Shadows and Light

by Cari Z

  He didn’t even need to think about it. “Of course I do.” Xian reached out and Rafael came into his embrace, knowing no matter how disturbed he was by the wreck that was Myrtea, Xian loved him unconditionally. They held each other in silence for a long time.

  “What should we do with her?” Rafael asked at last.

  “Bury her, witless boy,” Nailah interjected scornfully. “It’s not as if I want her corpse desecrating my house any longer than is absolutely necessary. Bury the bitch, and bury the rest of that vial of blood you have with her, I’m sick of having the stench of it in the air.”

  Rafael had been meaning to, he just hadn’t gotten around to getting rid of the rest of the vial yet. There was still some part of him that felt like it was worthwhile to have the blood available in case of emergencies, but one look into Xian’s perceptive eyes told him that his argument wouldn’t hold weight with the other two occupants of the house. “I’ll bury it,” he promised.

  “Now,” Nailah said pointedly. “Before she gets any fouler than she already is.”

  * * * *

  Xian and Rafael buried his wife’s body far away from the main property, in the center of a small, rocky field with no trees growing nearby. “The last thing we need is someone eating crab apples that have been fertilized by that,” Xian said, shoveling a layer of dirt over the body. “But columbines grow here. They’ll be a fitting memorial for her, and for our poor dead god.”

  Rafael nodded and uncapped the vial of blood. He tipped it over and poured the shining silver liquid into the shallow grave, dropping the vial in after it. The blood gleamed like a jeweled shroud on Myrtea’s body, and smelled like a sweet, sadistic promise. They buried it all quickly, and stacked a cairn up over the site. Xian piled on rock after rock, determined to keep animals from disturbing the body. Long after Rafael had given in to exhaustion, Xian continued his labor, until finally they lost the light. When Rafael saw the mess Xian had made of his hands, he didn’t say anything, just curled his around them and brought Xian’s bloody knuckles to his lips.

  Xian answered his unasked question anyway. “I owe her memory at least a little bit of blood and pain,” he whispered.

  Rafael fervently disagreed, but again he held his tongue on the subject and just said, “We should get these cleaned up before Nailah sees them.” She would see them anyway, but hopefully she wouldn’t feel the need to chide her brother any harder than he was already berating himself.

  It was harder for Xian to reconcile himself to killing Myrtea than any of them had thought it would be. He never said anything, but Rafael felt the weight of his lover’s guilt in the way Xian would touch him late at night when he thought Rafael was asleep, as though he was something delicate and fragile that Xian feared breaking. He could see the guilt in Xian’s eyes at times as he sat lost in thought before the fire, or when he drove his body to the breaking point under the weak winter sun, as though he was trying to punish himself. On those days Rafael would do as much as he could with words and soothing caresses, and when it wasn’t enough, the firm clasp of steel and the edge of a knife substituted for Xian’s mental purgatory very well.

  Rafael had thought he’d learned everything there was to know about Xian’s body during his illness, but there was a vast difference between treating a sickness of the flesh and a sickness of the mind. Xian communicated his needs as best he could, but Rafael found himself in the position of teacher more often than he’d ever thought he would be, when Xian asked for more than he could take. He argued the point, of course, but Rafael was more than happy to argue it right back.

  “You’re human now,” Rafael reminded his lover one night after he’d creased his back from top to bottom with the long-tailed whip, drawn blood and scratched at the wounds, and yet still Xian had wanted more. “Your body has limits that need to be respected. This will take long enough to heal as it is.”

  “I almost wish it wouldn’t.” Xian’s voice was small as he said it, like he almost hoped Rafael wouldn’t hear him. He continued his confession though. “I have something now that she always wanted, with someone I always wanted. It feels as though the gods have been very unfair to Myrtea, and unjustly gracious to me.”

  “If they have, it doesn’t do to question them,” Rafael reminded him. “And either way, I think you’ve suffered more than enough to satisfy any god.” When he offered Xian a kiss, his lover accepted, and they were able to put away the whip and be together without the reminder of Myrtea between them.

