by Beth Dranoff
But it was getting lighter, and I was feeling skin—human flesh—pushing its way up and over my surfaces. My consciousness shifting as my external form did the same. Until I was on all fours, naked, watching the sun peek up over the bare-treed horizon.
Anshell was as naked as I was, and parts of him were at eye level; I had no choice but to see what was in front of me. I tried to pretend otherwise by looking down, along his muscular legs and down to his feet partially buried in the sand.
Anshell extended a hand to help pull me back up to standing. His smirk told me I’d hidden nothing and that me and books were in a wide-open kind of relationship. No, I really didn’t do poker face well. Or, you know, at all.
Sam was there as I steadied myself on two bare feet. Both men waited for words I didn’t yet have. Finally, Sam:
“What happened?”
It took me a couple of tries, a few more thick swallows to force those words past my throat. As though by shaping specific sounds the source of my panic would materialize, all-knowing; my cover blown and my Pack decimated.
“Alina,” I said.
* * *
The Cherry Beach house was closest so that’s where we went, in a caravan of vehicles hugging the last bits of shadow as dawn made its presence known. Parking in the pebbled public area stained with oil and littered with broken beer bottles and decomposing cigarette butts, hoping the early morning windsurfers had decided to sleep in just this once. It was mid-week so we might get lucky. I didn’t want to have to explain three naked people streaking across the beach who vanished as soon as they got close to what appeared to be a decrepit lifeguard shack.
Sure, we all had extra clothes in our vehicles. Plus whatever we’d been wearing earlier. But the sun’s rising warmth was licking at my post-shift nakedness, and my toes curled with an answering warmth somewhere more personal.
I lost my nerve at the last moment, reaching into the gym bag I kept on the floor behind me for a pair of clean boy-short underwear with matching cotton bra, deep magenta with black stretch lace trim, and my flip-flops. Also black. Getting the undergarments actually on was a challenge but hey—what female hasn’t gotten dressed while pretending she isn’t already naked before? I felt around in the bag again until I found that black cotton maxi-tank that doubled as a dress and pulled it on over my head.
Good thing I bothered. No windsurfers on the water yet, but there were a couple of kayakers pulling their crafts towards the shore. Two lifeguards were setting up at the station closest to us, but lucky for us it was Anika (a.k.a. Tattoo Vine Girl) and Murtaz. Turned out they were both university students, albeit at different schools. Anika was at the Ontario College of Art and Design, and Murtaz was studying to be a chef at George Brown. Lifeguarding this particular Toronto beachfront was lucrative—they got one paycheck from the City for services rendered, and a second from Pack coffers for security and surveillance.
Anshell’s vehicle was there but I couldn’t spot him, which meant he’d probably already gone inside. Sam hadn’t though; I caught his scent before I spotted him leaning against the railing, elbows on the weathered wood as he pretended to watch the water. He wasn’t fooling me. Sam’s eyelids narrowed as he scanned the horizon, watching for any potential threats; making sure we were all safe.
Even nearly naked, he was far from vulnerable.
I came up beside him and mirrored his position. Sam passed me the coffee he was holding—an Americano with almond milk and enough sweetener to know it was there. Yesss. The world coming into clearer focus. I took another couple of sips before passing it back.
“What happened earlier?”
I shook my head. Sam waited as I stared at the water, willing my breath to calm in time with the rippling lines smoothing and bunching, a lattice-patterned fabric of brown and green.
He bumped against me, shoulder to shoulder. Flashed me a grin. Like we were buddies. I knew he was trying to snap me out of it, that dark place where my nightmares lived and I woke up sweating with my voice hoarse. Forcing my scream through vocal chords dulled by sleep. Waking myself. Shaking.
Sam knew because he’d been there, with me. He couldn’t see what I saw, but he’d helped me change the sheets after I’d soaked them through.
He reached out and stroked the back of my hand with gentle fingers, sending electric heat along the surface of my arm to the tips of my ears. I shuddered; this time fear had nothing to do with it.
“I love that expression you get when I touch you,” Sam whispered in my ear. His fingertips trailed higher, drifting across the underside of my wrist. All of my attention cradled in his palm as it hovered over my bare flesh. Moving energy. I wondered at his side job as a contractor; if he was like this with anyone but me, Sam had missed his calling in bodywork.
“Dana.”
I jumped at the sound of Anshell’s voice. Sam’s hand was back on the railing again, so smooth it could have been there all along.
Anshell handed me a coffee of my own.
“Thanks,” I said. Grateful. Was I so addicted that everyone in my life had figured out a caffeinated Dana was a coherent Dana?
As long as it meant I had coffee in the morning, did I care?
“Let’s go inside,” Anshell said. “You can tell us about last night away from any prying ears.”
I nodded and followed him through the screened-in porch doors, up the winding staircase to the third-floor solarium, Sam flanking from behind. They weren’t taking any chances with me this time.
Light filtered in through the skylight above, adding to the sunlight pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows wrapping around us. I was floating somewhere above my body, looking down, even as I knew intellectually I was anchored to the floor. Not quite real. I tripped on the edge of the area rug and spilled about a third of my coffee onto it, the heat splattering against my feet and thrusting my consciousness back to where it needed to be. Whoops. Good thing the overgrown forest pattern meant it wouldn’t show. Much.
