by Eva Chase
The woman who’d let us in didn’t appear to be the succubus he’d mentioned. She went over to one of the little tables by a platform ringed with soft purple lights. A few other ladies with big hair and bigger cleavage were sitting there, nibbling at a plate of nachos. The tangy scent of the salsa hung in the air alongside sour notes of alcohol. They didn’t go for the bah-dah-boom music during off-hours, though—in weird contrast to the setting, a classical flute piece was lilting from the speakers.
Pickle squirmed in my purse, and I set my hand on it to hide his movement. I didn’t see anything supernatural about the gathered dancers. Omen strode straight past them and the stage to a door at the back of the main room.
Just before he reached it, a man opened it. Or maybe I should say a goliath. The dude filled the entire doorframe, taller even than Thorn’s six-foot-and-quite-a-few-inches and equally muscle-bound.
Not one of the wingéd, though. His skin had a faintly blue-ish cast that I knew from experience meant troll. How he explained that to the mortals he dealt with in his gang’s activities, I didn’t know—but maybe when you were that big and scary, people tended not to hassle you about the exact hue of your skin.
“Omen,” he said in a thick baritone, his narrow gaze jerking from the hellhound shifter to me. “And friends.” He must be referring to the others he could sense in the shadows.
“Good to see you, Laz,” Omen said in his usual cool, even voice. “I appreciate you all making the time at such short notice.”
A sharper male voice with a hint of humor carried from the room behind Laz. “Aw, come off it, Omen. We know as well as you do that there’d be hell to pay if we forgot what we owe you, possibly literally. Get yourselves in here, already. Let’s have a look at this troop you’ve assembled.”
The troll stepped back, and we walked into a back room that disproved Omen’s spiel about the strip club front being all for the woman in the bunch. Pin-up posters hung on the plaster walls, a few of them of hunky dudes showing off the full kit and caboodle, but mostly sprawled women with come-hither eyes.
To avoid having my own eyeballs assaulted by too many pairs of perky nipples, I trained my gaze on the group lounging on the leather sofas that created an L along the far walls.
My nose told me before anything else did that there was a werewolf in the bunch. I’d had dealings with a couple of them before through the Fund’s work, and anyplace they spent much time always took on a distinctive smell, like musk and pine and a hint of wet dog. Soon appearing as a new candle scent, no doubt.
From the look of the three figures on the sofas, Mr. Wolf was the guy with the scruffy brown hair and scruffier beard whose eyes glinted an eerie yellow. At his left sat a slim man with skin so pale it was nearly translucent. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was fae or some related being.
Reclining on the other sofa was the succubus Omen had mentioned, a voluptuous woman in a lacy baby-doll dress who hadn’t bothered to pause in painting her toenails at our entrance. The fall of her wavy honey-blond hair didn’t quite disguise gem-like protrusions twinkling like rubies just behind the corners of her jaw. She must pass those off as some kind of piercing.
The trio shimmered into their physical forms around Omen and me. Snap stuck close to my side, his arm tucked next to mine, and when the succubus finally looked up, Ruse tipped his head to her with a knowing glance. Thorn, who was no longer smoking from various body parts thanks to the shadowkind’s quick recovery time, flexed his shoulders and appeared to size up the troll. The other dude might have a few inches on him, but I’d bet all my worldly goods—limited as those were at the moment—that the wingéd’s fighting skills could overcome that difference no problem.
The werewolf stood up slowly as if he didn’t want to look too eager to welcome us. His voice was the one that had called us in—he must be the leader of this pack.
“Quite a collection,” he said, and gave Omen a slanted grin. “Even a mortal. Although I see you’ve managed to break her already.”
My jaw clenched at the mention of my bandaged wrist.
Omen shrugged with a casual air. “That’s one of the reasons we’re here. Birch, you can handle a wrist fracture, can’t you?”
The pale man sprang up like a tugged branch swinging into place, and I caught the rustle of the few silvery leaves mixed with his ash-gray hair. Not fae—dryad. The shadowkind with affinities to plants often had healing abilities—something to do with the whole sprouting to life thing.
