Sinsperationally Yours

by Prince, Nikki

  Two things kept her safe from Hunters in this big, bad city. First, her den. No Hunter worth his blooding would believe a fox would den above ground. Denton's choice of an upstairs club was inspired. Most foxes were too enamored of their holes. Why, look how many Kin spent their lives on golf courses, not just living in dirty little holes in the ground, but spending hours smacking tiny white balls into them. For fun! Min shuddered. The only tiny white balls that interested her hung on a choker-length cord and glimmered softly against her creamy neck.

  And the second, most important item? The cut-crystal spray bottle of Chanel No 5 in her bag. Once again she silently blessed the annoying perfume salesgirl who had squirted Min's unsuspecting person with a cloud of this blessed substance. Who knew that Chanel's daring invention, a perfume with a base of synthetic material, would completely disguise the scent trail of an Otherkin?

  Min's nipples tightened with remembered thrill at the memory. Hurrying through the department store...she'd forgotten which one, after all this time...heart pounding from the glimpse of red-jacketed hunters in the Lingerie Department. Red jackets were both a signal to their quarry and a kind of sick joke. Red jackets meant only one thing. They were hunting the fox Kin. Or as Min's mother would call her, a kitsune.

  How she'd cursed when she ran into the wall of customers huddled around a barker demonstrating the latest, greatest kitchen invention. Sneezed in surprise as the enterprising salesgirl ambushed her and released a barrage of scent.

  Laughed in shocked elation as the Hunters brushed by with a muttered "pardon me ma'am" and no other sign of recognition.

  That was the day Min declared her freedom. Let the Elder Kin hide in their forest bowers. Let them send battalions of Hunters to lock the Doors--and bring home any stray Otherkin who defied the Edict. The Halls of Metal and Steam provided a multitude of crevices for an enterprising fox that wasn't afraid to hop and shimmy her way through. Although the last time she made the passage, it took two weeks to get the oil out of her hair. Min checked her stylishly tousled red curls in the mirrored walls as the escalator carried her up to the third floor. Not a sign of grease left.

  A flash of red in the mirror caught her eye. She turned to the right to hide her profile while studying the reflection. Hunter! Min stepped off the escalator and took a swift turn to the right, merged with a large crowd of college students headed for the movie theater. She slipped her hand into her black faux-crocodile arm bag and pulled out her secret weapon. A quick glance.... the Hunter was getting close. She aimed the cool metal at the pulse point in her throat and pressed the trigger.

  "Smells delicious." A lanky undergrad in preppy shirt and dockers leered an invitation.

  Kit, Min thought, amused at the ham-handed attempt to pick her up. But a compliment deserved some reward. She favored him with a moist, full-lipped smile and strolled away, confident the wiggle in her hips would add an extra oomph to the boy's dreams.

  Min knew the power of her curves. She'd chosen this form after a decade of deliberate experimentation in gin joints and dance halls of the twenties. Hourglass waist, womanly hips...Min's lush body was a male magnet next to the whippet-thin limbs of the health club set. Her only regret, she mused, was she didn't give herself bigger boobs. Ditto for the short, curly hair. But the fashions of the past had called for a modest bosom and flapper pin curls. And after nearly a hundred years, this had become a true form for her.

  Now, her only chance for alteration would come if she went home like a dutiful hundred-year-old kitsune and grew a second tail...of wisdom, her Mother said. "More like slavery," Minette would reply, and get her nose smacked before being sent off to tend the latest litter of kits in the family. Otherside was kits, and runny noses, and endless howls of "Minette!" Earthside was bubbly, and men, and a lovely selection of sushi on every block.

  Besides, Min shuddered to think where she would distribute the extra mass of a tail in her human guise. The laws of conservation of mass applied to shifters, too, and extra weight in one form meant extra in the other. Maybe she could shift some to her boobs...Min discarded the notion. With her luck, it would end up on her ass. Denton would laugh his skeevy tail off.

  The stream of moviegoers slowed. Min pulled out her gold-tone compact, a real find courtesy of the vintage treasure trove next to her den, and checked behind her. Red jacket was getting closer. Snarky bastard. Min's lips curled in a smile as she watched a pair of tourists buttonhole Red and pepper him with questions. That's what he gets for dressing like a hotel concierge.