I put my mug down on the ring-stained oak table, knee level, sinking into the corner of the couch closest to it. Both Sam and Anshell chose the padded armchairs opposite me, their mugs following mine onto the table. Coffee for Sam, fresh-sprigged peppermint tea for Anshell.
The silence stretched as I tried to find the words. It was hard to recognize myself—the person who kicked ass and took only the prisoners I chose to take—paralyzed with the fear of memory proven real once more.
I’d been hiding this for months. Managing. I’d gotten better at pretending too; the reassuring lie so convincing I’d been just about able to think maybe what happened wasn’t real. The bricks of blank in my memory helped.
But then she’d been there, and I remembered. If I could find the words.
“Alina,” I finally said. “She was on the beach. By herself. She wasn’t afraid—why would she be?—but she also didn’t recognize me. Thought I was just some random big cat she’d managed to separate from the herd.” I paused. The next words even more difficult. “She wanted me to spy on me. Threatened to wipe out the Pack if the cat she thought I was didn’t find out the connection between Anshell and the newcomer. You know, me. It means someone else in the Pack—or more than one someone—will betray us.” I amended that. “No, not us. Me.”
Sam started pacing; if I squinted hard enough, I could almost see the agitated twitching of his phantom tail.
“It’s not a done deal,” said Anshell. Did anything surprise him? “We don’t know that she approached anyone else for certain. Nobody has spoken of it with me.”
“And your Pack mates tell you everything?” I touched Sam’s wrist with two fingers as he stalked past me for the fifth time. “Sam, please. You’re making me dizzy.”
“Sorry,” he said, leaning his sweatpants-clad ass against the arm of the far side of the sofa. Coiled tension, strategically pla
ced. If someone came up those stairs with harmful intent, Sam could be in front of me or Anshell in seconds. Not that we couldn’t defend ourselves. Or that there was any danger to be had in this split-second moment.
Still. He cared.
“I would expect to be apprised if a threat of this magnitude was leveled against us, yes,” Anshell said. “But what of your other most recent adventures? Alina was not your first threat of the last twenty-four hours, or even the second.”
“Those don’t impact the Pack,” I said, considering. “I think.”
“And what of the siege on the Swan?”
“When we were attacked by... I want to say frost tribbles, although now I’m not positive. It was kind of like a few months ago, with the frost and the ice, but not quite. I couldn’t tell for sure whether the bar was the target or whether I was, but it seemed like maybe they wanted me?” I described how the frozen bricklets had sprouted arms and legs before hurling themselves at me. Plus the screaming when Sandor smashed them. “Even that was weird. Like they weren’t trying to end me so much as wall me in with their frosty brick selves. Celandra smelled Alina behind it.”
“So our theory of the attack being a test makes sense,” Sam said.
“Of what? My patience?”
“Of the Swan’s defenses,” Anshell said. “If one were planning a more extensive offensive, perhaps one might consider it prudent to assess the target’s vulnerabilities in advance.”
“They did plenty of damage already,” I said. Not wanting to validate the uncomfortable hypothesis. But it could be true, and begged the question: why had Sandor’s wards failed? He’d splurged on the gold standard security package this time. Nothing was perfect, but those chilled tribblets should not have been able to get past the front entranceway with their murderous plans. After all, the new system included a scan for intent.
Which meant slaughter hadn’t been the goal—this time. Either that, or any intent happened outside the boundaries of the Swan itself, and the frost hadn’t been as independently sentient as we’d been assuming.
“I have to tell Sandor,” I said, reaching for my phone.
“Wait,” Sam said. “Did anything else unusual happen today?”
“Let me see. Well, my ex showed up and offered me a job.”
That got their attention.
“Explain,” said Anshell.
“Seems the Agency wants to hire me for some kind of freelance gig. I haven’t read the offer yet.” My turn to jump up and start pacing. “I left for a reason. Also they don’t know I’m a shifter now. Have I mentioned the part where they don’t like supes and have a tendency to experiment on them using tests said supes tend not to recover from? So I’m thinking no.”
“You said it was your ex who approached you with the offer?” Sure, trust Sam to touch on the competition angle. “Is that normal?”
“I have no idea. It’s been years.” Anshell touched my arm and I stilled again, sinking back down into the couch and grabbing my mug. “I don’t want to talk about that. My ex, I mean.”
Anshell nodded, willing to drop the subject—for now. I suspected Sam wouldn’t let me off the hook as easily when he got me alone.
“Anything else we should know about?” Anshell kept his voice level; let’s not spook the skittish cat. “You mentioned three things that happened. There was the attack on the Swan, the reappearance of your former lover along with a job offer from your similarly former employer, and what else?”
“Oh, you mean the surreal conversation I had with that giant octopus creature who grabbed Sandor yesterday and who we also chopped a limb from? That guy? Yeah, so this time he caged me in my truck with its tentacles. On dry land. While sitting on the hood of my truck with his head upside-down. Does that count?”
