Outfoxed: A Zodiac Shifters Paranormal Romance: Gemini

by Melissa Snark

  Branwen, the dark-haired raven-shifter, offset Disco to perfection. The pair shared a charged, antagonist chemistry that translated perfectly to a musical argument between two estranged lovers at cross-purposes. Their act was so convincing that rumors pegged the pair as lovers. Even Silver caught himself wondering at times, even though he possessed the inside knowledge that Branwen and Disco were only friends... and barely friends at that. Disco's stubborn pride was to blame. Once the guy sank his fangs into a grudge, he just couldn't let go.

  Afterward, Coyote Hustle returned with their most popular song, "Ghost Dreams". During the transition, as the final strains died away, strange energy prickled across Silver's skin. The inexplicable vigor energized him and raised a profound suspicion. He strummed his guitar, playing the opening chord of the next song on the playlist. He swept the audience with his gaze, searching...

  There—

  His green-eyed lady thief watched him from the far side of the club. Silver's heart lurched in his chest and his fingers froze on the strings. His voice stuck in his throat, rendering him mute. Relief lanced through him quick and stinging. She'd gotten out of Malkin's estate alive. No thanks to him...

  Silver's silence cast the rest of the band into confusion. During practice, the others could follow his lead and improvise but they had no idea how to handle the quiet. The music came to a full stop and the voices of the audience rose. Everyone focused on Silver, all eyes on him, but he could only see her.

  His fox looked straight at him, and then in a pointed insult, she raised her hand and yawned. A powerful jolt of anger punched Silver right in the ego. In his entire life, he'd never been so fucking insulted. She started toward the entrance, giving him the cold shoulder.

  He struck the guitar's strings in an opening chord forceful enough to snap the filament and it was pure luck the strings held. The audience recoiled from the sonic assault. He used an alluring riff to draw them back in.

  She turned toward him in a jerky motion, as though drawn against her will.

  Silver seized hold of his magic and launched into a riff. The melody and the lyrics materialized in his mind fully formed, but he played through the instrumental section once for the rest of the band. No one minded—he kept the audience mesmerized... and his little fox, too.

  At the start of the second pass, the rest of the band picked up the rhythm. They played it dead on perfect, and he sang the song he'd conceived for her.

  * * *

  The whole of Silver's attention focused on Hannah: a conspicuous spotlight signaling her out from the club full of people. Adrenaline rushed through her, priming her for fight or flight. Common sense shouted for her to run, but her feet refused to obey her command. Silver had her trapped.

  Entranced, Hannah swayed in time with the beat of the song. Up until then, countless troubles had clamored through her thoughts, competing for attention. At times, the ruckus got so loud she couldn't hear herself think but the music soothed her soul. Fear and doubt swirled away. She emptied. The melody enchanted her, drew her in, and filled her with vibrant energy.

  Unwittingly, Hannah plowed into a pretty brown-haired woman who stood in her path. The collision broke the spell and brought her to a full stop. An automatic apology fell from her lips.

  "Sorry."

  "Hey, watch where you're—" The brunette twisted around but then stopped. Her gaze shot toward the stage and then back to Hannah. Wide-eyed, the young woman said, "He's looking right at you. Wow, that's so fucking cool."

  "He's not," Hannah said, sharp with denial. She should take the opportunity to run while she could. Staying constituted the height of stupidity. She needed to be smart so why then did she choose to be stupid?

  Hannah stepped around the woman, moving closer to the stage. Across the club, her gaze locked with Silver's. He radiated compelling charisma, magic in its purest form. Willfully, she surrendered to his spell again, and the entire world ceased to exist beyond the two of them.

  Silver stroked the guitar with his hand and caressed her with his voice as he intoned the opening stanza. He sang for her—to her. From the first word, the man held her spellbound.

  She looked at me,

  Saw straight through my disguise.

  I smiled at her and then stole a kiss;

  Better watch out I’m comin' on fast.

  Watch out, I've got the fox by her tail;

  I glance over my shoulder to see her there.

