. “You needlessly put yourself in danger.”
“Things were getting out of hand. Somebody had to stop it.”
“It did not have to be you. I am a warrior. You should have let me settle it. Instead, you allowed yourself to be savaged by a bunch of wild animals. ’Twill be a miracle if you do not get an infection or some dread disease.”
“The kith don’t get sick and we don’t get diseases.”
“Thank the gods,” Conall said with feeling.
“Put me down,” Beck said. “That’s an order. You work for me now. You have to do what I say.”
“Not when you are hurt. When you are hurt, you have to do what I say.”
Beck stared at him in disbelief. She was going to have an aneurism, and it was his fault. She’d way underestimated him on the batshit crazy thing. Plain and simple, he drove her nuts. Whatever had made her think she’d last a week around him? It had only been a couple of hours and she was already out of her tree.
A week with Conall Dalvahni and she’d be certifiable.
Chapter Ten
Conall carried her into the office and plunked her down on top of the desk. Retracing his steps, he flipped on the lights and shut the door. An interior one-way window looked out onto the bar. Her dad was moving around in the other room setting tables and chairs to rights. She heard hammering: Toby, boarding up the broken window. There was still no sign of Hank or the band.
“I should fire your ass,” she said, not bothering to hide her belligerence. “What do you think of that?”
Conall closed the gap between them in two strides. Jemima, he smelled good, clean and crisp, like deep woods under winter frost.
“I think you curse too much,” he said, towering over her. “I also think you are trying to goad me into leaving because I make you nervous.”
He was right, of course. He made her nervous as hell. Not that she’d let him know it. She adjusted the skintight dress for the umpteenth time and slid him a furtive glance, trying to gauge his mood. A dark nimbus of energy still swirled around him, but his impassive expression was firmly back in place. Same old stern, drop-dead gorgeous Conall, perfect specimen of a perfect race.
What would it be like to be so calm and assured? she wondered with a stab of envy. Never frightened or confused, never in doubt, never a flicker of self-loathing. Sure of himself and of his place and purpose in the universe.
“Huh,” she blustered, her gaze on his hard jaw. He had a very nice mouth, firm lipped and sensual. “You wish. I think you’re the one who’s nervous. I think you’ve been nervous since you found out about the kith. I think the fact that we exist rocks your world, because it means you don’t know everything, after all.”
A smile tugged at the corners of his stern mouth. “You have a high opinion of me.”
“You have a high opinion of yourself.”
He chuckled. The sound shot straight down her spine and settled between her legs, where it did some very interesting things.
“The kith do not disturb my equanimity,” he said. “You do.”
Beck glanced up at him in surprise. Big mistake. He had beautiful eyes, black, glittering, and mesmerizing. She fell into them, tumbling head over heels into space.
“Oh, yeah?”
He leaned closer, his mouth mere inches from hers. The air pulsed around them and she held her breath, afraid that he would kiss her, terrified that he would not.
“Yes,” he said softly. “You petrify me.”
She petrified him? Mr. Implacable, Mr. Emotionless, Mr. I Have Some Knowledge of Dragons? Oh, please.
She drew back, breaking the tension between them. “Right, like I believe that bullshit.”
“You mock me, but I speak the truth. The Dalvahni do not lie.”
Reaching past her, he opened a desk drawer and removed a blue and white plastic box.
“Hey, how’d you know where I keep the f
irst-aid kit?”
He raised an imperious brow.
“Never mind,” she said, throwing up her hands. “For God’s sake, don’t cue the I am Dalvahni speech.”
He set the plastic box beside her on the desk and inspected her foot. Carefully removing a sliver of glass, he turned his attention to the other foot. His hands felt hot against her bare skin. Heat spread up her legs to her thighs and belly. Good Lord, she was panting, hot as a fox, and all the guy had done was touch her feet.
She forgot her annoyance. She forgot everything but the feel of his skin on hers. His head was bent, and his dark, shaggy locks brushed the back of his collar. Her dreamy gaze drifted over him, taking in his broad chest and wide shoulders.
He was a big guy and strong. He made her feel dainty, and at five-feet-nine that was hard to do. Muscles rippled beneath the fabric of his white cotton shirt as he went about the business of inspecting her scrapes. It was fascinating; better than television. It was Hot Guy TV, starring Conall Dalvahni.
He smelled good, too. He was freaking smell-o-vision.
She had to tuck her hands beneath her hips to keep from yanking him down on top of her and having her wicked way with him. That would shock the hell out of Captain Grimly Perfect, now wouldn’t it?
Pain yanked her from her whirlpool of lust as he probed the edges of a deep cut on her heel.
“Ow, that hurts.”
“Be still. I cannot fathom what possessed you to charge into the fray like that.”
“I had to stop Earl before he killed that guy.”
“Earl?”
“The snake.”
“Ah,” he said. Brushing aside her protests, Conall removed some pre-moistened cloths from the first-aid kit and set to work cleaning the dozen or so scratches on her arms and legs. He turned his attention to a particularly ugly scratch on her right calf. “And why, may I ask, did you feel it necessary to accomplish this feat unshod?”
“The floor was covered in goo. I didn’t want to ruin my shoes.”
“Little fool. So you would ruin your feet instead.”
The words were spoken without heat. Releasing her leg, he dabbed at a welt on her wrist.