“Yesterday?” Anshell gave me the look. You know, the one that said why didn’t you tell me this earlier when we saw each other. Sam looked like he wanted to dive out the window with something sharp and do some defensive attacking. “What did it want?”
Was I wrong to expect more of a response from Anshell?
“Apparently it had wanted to offer me a freelance gig where I’d catch Gus for them and they’d pay me for my efforts. Of course, that was before we chopped off one of his limbs. Now, apparently, I owe him a debt—even though the damned thing will regenerate in a few weeks on its own—and I’m supposed to do Gus for free.”
“Popular guy.” Sam started stalking an invisible dust mote around the room again. “Why is the debt on you though? Wasn’t it Jon who actually severed it?”
“Probably because I was there, and putting the debt on me means you guys and Jon will help me discharge it by bringing in the big blue bastard.”
“And nobody has told you why they want Gustav?” Anshell’s voice was surprisingly level for someone who’d just found out his Pack might be on the hook for another thank-you-Dana mission.
I shook my head.
“And if you ignore the request?” Sam’s question was a valid one. “What are they going to do?”
“An eye for an eye, a limb for a limb,” I replied.
Chapter Thirteen
Sam followed me home. He took his own vehicle, pulling in two spots over from me at the side of the building. Too early for anyone to be in the main floor offices yet, too late to avoid the lineup of cabs that wrapped their serpentine tails of exhaust fumes around the pavement-kissed tires. Engines idling as they waited their turn at a fossil-fueled gas pump, one of the cheapest in the area.
Sam got out first and came over to join me. Scanning. “It’s too busy here.” He shoved his hands into the front pockets of the jeans he’d changed into. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay with me at the house?”
I shook my head.
“We don’t know who Alina got to,” I said. “I don’t want to chance it until we do.”
“You’re not wrong,” Sam said, crossing his arms over his chest. Leaning one shoulder against the side of my truck bed, casual, but I didn’t believe it. “Let me go make sure your place is safe.”
“My safety. That’s why you want to come up.” I flashed him a half grin over my shoulder as I held the door open. The locked door that never seemed to stay that way for long with all the bike couriers, residents and commercial space workers that passed through. Teasing aside, I knew my building’s security sucked. But I appreciated the don’t-ask-don’t-tell attitude of my neighbors, and my landlord being of the slum variety didn’t hurt when it came to staying out of my business.
Easier that way.
At least one of the bonuses of my recent transformation: Sam wasn’t the only one able to move silently down a hallway of creaky wooden floors anymore, never mind avoid the saggy bits without looking. Should I be surprised the building hadn’t been condemned yet? The fact that it was still standing gave me hope it wasn’t as structurally unsound as it felt.
Yeah, I should really look at moving again.
Caught a whiff of something other than the familiar mildewing carpet as we neared the sliding barn door that separated what was mine from what belonged to everyone else. A quick glance at Sam confirmed he’d smelled it too.
Plus the door was open, which was definitely not how I’d left it.
Too many threads to pick out that one I recognized, tickling my nose with clover and shells and hoary dew.
Instead I stepped inside with Sam a breath behind me.
“What are you doing here?”
A knife, blade glittering with aquamarine frost, cerulean diamonds in the hilt, embedded itself in the wooden beam beside my ear. Close enough that I felt the wind tickle.
A blur of man-beast as Sam streaked past me to grab the blue-skinned, diamond-twinkling threat by the throat, one-handed and up against the far wall. Too fast for the demon to go for any other weapons of up-c
lose destruction.
“Just getting...her...attention.” Demon Blue, a.k.a. Gus, was gasping under Sam’s grip; I’d known Sam was strong but damn. He’d clearly earned his place as Anshell’s second.
“How’s that working out for you?” I stood a few feet back so the assassin could see me, even though Gus’s eyes were daggers at my question. “Sam, let him down. Can’t find out what he wants if he’s dead.” I thought about it a moment. “We can’t, right?”
“Jury’s out,” said Sam, lowering his arm and loosening his grip on Gus’s throat. Not completely, but enough for the blue demon to do that breathing thing again.
“Listen, girlie,” Gus said, reaching up to rub his throat; changing his mind at the look Sam gave him. At least I think that’s what it was since I couldn’t see Sam’s face. “We’ve shared this dance before. If I wanted you dead, you’d already be dead.”
“So what do you call this?” I pulled his blade from my wall and held it up where he could see it.
“Conversation,” he said.
“Translate then,” I replied. “Or, better still, try calling first. Texting? Email? You can even tweet it. But throwing a knife at my head?” Gus opened his mouth to correct me. “Fine, beside my head? Not cool.”
Gus angled his head to one side, measuring. Was I really worth the trouble?
Did I care?
“Tell me what you want or get out,” I said, crossing the floor to slide my door closed. Whatever was going on, I didn’t need my neighbors deciding to get involved.
Sam yanked the scruff of Gus’s Hawaiian shirt, using the bunched fabric to maneuver the demon into one of the two chairs opposite my couch, where I was now sitting. Sam sank into the other chair. A strategic choice—this way he could watch both of us, while being able to reach Gus if conversation came suddenly off our shared To Do list.
“We’re conversing,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