  The fox is at my back comin' after me,

  My red vixen has got me in her sights.

  Hannah's lips parted in wonderment, an unasked question: had he written the lyrics here and now, on the fly, without any preparation? Impossible, yet she couldn't deny the evidence of her senses. This song, its story, described their encounter earlier that evening. Theoretically, Silver could possess the gift of prophecy but somehow that seemed improbable. No, she preferred to attribute him with musical genius.

  The composition was beautiful. It resonated all about her, transformative and aspiring, imbued with power. Through the grace of song, she was beautiful. Molten heat pooled in her core; she throbbed in sync with the tempo. Being in heat always left Hannah in a constant state of arousal, an annoying condition, but one she got used to. Learned to ignore. No more. Explosive energy built in her, exacerbating her basest urges until need ruled her entirety. Her primary... only consuming thought became to charge onto the stage and seize hold of Silver. Claim him. Make him hers. Right then and there, before witnesses.

  The alarms came on and it was all over;

  Heart in my chest, pulse getting stronger,

  The beat compels me to run and you chase;

  Gonna claim you, girl.

  Watch out, I've got the fox by her tail;

  I glance over my shoulder to see her there.

  The fox is at my back comin' after me,

  My red vixen has got me in her sights.

  The song crested on a tsunami. It swept over Hannah, obliterating her sense of self. It smashed her to a thousand pieces. Consumed her in flames and rebirthed her from ash. This... this was verve—the exuberance of pure passion. Silver drew the final lyric and chord out, teasing her with the elusive promise of orgasm denied.

  A cry of pure frustration flew from Hannah's lips. She stumbled. In a fit of frustration, she fisted her hands, suppressing the impulse to take out her aggressions on a nearby mortal. What Silver had done to her... His power over her... It frightened her senseless. Panicking, she fled from the club.

  Chapter Five

  The aftermath of the concert found Silver drunk on euphoria. Sublime music got him high and set his senses on fire. Once the show ended, the sensory overload almost knocked him out. Everything was too bright, too loud—more than he could process. He shuffled along and got caught up in the current of people flowing through the backstage area. The tide of humanity threatened to drown him.

  "You okay?" Disco caught Silver's shoulders, steadying him.

  "Yeah," Silver said, lying through his teeth. A singular imperative thrust into the forefront of his head—he had to find her. But first, he needed to get his head on straight. He braced, waiting for Disco to deliver the inevitable reprimand for Silver's tardiness.

  "That was amazing, man. You've got to write that down."

  "I've got it." The skin on Silver's back still smarted where the magic had inked musical notes onto the empty staff over his kidney. Not every melody he wrote became a tattoo, but the truly important ones were a part of his soul forever.

  "Good." Disco dropped his hands. The two men exchanged a long, considering look.

  "That's it?" Silver grasped at empty air. He couldn't quite believe Disco had nothing to add.

  "That's it." Disco flashed a cynical smile and stepped back. He turned to the side and ducked his head to say something to Branwen. She twirled toward the bass guitarist with a ready retort.

  Before Silver got oriented, Oz pushed through the crowd. The Australian was an odd mutt of mixed heritage: coyote
on his mother's side, dingo on his father's... or so the story said. He had light brown hair shaved high and tight to a side part, a touch longer on top and combed right. His close-shaven goatee was as neat as a pin. He wore a round black diamond stud in his left ear, a tight red ironman T-shirt and cargo shorts. In all the years Silver had known Oz, the drummer had never once worn pants, and that included a couple visits to snow country.

  "Hey, do you want a tallie?" Oz held up a huge green bottle of beer.

  "Pass." Silver moved his hand in a slight cutting motion to end the matter. If he hadn't, Oz would've persisted in offering him the beer.

  For whatever reason, Oz responded to nonverbal communication but ignored verbal cues. It'd gotten him into plenty of trouble over the years. Ursula maintained the processing disorder was a result of trauma—Oz had been shot in the head—but the Aussie always made light of it, laughing while he said, "I'm a dipstick. Got kicked in the head by a 'roo when I was a lad."