  Min scanned the area, looking for exits. Drats. The theater took up this entire wing of the triangular mall. Two entrances, guarded by bored-looking ticket takers. She could buy a ticket, slip out the back. Min pictured the back of the mall in her mind. No go. The only exit led to a narrow set of exposed stairs. Even a rookie Hunter would know to station backup at the bottom. And Hunters always worked in pairs. Min knew that the partner had to be here somewhere, hoping to outfox the fox.

  Min needed camouflage, something to help her blend in until the Hunters passed by, allowing her to slip away. Crowds were best. But the corridor to her left was full of tiny boutiques with clear-glass storefronts. And worse, the exits led to that outer staircase. But at the other end.... ah, the Food Court and Arcade. That could work. All she had to do was cross the long stretch of white space between.

  Min checked the Hunter's position. If she hurried now, she could make the slight turn into the corridor before he caught sight of her. And if he did spot her...she'd just have to trust in the power of aliphatic aldehydes to deflect his interest.

  Min's pulse pounded in time with her brisk steps as adrenaline flooded her system, an insistent tide of energy nearly sexual in its intensity. She felt a warm glow seep from the special pearl resting in the hollow of her throat. To human eyes, it looked like every other pearl on the choker, maybe a little bit larger. But to the eyes of magic, it was a shimmering sphere of elemental energy.

  Every kitsune had a spirit pearl, the solid manifestation that held the bulk of her magical "soul" while in human form. The pearl was quickening now as it responded to the Otherside energy radiating from the Hunter. Her heartbeat accelerated. This Hunter was strong!

  Her keen sherry-brown eyes scanned the corridor, looking for a place to hide. But she had forgotten that this section of the mall was under construction. The plastic-sheeted doorways were shut. The echo of her footsteps came back to her from the blind eyes of storefront windows, their pitiless shadows denying her refuge.

  Halfway to the end now. A flash of red reflected off a kiosk to the left told her the Hunter was on her back trail. A light dew of panic sprung up all over her skin. Hide, hide, where to hide? That potted ficus...too sparse. The kiosk...too open. Groups of shoppers...the only shopper in the hall was a lone man ambling down the same corridor on her left.

  Min's gaze sharpened. She knew that tanned profile, those muscular thighs. And she never, ever forgot a truly exceptional specimen of manhood like the one making its lazy way towards Cinnabon. Her lips curled. Music Man was about to pay for his rejection with a little protection. Not to mention get a taste of what he turned down last night.

  She shot across the tiles. Grabbed his button-down shirtfront. Hauled him into the shallow alcove formed by the blue-tiled bakery storefront and a ubiquitous potted ficus. Dragged his head down into a ball-blazing kiss before the word "what" fell from his half-parted lips.

  Min plastered her back against the cool blue tiles and her front against six feet of movable camouflage. And applied nine decades of her art to making sure that camouflage didn't move until she was darn ready for him to go. If he was capable of movement when she was done with him, that is.

  Her blood-tipped claws curved around the back of his bronzed neck, eased their way through feathery-soft dark curls to knead his scalp. Her right leg slipped around his denim-clad left in a move she'd privately christened the Ivy. She pressed the back of her pump into the back of his ankle and dragged it ever
so slightly upward, the pressure applied with the delicacy of a shiatsu master. And at the end, a little bite of pain from the pointed heel to add spice, maybe plant the seed of a suggestion in a mind primed to play sharper games. All the while, her soft pointed tongue stoked the fires and offered a preview of what Min's artistry could do with a bare canvas.

  The passing Hunter would see a couple making out in a deserted corridor. With luck, Min thought, he'd move along to check the escalators on the far end of the Food Court.

  Music Man was good, Min acknowledged. Maybe even good enough for a main meal. She sipped his admiration through lips that felt softly bruised by the expert demand of his talented mouth. The spirit pearl at her neck shimmered with a continuous pulse that found an echo in the pearl between her legs as his energy filled her mouth and trickled its fiery sweetness down her throat.