“I’ll need to remove the splint to take a proper look,” he said.
Omen nudged me, and I held out my arm. Bossypants was using one of his previous favors to fix up my wrist? Awfully weird when he’d just spent the last few days doing everything he could to set me up for a fall. But while he was offering—
I motioned to my shoulder. “I’ve got a bullet wound that’s still sore while you’re at it, if you have the chance.”
“That wouldn’t take long. Melding flesh is easier than bone.” Birch led me to the sofa and sat me in the spot the werewolf had vacated. As he began unwrapping my wrist, I gritted my teeth.
“Broken and shot at,” the werewolf said with obvious amusement. “You’re usually more careful than that, Omen.”
“She’s something of a disaster, but useful in other ways,” Omen said, lucky I was too busy holding in a pained gasp to chuck something at his head. “And ‘careful’ wasn’t enough to completely protect us last night. There’s a particular group of mortals who’ve taken their vendetta against our kind to another level entirely.”
As the dryad gripped my wrist and threads of a warm tingling sensation wound through the pain, Omen gave the gang’s inner circle the low-down on the Company of Light. He managed to avoid mentioning the fact that its members had captured and imprisoned him for weeks on end, I noticed.
“We’re all under threat,” he finished off. “It’s clear these mortals won’t be happy until they’ve eradicated every shadowkind in existence.”
The werewolf had listened intently to the story, but now he scoffed. “They don’t stand a chance.”
“You haven’t seen the resources they’ve gathered and the techniques they’ve worked out for overcoming us, Rex.” Omen motioned toward me. “We have to rely on her to make it a fair fight. And from what I’ve heard about the experiments they’re running—it’s not a simple matter of them looking to kill us all. They’ve got something more complex they’re working toward. Maybe something we can’t be prepared for.”
“It’s horrible,” Snap said, a waver running through his bright voice. “The things I’ve sensed from the places where they worked—they enjoy hurting us and want to hurt us more.”
The werewolf—Rex? Well, I guessed that was better than “Fido”—gave the devourer a skeptical look. “I doubt you need to worry your pretty head about it too much, Sunshine.” He raised his eyebrows at Omen. “Where’d you dig that one up?”
Okay, now they were both lucky the dryad still had a firm grasp on my arm. “I don’t think you’ll be making jokes about it if they come for the bunch of you and stick you in their silver-and-iron cells,” I said.
“I’ve fought many battles across many centuries,” Thorn added in his grim tone. “I can confirm that the strategies this Company of Light is using are particularly—shamefully—effective against our kind, even those of us with strength beyond that of any human.”
“Only if they hassle us,” Rex said. “It sounds like they’ve come after you because you’ve been stirring up shit with them. Why are you sticking your neck out if it’s going to get chopped? Any shadowkind stupid enough to get snared can face the consequences for themselves.”
“When they run out of the easy pickings,” Omen started, but his argument was cut off by a grunt from the troll.
My head jerked around at the squeak that followed. Shit on a soda cracker—while I’d been distracted by Birch’s healing efforts, Pickle had squirmed his way out of my purse where I’d set it on the floor. N
ow he was bounding around by the troll’s feet, flapping the wings that couldn’t carry him more than a few feet thanks to the collector who’d had them clipped.
“What is this?” Laz asked, his lips curling in apparent disgust.
“He’s mine,” I said quickly, and then, remembering Thorn’s initial offense at the idea that I was keeping a shadowkind as a pet, “I mean, because he decided that. I couldn’t get rid of him even if I wanted to.”
Ruse chuckled. “He appears to like you, Laz.”
The troll attempted to ease Pickle away with a push of his foot, but the little dragon just scuttled around it and squeaked at him some more. A smile tugged at my lips. Now that we’d gotten Pickle friendly with Thorn, he probably figured all hulkingly intimidating shadowkind had bacon somewhere on them.