  "What's wrong with you?" Oz allowed his arm to fall. A hurt puppy dog expression washed over his face.

  "Nothing. I've gotta see about a girl."

  Oz blinked, but then a wide, stupid grin replaced his confusion. "Yeah? Is she hot?"

  "She's a fox."

  "Bonzer, mate! From the song? Go get her!"

  They traded a high five. Oz hit so hard the impact sent a jolt through Silver's arm and hurt his shoulder. For the sake of his standing within the band, he gritted his teeth and pushed through the pain.

  After they parted ways, Silver charged through the exit that led to the central part of the club. A burly bouncer guarded the entryway to the main club; a living barrier between the paid entertainment and stage crew and the patrons. He twisted as he passed the big man so they wouldn't brush against each other.

  Another swift pivot on the ball of his foot set him on his course. An internal force akin to obsession drove his steps. He scanned the sea of faces with an avid gaze, hungry for another glimpse of the emerald eyes set in her lovely fine-boned face. From the stage, he'd caught only a glimpse—red curly hair and pouty lips to die for—but it'd been enough to set his heart to racing.

  The crowd was in a mellow, jovial mood. Beneath the stench of booze and sweat, he picked up traces of pot smoke—more prevalent than tobacco—along with a mix of cologne, perfume, personal care products, sweat, and pheromones. Not an unpleasant mix, but the competing contradictions held the long-term recipe for a massive migraine.

  Silver circled through the entire club from the bar to the women's restroom, which he staked out for a full ten minutes. Then he repeated the circuit twice more just to be sure—no sign of her. He doubted his own sanity. Had he imagined her? Was she a product of his overactive imagination? Or, more accurately, his intense desire to see her again. More than anything, he wanted to believe she'd gotten away from Malkin's estate unscathed, because it would exonerate his guilt.

  His frustration mounted with each passing minute his search proved fruitless. Damn it! She wasn't here! He ground to a sudden halt, fists clenched. His sides heaved and a growl built in his throat. He stifled the expression of aggression for the sake of the nearby humans who would be easily alarmed or panicked. But doing so aggravated him, and his heart pounded and his breathing labored. Why would she have pursued him here only to have left without a confrontation?

  She wouldn't. It didn't make any sense. She had to be here somewhere—he just had to figure out where. So... How did one go about catching a fox that happened to be stalking a coyote? Think like a fox...

  Okay, so foxes... Hmm. While his own band had a depth of diversity, including a raven-shifter and a werewolf, he'd never before made the acquaintance of a fox. What little he knew of his smaller shifter cousins was largely based on based on hearsay and nature documentaries. But it couldn't be that hard to figure out. For one, foxes were smaller than coyotes, so she'd be looking to gain the upper hand in the negotiation. Also, unlike him, she didn't seem to belong to a band or a pack or whatever it was one called a group of foxes. Lastly, a solitary predator would prefer isolation to this crowd. She wouldn't confront him with a bunch of mortal onlookers or the possibility of his band interfering.

  She'd be outside.

  Excitement energized him. He rushed toward the nearest door, bobbing and weaving his way through the mob. It happened to be an emergency-only exit—portentous signs warned against use except for emergency. Hardening his nerve against the blare of sirens, he hit the release bar with both hands and shoved it open. With the door ajar, he hesitated for a split second, but only silence followed. Silver huffed in relief, stepped out into a wide, dim-lit alleyway, and dropped his stride to a skulk. If he charged headlong in search of her, he'd certainly spook her.

  Silver walked with his head bowed, shoulders hunched, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. His fingers encountered the smooth grain of the coveted box. He'd placed it there to free his hands for the escape from Malkin's estate and hadn't spared it a second thought since. He extracted the delicate box from his pocket and ran his fingers over the intricate carvings that decorated the top. Although it had no visible lock or hinges, something definitely secured it because it refused to open. He wasn't even sure what treasure it held, but it had to be valuable or so many people wouldn't be after it.