  The lapses into guilt faded with time and care, and by the spring Xian’s burden of guilt was exorcised enough that he could visit the grave. Rafael went with him.

  The burial field was covered with columbines, abnormally thick with them. At the field’s edges the flowers were their usual blue and white, but as one moved toward the center, their color changed, becoming redder and darker until, immediately surrounding Myrtea’s cairn, the flowers were so dark a purple that they were nearly black. It was a curiously beautiful effect, and the two of them stood and looked at it for a long time, Rafael’s long arms wrapped firmly around Xian’s waist. Finally Xian turned his head to look back at his lover, and they shared a slow, sweet kiss. “We can leave now,” Xian said.

  “All right,” Rafael agreed.

  Neither of them ever returned to the field but the columbines, the funerary flower of a demigod and his handmaiden, spread. Their petals were larger, their scent was sweeter and their growing season longer than any other of their type. If outlandish stories sprang up about their sudden appearance, those who believed such things gladly welcomed them into their omnibus of the strange and magical. Those who heard the tales and knew the truth, however, were simply, and gratefully, silent.

  Also available from Pride Publishing:

  Surviving the Change

  Cari Z

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Blythe wiped down the nearly deserted bar and asked himself, yet again, why he’d taken this job. Did he really need the money that badly? Couldn’t he get by on a work-study position, ten bucks an hour with the perk of being an office gopher? Then he remembered the state of his car—damaged and immobile—his apartment, which was behind on rent, and the cost of textbooks—your soul or your first-born child—and reassessed his priorities. Yeah, he needed this job. It had been good of his landlord to point him towards it, but now, three months into the fall semester and his brand new life, he wished he’d looked around more. Bartending was tedious. The live acts were terrible and dealing with drunks sucked. Dealing with supernatural, superhuman drunks sucked even harder.

  It figured, it really did, that he’d get a job working in one of the shape-shifting population’s favourite watering holes. There were more shifters on any given night than there were humans, and the vast majority of the humans who walked through the doors were groupies—normals that had a fascination with the paranormal and with shifters in particular. Vampires had the money and the supermodels. Shifters had the groupies and the raw sex appeal. They were the rock stars of the paranormal world, and they, more than any other supernatural type, made Blythe angry.

  It wasn’t even that they were all that common. In a city as big as Denver, there were still probably less than three hundred. There were fewer than ten thousand in the entire country. But their lack of numbers was more than compensated for by their huge personalities. Assholes. And he was catering to them.

  There was no way around it. The money was good and when a shifter’s band was playing, no matter how lousy it was, the beer flowed like water and the tips flowed with it. But tonight’s shift was over, he was tired, and it was time to lock the doors.

  “Time’s up,” he called out to the last remaining patron, a tall, lean man who’d been sitting at the end of the bar for much of the evening. They hadn’t spoken more than a few words to each other, but Blythe had the uncomfortable sensation that the stranger was watching him the whole time. He’d never caught him at it, but shifters moved so fast that you n
ever did, and this man was definitely a shifter. There was a certain aura about him, an air of insufferable arrogance, that couldn’t be mistaken for anything else.

  The guy took a slow sip from his bottle before saying, “I’m not done yet.”

  Oh, perfect. A wiseass. Just what he needed at three a.m. on the only day he’d been stupid enough to sign up for an eight o’clock class. He needed what dregs of sleep he could get. “Well finish fast, we closed five minutes ago.”

  To emphasise his point, Blythe started turning off the lights behind the bar. He took his apron off and hung it up, then grabbed his jacket, gloves and scarf from the back room. All of this took about two minutes. When he came back out front, the guy was still sitting there, sipping his damn beer. Sipping it. It looked ridiculously dainty done by such a big guy.

  “Hurry up!” Blythe snapped at him, his frayed temper strained to the breaking point.