  More, she needed more. Her left hand explored the contours of his chest and down the moraine of his rib cage. She felt his own touch grow bolder. His palms rested on her waist, burned through the thin silk of her blouse. Slid lower, kneaded her flesh as they moved down to the curves of her ass.

  Min heard herself groan at the touch of his lips below the base of her pearls. It was the sensation of his teeth closing around the strand that shocked her to the present moment and awareness of her plan. She resisted the urge to melt under the graze of his teeth moving up and down her collarbone and peeked over Music Man's broad shoulder. All clear. Time to take control of the situation. Figure out if he was just mall food, or serious take out.

  Min pressed the palm of her right hand between her prey's superior pecs and gave a playful but firm shove. To his credit, Music Man broke off immediately, stepped back a pace.

  "Name?" Min cocked her head with practiced charm.

  "Bard." The right side of his James Dean lips lifted a bit higher than the left when he smiled, courtesy of a thin white scar that cut across the upper bow. Min resisted the urge to run her fingers, or better yet, her tongue across that faded white lash. Instead, she studied her prey.

  Woodsy green eyes with dapples of soft brown regarded her from a face that had moved beyond beautiful to the eloquence of a timeworn stone angel. Bard was what Min imagined the angel Michael would look like if he'd spent a few decades drinking whiskey and playing bluesy licks after a hard day at the construction site. Sculptured nose, with high flat cheekbones, a blunt chin to frame that sinful mouth. And like an overlay, the weathered patina of sun and wind, small scars on lips and yes, she saw it now, cheekbone and forehead.

  She gave in and ran her thumb over that tempting track. Just to get the lipstick off, of course. "Bard." A made up-name if she ever heard one, obviously chosen to go with his street-picker persona. But Hollyweird was full of people who reinvented themselves on a daily basis, including herself, so who was she to quibble? "I'm Min."

  "Min," he repeated. "Pleased to meet you."

  Manners, technique, and a killer physique. This boy was getting upgraded to catch of the day. "Pleasure to meet you too, Bard." She lingered over the word pleasure and felt a thrill at the answering heat in those forest-glen eyes. Time to reel him in.

  "So, you're a musician." Min stepped out of the alcove, nerves humming with pleasurable echoes from the kiss. Bard followed. Like a fish on the line, Min observed with satisfaction. She curled her left hand around his corded forearm and led him toward the escalator to the parking garage. "I imagine you must spend long nights at home, alone, stroking soft sounds from the strings of your guitar."

  "Maybe I do." Bard gave her a sly grin. "Or maybe I sit around in clubs, buying musicians drinks and invading their dreams."

  You remembered, did you? Min practically hummed with pleasure. She hasn't lost her touch, after all. "Dreams, is it." Min's voice deepened into a throaty purr. "So tell me, did you dream you finished my drink, maybe even sat in my booth?"

  "No." Bard's eyes teased her. "I dreamed I finished...you."

  "Finished...me?" What a strange thing to say. Min kept this thought to herself, but a faint trace of unease skidded up her spine, called up an answering echo from the level just below consciousness. Something was just a little bit off here...

  "Every song, you see, must have a strong finish." Bard kept his face turned forward as he spoke. Min looked up at him, trying to gauge his thoughts. But his face was as impassive as his words, which he delivered with bland deliberation. "It begins with a slow but steady beat that builds, note by note."

  His left hand slipped over the top of her right, captured it between warm layers of flesh. The sudden rush of heat spilled through Min, surprised her with a full-body slap of lust like being thrown into a hot tub. A melt-your-bones, fizzy-bubbles-against your thighs hot tub.

  His thumb drew small circles on her knuckles, moved in time with his words. Min felt her knees grow weak at the steady caress. "The music heats up, maybe you add a few hot licks to keep the flow going, keep the audience wired."

  Min was wired, all right. She struggled to steady her voice, hoped he didn't see that she was about to melt into a puddle of desire. She had to keep the upper hand here. "Sounds like you're speaking from experience." She tilted her head, gazed up at him through long, flirty lashes.

  He ducked his head, gave her an endearing aw shucks look that both of them recognized as being as fake as Min's fluttering lashes. "I practice a bit."

  "Don't tell me, practice makes perfect." Come on, little fishy, she thought. Take the bait.

