I get out of bed and immediately rip off the dirty sheets. It’s a ritual of sorts. I’d never be able to sleep tonight with the sweat of the last night’s vision still in evidence. My linen closet is full of king-sized linens with several coordinating colors to match the room. I’m an anal-retentive basket case, so sue me. I snap the clean sheets on the bed and get started bracing myself for the total freaking production tonight will be.
I have an art show this evening, and though it’s July in Denver, I’ll be covered from neck to ankles to hide my two full sleeves and the rest of my ink. I’d rather not go at all and just get the check for any of my work that is sold. But Evan, who does double duty as the curator for the James Gallery and the poor soul who calls herself my best friend, has decided I am a shut-in enough three hundred or so days a year. Every single opening, she makes me go and pretend to look at my art like a real live person, who breathes and speaks and shit. It’s exhausting.
She’s over exaggerating. I go out. Occasionally. To go get tattoos and groceries, but so what? That counts as out, dammit. Why she’s my friend, I’ll never know.
I say that, but I know why. She’s my friend because when I was at my lowest, when I thought I couldn’t go on another day, she popped into my life and gave me someone to look after. She is the yin to my yang, the light to my dark, the Disco to my Heavy Metal.
In reality, she’s a Wraith princess, the only child of John Black, the King of the Wraiths. Phoenixes and Wraiths are supposed to hate each other, but I couldn’t hate that girl if you paid me. Other Wraiths are a bit sketchy, but Evan, she is the light in the darkness. I just wish she’d let me stay home and avoid covering myself like a freaking nun.
I draw a whole lot of attention all by my lonesome, with the eyes (even though I mask them with lenses), the tats, the boobs, and the ass. I’d rather not, but I’ve got what I was born with, and it’s a freaking bounty.
But, no one knows what I look like, or that I’m a selling artist. I don’t advertise that I’m the one painting the pretty pictures. That’s what Evan is for - because Evan can be in the light and I can’t. Evan can move from city to city selling, curating, being an all around wunderkid, and I cannot.
All because of my stupid Legion.
Only my initials are on my canvases, and very few people know I’m a girl. If I’m being honest, I’d like to keep it that way. I guess it’s a throwback to the days when I had to con a guy to stand in and sell my art to galleries for me because women were not considered ‘serious artists’.
Hey, the Brontes did it.
Unfortunately, those days are in the recent past, not fifty to one hundred years ago. Art is my constant, my therapeutic outlet. It’s also my primary source of income. Well, that and gambling… I’m a Seer. It’s not really gambling if you know you’re going to win.
So tonight, I’ll be covered from my neck to my ankles, I’ll be wearing color contacts and glasses I don’t need, and effing Spanx on my boobs to tape those suckers down. Then I get to wear the ugliest, baggiest suit ever, in a color I freaking detest, brown. Not just any brown, either, a lovely shit-brown. Zero makeup and hair in a severely cinched bun. The general plan is to look as unattractive as possible. I’ve been confused as a beat reporter, wait staff, a parking attendant, but no one has come up to me and accused me of being the artist, so I think the disguise is working for me.
All because I left my Legion rather abruptly after my husband, Lucien, was murdered. And by abruptly, I mean I attacked anyone who came within striking distance like a feral fucking animal. To my credit, I was severely wounded, miscarrying a baby, and just watched my husband die, so the crazy was warranted. But still, slashing people with a Morganite knife, at least in my culture, is more than a little frowned upon.
I found out rather quickly captivity just did not suit me. I’m not a fan of torture so much either.
Rhys did end up helping me escape, the bastard, but it’s his fault I was stuck there in the first place, so I’m not giving him too much credit. Still, he got me out of there, putting his ass on the line and making it so he had to live in hiding, too.
He had more to lose than I did and though I feel bad he lost it, he’s still the man who killed my husband. I still can’t stand to look at his pretty face, not that I’ve seen it in the last fifty years or so. Even so, I know he watches, as Soldiers are wont to do. I hate that we are bound. I hate that out of all people, he was chosen for me. I hate that my choices did not matter. And why would they have?
Being born with these eyes meant I didn’t get any choices at all.
I shower in a hurry because after reminiscing over my sordid past, I realize I’ve been sitting in silence, and I’m now running twenty minutes behind schedule. That right there is enough to drive Evan right out of her fool mind. She can just relax, though. She knows I would rather paint instead of attend this freaking farce.
I get to wear my disguise, pretend I’m not at an event I don’t need or want to go to in the first place. While in hiding from a Primary who will get off her ass and look for me eventually. Stellar thinking on my part.