  The man looked up from his beer and met Blythe’s eyes for the first time that evening. Even though the light was dim, the impact of his sudden attention was shocking. It made Blythe want to freeze, play dead, act like…prey. Oh, to hell with that, he was no one’s prey. He met the gaze squarely, even though his back was pressed so hard against the bar that he was sure he’d have bruises. They stared at each other for a long moment, neither one moving.

  “I’m almost finished,” the man said at last.

  “Good,” Blythe replied. “Then you won’t mind meeting me at the door while I get the rest of the lights.”

  Trying to move as if his legs weren’t trembling, he walked over to the wall and began to methodically flip switches. Soon the place was pitch black, and still the guy wasn’t done. Blythe couldn’t even see him in the darkness. He sighed heavily and prepared to turn back on a light, but it suddenly wasn’t necessary. The shifter was right beside him, at the door. Blythe jumped slightly. He couldn’t help it.

  The man smiled. “Coming?” he asked in a polite, infuriating voice.

  “Just waiting on you,” Blythe replied, annoyed that he’d jumped.

  He went outside and shut the door behind them, locking it up. The man hadn’t moved away. He was still standing there, staring. Well, he could stare at Blythe’s back, because he was leaving. He turned around and walked down the sidewalk, conscious of the man’s eyes still on him. Just before he rounded the corner, he heard a low, throaty chuckle that made his face flush. Fucking weirdo. The sooner he got home, the better.

  It’s a shame that the buses stop service at midnight, Blythe thought tiredly. It was a mile-long walk to his place—a mile of slick, snowy pavement coated with unidentifiable bits of refuse that he’d become intimately acquainted with over the last few weeks since his car had broken down. He walked as fast as he could, ignoring the few other people that still dotted the streets as he headed towards his apartment. Just a little further, and he could relax…

  Finally he reached his building. With a relieved sigh, he let himself in, only really relaxing once the door shut firmly behind him.

  It had been a long night. The work was almost more than he could handle, but Blythe wouldn’t have dreamed about complaining about his hours to his boss. Cristof was in a bad mood anyway, since he’d been set aside by his sire for a younger fledgeling, and a grumpy vampire was a dangerous vampire. A more dangerous vampire, that was. Blythe worked the bar from seven p.m. to close, six nights a week, and he understood that these hours were non-negotiable. Still, by the time he trudged into his apartment, he felt dead on his feet and always smelled like beer.

  Blythe stripped and stumbled to his tiny bathroom, slipping into the shower and turning on the hot water. Except…there was no hot water. The temperature barely flirted with lukewarm. Damn it. He shared a water heater with the three other apartments on his floor, and it wasn’t unusual for them to have used most of it up by the time he got home. Blythe scrubbed himself fast, trying not to use up too much of his last sliver of soap. He turned off the cool water, towelled off quickly and fell onto his bed, making sure the alarm clock was set for the ungodly hour of seven.

  The message light on his answering machine was glowing. Blythe wanted to ignore it, but it was possible the message was from the care facility. If something was going on there, he needed to know about it. Who else had any reason to call him? With a low groan, he rolled across the mattress and reached out to press the ‘play’ button.

  “Hello, Mr. Kenner.”

  He recognised the head nurse’s voice. Damn, it was the home.

  “You specified that leaving progress reports on the phone was all right, so here’s a quick update on your mom. Leanne is responding pretty well to the changes with her medication and isn’t nearly so combative anymore. She remembered that it’s you and your sister’s birthday next month, and I bet she’d love to see you for it. Thank you for sending her those flowers earlier this week. I’m sure deep down she appreciates it. Take care of yourself, and if you have any questions for me, don’t hesitate to call my office.” Beep.

  Blythe draped an arm across his face, closing his eyes wearily. Mom. He didn’t like going to see her around his birthday. Given his luck, the visit would go like it had last year, with her demanding to know what he’d done with his twin sister, Bliss.

  “I know it’s your fault,” she’d shrieked at him. “She always follows your lead!” It was true, she had. She had followed him then taken it a step further, and ended up dying for her boldness.