  "Nope." Bard's eyes creased in a network of smile lines at Min's surprised look. "Perfect practice makes perfect." He gave her a roguish wink.

  "Big talk," Min taunted him. Closer, closer...

  "Not if it's true." Bard's smug tone was at odds with his caressing fingers. "Of course, I could always give you a demonstration. In the interest of proof, of course."

  "Of course," Min echoed. Gotcha.

  THREE

  Ten minutes later, Min curled in the front seat of Bard's battered blue pickup truck. The warm summer breeze from the half-open window ruffled Min's curls as Bard navigated the narrow, twisting road leading up into the Hollywood Hills.

  “Beautiful view,” she murmured. She gently lifted his free hand from its exploration of her thigh.

  "Yes." He sucked in a breath as Min closed her mouth around his ring finger and slid her lips down to the base. Somehow she didn't think he was talking about the glittering lights spread across the valley below.

  She drew her lips slowly away, ended with a light play of tongue on his calloused fingertip. His hands, like the rest of him, were battered, angelic. She savored the play of sculpted bones under skin scarred by the tools of his trade, weathered by countless hours under sun and wind. And his fingertips...the hard pad of callus that could stroke such delicate notes from brushed steel strings. Min swirled her tongue around each tip, wondered what notes he'd draw from her.

  The road ahead took a sharp hairpin, marking their ascent into the heights. Bard pulled his hand out of Min's grasp with an apologetic look edged with heat. "Need both hands here."

  Min smiled and settled back into the duct-taped leather seat. She settled for tracing her nails up and down his right bicep while her mind formulated a plan for the feeding.

  Min was, she mused, a gentle kitsune compared to many of her Kin. She was generous with her donors, never took more than they could give, always rewarded their devotion. After all, a satisfied man was always willing to come back for more.

  Admiration was her food and drink, the energy she needed to keep her sleek form Earthside. Lust distilled admiration into a potent brew Min absorbed through her skin, banked in the pearl that never left her neck. Oh, she could live on less and still manage to get by in this plane. Denton did, although his scraggly looks testified to his perpetual state of malnutrition. Maybe that was why he owned a bar, Min realized. The only prey Denton could trap probably needed beer goggles to add a rosy glow to that sharp-nosed face and scruffy beard.

  Of course, she'd tried oth
er food sources over the years. For her first few decades, the stage had provided a rich source of concentrated devotion intoxicating in its intensity. But technology had forced her into a low-fat regimen with only an occasional dash of performance high. A visible kitsune soon found herself, as Denton put it, "dragged Otherside by her tail." Min's address book read like a partial listing of the video channel's One Hit Wonders. No, better to lay low, stay quiet. Besides, with a buffet of men, from rich to ripped, spread across Los Angeles and the Valley, she had more than enough to satisfy any craving.

  Speaking of craving...Min unbuckled her seat belt as Bard pulled into the garage that formed the lower half of a tiny two-story bungalow overlooking the hillside. "Construction must pay well," she commented as she pulled the door handle and slid out, careful of her silk stockings. She breathed in the warm night-scent of summer hills, a mélange of the sweet scent of dry grass with a tang of sage, night-blooming jasmine, and the damp smell of green lawns and drying asphalt.

  Bard slammed his door closed and walked around the back of the truck, one eyebrow raised above a cocky half-grin. "Digging for information, are we?" He shook his head in amused admiration. "What was your first clue?"

  "The shoes." Min pointed to his steel-toe footwear and flashed her dimples. "And these hands." She raised his neglected left hand to her lips, paid homage to the talent graven in scarred fingertips and knuckles, explored the hard callused crease of the heart line in his palm.

  Her own heart was beset with a strange feeling of dislocation, an unshakeable sense of déjà vu. Every moment she spent in Bard's company widened the gulf between her intellect and the slow swell of haunting sweetness.

  Min felt the rising sap of a hunger for which she had no name, no experience. The network of scars that crisscrossed his exquisite hands plucked strings within her quivering belly, found a matching harmony with parts of herself she buried beneath layers of silk and lace. He wears his scars proudly, doesn't care if they obscure his beauty. She shivered despite the warm wind. What would it be like, to walk the world with one's flaws laid bare for all the world to see?