“Pickle,” I called with a cluck of my tongue. Proving my point about who called the shots in our relationship, the creature completely ignored me, now nipping at Laz’s pant leg.
“Oh, pick it up and give it a few pats,” Rex said dryly. “It’s clearly not taking no for an answer.”
The troll bent rather stiffly and scooped Pickle onto his bulging arm. The dragon immediately scurried up to perch on his shoulder, where he chirped happily. Laz straightened up, his jaw working as if he was holding back a cringe, and watched the creature warily from the corner of his eye.
I stifled a laugh. Not such a tough guy after all, huh?
As the dryad shifted his attention from my now-numbed wrist to my shoulder wound, Omen launched back into his appeal. “I’ve heard the way these mortals talk. They aren’t going to stop until they’ve wiped us all out—and one of their goals with their experiments is probably to find easier ways to identify us. They won’t leave you alone to mind your own business. We have to strike back against them hard and soon, before they become even better at incapacitating us.”
Rex clapped the hellhound shifter on the arm. “I know you’ve been through a lot and seen a lot in your time, Omen, but we’ve been living on this side for decades. I know mortals inside and out. If they come for us, they’ll regret it. This city is ours now—let them try to take it from us or us from it, and we’ll paint downtown with their blood.” His teeth bared in a fierce grin.
“They already are taking shadowkind captive right within this city,” Thorn said.
“The beings who haven’t bothered to offer our crew their loyalties can buck up or leave. Most of them are a nuisance anyway.” Rex turned back to Omen. “I owe you, sure, but not enough to dive into a war of your own making.”
“They’re the ones making it,” Omen muttered, but I could see the resignation in his expression. He’d told me from the start that there wasn’t any point in turning to other shadowkind for help. But he’d tried to convince this bunch anyway—because seeing them stay alive mattered more to him than it did to them, apparently.
As the faint throbbing in my shoulder fell away with the dryad’s magic, a prickling sensation rose up from my gut. The frustration spilled onto my tongue before I could hold back the impulse.
“You know what happens when all you think about is looking after yourself and your friends? You look around one day when everyone who could have used your help has been killed or caged, and guess what, there’s no one left to help you. But sure, go ahead and ignore the people who’ve actually dealt with the threat you’re dismissing. I’m sure you know so much more about what we’re up against than we do while you’re sitting here in your titty bar playing gangster.”
“I’ll have you know we’ve got a lot more than just titties,” the succubus said in a wry tone, but Rex whirled on me.
“You are just a hanger-on playing at being part of something special and supernatural,” he snarled. “I don’t need lectures on politics from a mortal.”
I stared right back at him. “This mortal hanger-on survived being shot with a silver bullet. Think you could do the same, wolfie?”
Ruse raised his hand to his mouth to cover a snicker.
Omen sighed and shook his head. “Don’t mind her. She doesn’t know when to shut her mouth. I’ve still got more favors to call in. We need something to drive and someplace to stay that won’t call attention to who or what we are. I assume you can offer that much?”
Rex turned to him without bothering to answer my last question. “Yes, that much I can do for you. In fact, I’ve got something that’ll count for both.” He snapped his fingers at Laz. “Quit playing with that little beasty and get me the key to the Ford.”
The troll poked tentatively at Pickle, who merely nuzzled his fingers, probably wondering when the bacon was coming. Thorn stepped in to lift the dragon off the troll’s shoulder. With visible relief, the big guy hustled away and returned with a key on a leather fob.
Rex motioned for him to hand the key over to Omen. “It’s yours, and we’re square. You can pick it up in the back left corner of the lot at King and Washington.”
Omen palmed the keys and glanced around at the others. “You all relax here while I collect our new ride. You might as well get a breather in after the night we just had. Except you.” His gaze settled on me. “You’re coming with me before you burn any bridges all the way down.”
I didn’t have any interest in hanging out with these jackasses anyway. “Thank you,” I said only to Birch, because I could be polite and an ungrateful bitch. As I tramped after Omen out of the strip club, I reveled at the easy roll of my shoulders. The dryad had some magic, all right. The numbness was already wearing off around my wrist, but that joint moved with only a slight ache now too.