  After a second's consideration, he secreted the box away in a hidden pocket within the lining of his coat. An illusion protected it from detection. Branwen had taught him the spell. He usually used it to hide a spare set of lock picks.

  A few partiers milled about in the alley behind the club. Up against the rear wall of the building, three pasty-faced young men clustered together smoking and shooting the shit. Goths—they wore the signature black-on-black garb, and flourished multiple piercings and tattoos. Silver pegged them as gay from fifty feet off. Soon enough his nose confirmed the estimate—they each had the others' scents all over—lovers. And probably homeless too, based on their overall hygiene.

  As he approached, they stopped talking and turned, regarding him with alert suspicion. Deliberately, he altered his posture to convey friendliness and his walk to a cocky strut—projecting a flamboyant air. It earned him appreciative once-overs from the guys and had the intended effect of dispersing their tension.

  "Hey." The tallest and boldest of the trio edged out. He looked to be sixteen at most and had a smile in desperate need of braces and brushing.

  "Hey." Silver tipped his chin and continued without breaking stride.

  "Looking for company?" The kid dogged along at Silver's side. Up close, it became obvious from the way his clothes hung on him that he was painfully thin.

  "Yeah." Silver hesitated then dug out a spare ten-dollar bill he kept tucked away. Holding it between two fingers, he offered the rolled bill to the kid. "Have you seen a woman—about my height? She's got red hair and an angel's ass that was kissed by the gods."

  "What do you want with some bitch? I can give you everything you need." The teen sneered and ran his hand suggestively across his throat, fingers trailing over pale flesh. Anger over the perceived rejection soured his already fermented body odor.

  "Sorry, kid. You're way too young. It'd be cradle robbing." Silver gestured with the bill to draw attention to it and addressed the other two teenagers. One had stringy brown hair, and the other’s scalp was shaved and heavily tattooed. "How about it, either of you seen her? She's beautiful like you wouldn't believe."

  They stared at him. Tension reigned again. He waited, fully expecting one of them to lie just to claim the money. Of course, he could smell a lie, but he'd give up the bribe anyway. The negotiation served as a pretense to allay their suspicions. His real goal was just getting them to accept the handout. He understood their hardened mindset. These street kids lived in a world where everyone looked out for their own interests—use or be used.

  "Yeah, we've seen her. She flew by, heading that way on her angel wings." The brunette kid grabbed for the bill.

  "When?"
Silver evaded his grasp, moving his arm out of reach.

  "About ten minutes ago." The teenager glared at Silver, refusing to back off the obvious lie.

  "Thanks." Silver forked over the bill and resumed his journey, returning to his furtive prowl. He made it a few yards before the kid called after him.

  "Hey, what's with the card?"

  Pausing, Silver tilted his head but didn't turn around. "My friend, Lucy, runs a shelter. Call her. She'll give a hot meal and a place to crash—no questions asked."

  The teenager hesitated, then said, "Uh, thanks."

  He continued on his way. Ahead, the shadows stirred and a figure emerged from an alcove on the opposite side of the alley. Even in silhouette, her riotous mane of wild curls was unmistakable. He hitched, caught mid-stride, his entire existence tipped off kilter. A wide, stupid smile overtook him, and he lacked even the sense to assess her as a threat. He stared at her face, not at her hands which could easily shift to claws sharp enough to rip out his beating heart. Like unwitting prey, he stood there and waited while she sashayed closer.

  Her steps were quick and light; her smile slight and sly. She got close enough that her distinctive, alluring scent flooded his nostrils. He leaned in closer, drinking in her warmth, and grew intoxicated within a handful of heartbeats. Enchanted—falling into lust if not love, and damn it, but blind, stupid horniness wasn't like him at all. In the back of his mind, the voice of caution squeaked out a faint alert, however pheromones drowned it right out.

  "Why did you do that?" His fox tilted back her head, gazing up at him with the brightest of emerald eyes. Her voice was husky like a lover, but vicious like an assassin.