  He didn’t want to think about that right now. Blythe punched his pillow a few times and settled down against it, trying not to think about his mother or his sister. Bliss’ face swam before his vision, so like his own—dark hair, brown eyes, pale skin and a wide, beautiful smile.

  “Stop it!” Blythe wished he could afford sleeping pills. He rolled onto his other side and resolutely closed his eyes, determined not to think about her. His tricky mind pulled another face before his eyes as soon as they were shut—the handsome, grungy, intolerable shifter that had stayed late at the bar that night.

  Hell, he’d never get to sleep now. Classes got out at two today. He’d sleep between then and his shift. Sighing heavily, Blythe sat up and turned on his bedside lamp, then grabbed the closest textbook. Constitutional law, oh boy. Maybe he’d get lucky and put his mind to sleep through sheer boredom.

  * * * *

  Dan watched the young man disappear into his building and grinned to himself. It wasn’t exactly a grin, not as a wolf, but the intent was the same. Damn cute kid, it was only polite to make sure he made it home in one piece. Now that the eye candy was gone, though, there was really no more putting off the inevitable. Dan loped back to where he’d stashed his clothes and shifted, then pulled the damp garments on. It was strange, the sudden feeling of nakedness he got as a human. His other form knew nothing of modesty, and he was covered in fur anyway. Too bad this form wasn’t covered in fur. It was damn chilly out.

  Dan looked down at himself and grimaced slightly. The ratty jeans and faded black T-shirt didn’t do much for his respectability, but Zeph had never cared much about appearances anyway. He pulled his cowboy boots on, the one article of clothing he had that was still nice, and walked to the pack’s headquarters. Or, to be more precise, this pack’s headquarters. There were two packs in the city of Denver, highly unusual even for a big metropolis, and they kept to themselves. Dan only associated with Zeph’s pack, though.

  The pack’s headquarters were located in an industrial district, surrounded by warehouses and stockpiles of heavy equipment. It was a good place for shifters. Far enough away from the humans to change as often as they liked without generating fear, and close enough to the heart of the city that all the amenities were still available to them. The outside of the giant storage facility didn’t look like much, but inside, it was a comfortable place, modern in every respect and divided up to give the pack’s members their own space.

  The watchers let him in willingly enough. All the pack’s sentinels knew who to let through and who to tu
rn away. Some of them didn’t like letting a loner into their compound, but the alpha’s orders were explicit on that particular subject. Dan was treated with respect, if not acceptance. At the rate things were going, he’d probably never have acceptance. Dan sighed and pulled his long blond hair back into a ponytail. It was all he could do to straighten himself up before seeing Zeph.

  The shifters inside the compound who were still up and about let him through without comment, although the smell of their interest was evident as he passed by. He walked up to Zeph’s office and knocked.

  “Come in, my friend.”

  Dan smiled to himself. No surprises for Zeph. The man had probably scented him coming a mile away. Dan didn’t know if lions had a better sense of smell than wolves, but with Zeph, anything was possible. Dan opened the door and walked into the large, surprisingly airy office. Zeph was sitting behind a desk, but jumped up and came around as Dan entered.

  “Sheridan, it’s been a long time.”

  Dan inclined his head as a mark of respect before he and Zeph grabbed each other in a bear hug. “You keep calling me Sheridan and I’ll start calling you Zephaniah. It’s just Dan. And do you ever sleep, man?”

  “Just Dan, then. And rarely.” Zeph drew back and sat on the edge of his desk, scrutinising his friend.

  Dan tried to take it casually, but scrutiny by an alpha, even one who was his best friend, made his skin crawl. He knew what Zeph was thinking.

  Dan was at least two inches taller than the alpha. He had broad shoulders, blue eyes, sun-coloured hair that hung down past his shoulders and a face that was handsome in its sculpted severity. Years ago, when he and Zeph had been in school together, Dan had covered all of his natural bodily gifts in hip, expensive clothing. His hair had been trimmed, his nails clean, his face shaved. Now he was wearing second-hand clothes that had seen better decades and his jaw was covered with stubble. Quite a comedown. Zeph seemed to agree.