Suddenly, “Shake Your Groove Thing” blasts from the speakers of my phone. How Evan thought Peaches & Herb was an appropriate ringtone, I’ll never know.
“What?” I answer, knowing she is T-minus three seconds from an opening day meltdown of Chernobyl proportions.
“Where in the blue fuck are you? You were supposed to be down the mountain already and driving into Denver, and your ass is probably still sitting in bed! You do this to me every single time! Goddammit Ari, get your ass in gear!”
“I’m getting a very bad feeling about tonight,” I whisper, but I say this every single time. This time, though, it’s the whisper that catches her attention.
“You see anything?” she breathes. Evan knows too much. Evan knows pretty much everything. I know she feeds most of the information to Rhys, but I can’t muster up the courage to tell her to stop. Evan is like a dog with a bone.
“Nothing but a murder this morning. You know the Ness family?”
“Yeah. I do,” comes through the line on a broken gasp. “They’re huge patrons. They were supposed to be here tonight.”
A deep chill goes down my spine. Houston, we have a problem.
“Well, they’re not coming. I don’t think I am either.”
“We’ve been through this. You have to be here, Ari. You have to see how your work affects people, how it moves them. If anything, I’m begging you to be here for me. Victoria was a friend.”
I feel horrible. I’m sad for that family, but only on the periphery. Evan actually knew her.
“I don’t have to do anything. Especially since you’ve been ditching our sparring sessions and avoiding me for the last month.”
“But…”
“But, I will…for you. Give me ten and I’ll be heading down the mountain.”
“Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t make me regret it. There better be yummy snacks.”
“Of course there’ll be yummy snacks! What kind of operation do you think I’m running here? I have to give the patrons something since the artist is conspicuously missing. Again. The things I do for you.”
“Snacks.”
“Yeah, yeah. I got your snacks.”
“Thanks. See you in forty-five.”
I hang up and rush through the disguise prep, but instead of the dowdy outfit I was planning on, I opt to dress in attire that would be easier to fight in. In lieu of the brown suit, whose added fabric would hinder movement and ease of weapon retrieval, I pick a nice pair of fitted black straight-leg slacks with a good, thick heft to them. I pair it with the matching jacket that helps conceal my tattoos, boobs, and spine holster.
I choose a blousy, sapphire peplum top to go under the jacket (because I’m a freaking girl and I need the pretty). In the same vein, I pick my black, leather, four-inch wedge-heeled, platform booties with the weapon loops sewn into the inner lining.
&nbs
p; You’d think I can’t run, fight, or walk in these beauties, but you’d be wrong. These are the most comfortable pair of shoes I own. And likely, they’re the most functional.
I still put in the emerald green contacts, but I lose the fake glasses. I put my hair up in a bun at the back of my head, but I throw in a few stainless steel spikes (or bo-shurikens) as hair sticks. I love them because they are as thin as knitting needles, are sharp as knives, and hide in plain sight.
Just in case the shiver of fear I feel is the real thing, I slide three thin throwing knives in the holder in my right bootie. I also load and stow a Glock 19 in the specialty made left-handed spine holster.
And Evan wonders why I don’t go outside.
As I head out to the garage, the cool finger of dread I feel, starts flicking me in the head. I step back inside and carefully open the gun cabinet disguised as a full-length mirror and pick up a few extra mags of ammo for the Glock and stow them in the ammo loops in my left bootie.
I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
Grab Scattered Ashes today!
Also by Annie Anderson
ASHES TO ASHES SERIES
SCATTERED ASHES
FALLING ASHES
RISING ASHES
SMOLDERING ASHES
ASHES TO MEMORIES
* * *
LOST (Ashes to Ashes FREE Prequel)
* * *
ROGUE ETHEREAL SERIES
WOMAN OF BLOOD & BONE
* * *
RESCUE ME SERIES
SEEKING SANCTUARY
Are You Part of the Legion Yet?
To stay up to date on all things Annie Anderson, get exclusive access to ARCs and giveaways, and be a member of a fun, positive, drama-free space, join The Legion!
* * *
https://www.facebook.com/groups/ThePhoenixLegion/
About the Author
Annie Anderson is a military wife and United States Air Force veteran. Originally from Dallas, Texas, she is a southern girl at heart, but has lived all over the US and abroad. As soon as the military stops moving her family around, she’ll settle on a state, but for now she enjoys being a nomad with her husband, two daughters, an old man of a dog, and a young pup that makes life… interesting.
* * *
In her past lives, Annie has been a lifeguard, retail manager, dental lab technician, accountant, and now she writes fast-paced romantic thrillers with some serious heat.
Connect with Annie!
www.annieande.com
Seeking Sanctuary_A Shelter Me Novel Page 17