I waited until we’d traveled another block before I said anything in response to Omen’s cold silence. “I mostly kept quiet. Don’t pretend I didn’t say exactly what you were thinking anyway.”
The corner of his mouth curled upward. Was that a hint of a real smile?
“You did,” he said. “If I minded, I’d be reaming you out right now. You saved me having to say it myself. Not that it made any difference—which is why I wouldn’t have said it.”
All right then. I would have left it there, the silence feeling less tense if not quite companionable, but Omen shot a penetrating look my way. “If you’re willing to say all that to a bunch of supernatural gangsters, when are you going to tell me about your fire powers?”
I blinked at him, struck by both confusion and something deeper, something more chilling than his eyes—because I wasn’t totally confused. “What are you talking about?”
That slight smile came back, but I didn’t like it this time. “You know. I wasn’t so caught up in the fight last night that I would miss you lighting that candle with nothing but strength of will. You hide it well—I started to think I’d imagined the wave of heat you sent at the pricks in the Company’s facility—but the cat’s out of the bag. You’re obviously not a shadowkind, or you couldn’t handle the metals in their armor. Is it sorcery?”
Wave of heat… I remembered the way the one guard had flinched that night as if burned, but I’d put that out of my mind as just a weird random happening. Like the weird way the fires I set when taking my leave of the collector houses I’d raided sometimes behaved too. Because assuming those incidents were anything other than random, that they had anything to do with me, would mean something was very, very wrong.
“For it to be sorcery, I’d have to be a sorcerer, wouldn’t I?” I said. “I don’t have the faintest idea how to summon shadowkind to do my bidding. I’ve never even known a sorcerer. So, sorry, I think you’re just imagining things. But while we’re talking about interesting powers, what’s the deal with the whole hellhound thing? Are you going to rain down hellfire on me the next time I piss you off?”
I didn’t really believe he would, but changing the subject made for excellent deflection. Usually. Omen was rather dogged…
Forgive me the horrible pun. Could you have resisted?
“No,” he said. “Although if you try to touch me in that state, I will sear your skin off. But you
know one power I do have? I can smell fear. You don’t actually think your connection to fire is nothing. You’re terrified of the fact that it’s something.”
I folded my arms over my chest. “For your information, the only things I’m terrified of are sharks and being forced to go into witness protection someplace with no decent Thai restaurants.”
“Say whatever you like. But if you deny it, you’re being nearly as bad as Rex and the rest. You could use that power to help our cause.”
“I don’t have any power,” I said, tamping down on the icy jolt his words had provoked in my gut. I couldn’t have any sort of supernatural skills. It was impossible by any measure I knew of, and I knew more about the shadowkind and magical goings-on than just about any mortal alive, so it simply… couldn’t be true. “And look, here’s the parking lot Rex mentioned. Let’s get on with more important, real concerns like what we’re going to be driving.”
“You’re not going to dodge the subject that— Oh, boils and brimstone.”
Omen stopped dead halfway across the lot, which was the point when it’d become obvious what “Ford” Rex had meant and how it was going to serve as both vehicle and home. Parked in the far corner was a vehicle even dorkier than his station wagon had been: the patchy blue shell of a squat camper van.
13
Omen
I could always feel a rift between the mortal realm and our own, even before it came into sight. There was a quiver in the air and a subtle flavor that tasted like salty steam. Here in the docklands, it mingled with the warble of the evening breeze over the river and the marshy scent of algae.
Rex had done me one better than handing over his clunky camper van. He might not want to stick his neck out for the rest of shadowkind, but he always had his people keeping their ears to the ground for potential threats, and he’d gotten a few reports of odd activity near this particular rift that sounded very much like the ambush I’d been caught in. The Company of Light had a few clear patterns, including that they liked to hunt near the rifts, presumably hoping to catch shadowkind who were still disoriented from the transition and so easier to disarm.
