Loose Changeling: A Changeling Wars Novel

by A. G. Stewart

  The squeaking came out soft at first, almost apologetic in nature. It gained in volume and intensity as I watched, paws rubbing together with more speed. It ended with the mouse looking me full in the eye, little paws clenched at its sides.

  As the haze of waking up faded from my mind, it occurred to me that I was not dreaming, that I was on the floor of my bedroom, and there was a mouse sitting on my knees. I lurched to my feet, scraping my back against the dresser as I rose. The mouse launched itself to the ground. It ran immediately to the purse, gave it a tug with its mouth, squeaked an exclamation, and scampered off.

  I brushed hastily at my jeans, hoping the thing hadn’t pooped on me. I’d have to call the exterminator. Owen and I had been lucky so far in our newer home—we hadn’t yet had any pest problems.

  Owen.

  It all came flooding back. They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. The life of my relationship with Owen now flickered through my mind. We’d met in our last year at college, at a party thrown by mutual friends. I’d finished all my necessary coursework in my first three years and had been looking for some relaxation.

  Owen, with his messy hair, infectious grin, and everyone-is-my-best-friend demeanor, was exactly what I’d needed. He’d been on what he called the “six-year plan” for graduation, and didn’t seem ashamed. He played me songs he’d made up on his guitar, encouraged me to skip classes once in a while, and had a habit of making loud proclamations of the obvious as if they were profound statements (“Life can be either short or long, but it is always about living!”). We had our first date, first kiss, first sleepover. He proposed at graduation, with a cubic zirconium ring. I accepted.

  Life—real life—crept in. I got a job as a saleswoman for Frank Gibbons, Inc. Owen worked as a waiter for a few years, until I pushed him to go back to school to pursue the career he’d told me he’d wanted. He got his teaching credential at thirty-two, on the “three-year plan.” We bought our house when he got his first real job.

  Of course, six months ago, he’d been fired.

  I sighed and picked up the bed sheets. Burning seemed overdramatic and wasteful by light of day, so I tossed them in the washer, poured in enough detergent for two loads, and turned the knob to Extra Rinse.

  I grabbed Jane’s purse and clothes next, stuffed them in a plastic bag, and took them downstairs. I set the bag on the counter, next to the refrigerator. The kitchen in our two-bedroom townhouse was my favorite room. Cozy, functional, brown granite countertops, white tile backsplash, and white cupboards. When it was clean, it practically sang to me. Owen hadn’t made breakfast here this morning; therefore, it was clean. I breathed in deep, willing it to make me feel better.

  When I reached for the refrigerator door, my hand diverted mid-path, reaching back into the plastic bag, pulling out Jane’s purse, and grabbing her cell phone. I navigated through Jane’s address book, found a contact labeled “Office,” and dialed. It rang four times before the answering machine picked up. “Hi, you’ve reached Jane Barston. I’m either away from my desk or unable to answer your call. Please leave a message after the tone.” BEEP.

  “Hi, Jane,” I said in the friendliest voice I could manage, “this may come as a surprise, but last night you left my house in such a hurry that you forgot your purse. I’d have my husband return it to you, since you two know one another so well, but unfortunately we’re not on speaking terms right now. I know you must be busy, probably sleeping with someone else’s husband, so I’ll give you a little bit of time. You’ve got until tomorrow morning to call me back; otherwise, bonfire it is!”

  I pushed “End Call” with trembling fingers. Not the most mature message I’d ever left.

  A thud sounded from upstairs.

  My heart gave an answering thud-thud-thud as I dropped Jane’s cell phone onto the countertop. Owen must have taken the dog with him; I hadn’t seen it since I’d kicked him out. Besides, that small a dog couldn’t make that much noise, could it? Or was my mind playing tricks on me, as it had in my office?

  I’d snatched a knife from the cutlery drawer when I heard another thud, this time followed by the sound of muffled cursing. Oh no. I knew that voice—all too well. I dropped the knife back into the drawer and went to the stairs.

  When I opened the door to the guest bedroom, I found the window open and Owen there, hand outstretched toward the knob. He froze mid-step. He looked a mess. A five o’clock shadow crept over his chin, and his hair looked like a cat had slept in it. I checked his pants. Yep. Inside out. There was something tremulous and hopeful in his gray eyes, and for a brief moment my anger softened. Then he opened his mouth.

  “Jane, I mean, Nicole, I needed to ask you…” he trailed off as the words from his lips reached his brain.

  I felt my blood pressure rising. “Ask me what? How to knock on a front door?”

  He frowned. “Now come on—it’s not like you’d let me in.”

  “You’re right. I wouldn’t have.”

  He held up his hands, shoulders tight, as if warming himself by a fire that had suddenly grown too hot. “Sorry. I’m a jerk, okay?”

  “Yes, you are.” I stood between him and the door.

  “You can’t blame me entirely for all this. It’s not as if you were there for me when I needed you.”

  The nerve of the guy! “What is that supposed to mean? One of us had to pay the bills, and apparently it wasn’t going to be you.”

  “Just because you had to pay the bills didn’t mean you had to leave me alone so often. You were always off on one business trip or another.”

  “I’m your wife, not your mother. Just because I left you alone so often didn’t mean you had to cheat on me.”

  He rolled his eyes. I hated it when he did that. “I already told you I was sorry.”

  My face felt as though it were about to pop clean off. “That doesn’t make everything better!” The shout echoed off the walls, making the room feel oddly empty. A sudden, desperate emotion tugged at me. I didn't want to be alone. Was this how my life would pan out? Divorcee with an empty house? This wasn’t what I’d planned for when I’d said, “I do.” Maybe I shouldn't be so hasty to cut ties. Maybe I should let Owen explain.

  He spoke into the silence. “Can you at least help me pack my things?”

  Then again, maybe not. “You can pack your own things. Yourself. You. Alone.”

  I stalked from the room, went downstairs, and called the first person I could think of: my sister, Lainey. She picked up after three rings. “Hey, Nicole, how’re you doing? Haven’t heard from you in a while. Work keeping you busy?” She sounded chipper as usual. I saw her in my mind’s eye—blonde hair worn loose about a face with the same rosy-cheeked skin as mine.

  “Why her?” I blurted out.

  A short silence followed on the other end. “Oh, sweetheart,” Lainey said. “I’m sorry.” Although she was three years younger than me, ever since she’d had baby number two, she’d taken to calling her close friends and relations “sweetheart” or “dear” or “honey.” I honestly didn’t think she could help herself. “The other lady in your department got the promotion, didn’t she?”

  “No. It’s Owen.” I couldn’t say the whole phrase. Saying “I caught my husband in bed with another woman” sounded too Jerry Springer. Fortunately, she caught my drift.

  “What!? That bastard. When did this happen?”

  “Last night.”

  “Did you need a place to stay, dear?”

  I considered. It would be nice to get out of the house. But I knew what it was like at Lainey’s place. She’d been the wild child before she met Mark, her husband, and then bam! Before I consistently remembered his last name, they were married with a baby on the way. I would enter their house frazzled, black hair uncombed and unwashed, and Lainey would be sitting on the couch, breastfeeding her baby with the practiced calm of some sort of earth mother while my favorite (and only) nephew, Tristan, ran circles around the coffee table. Mark would be in the k
itchen cooking a steak or something rugged and manly, and in the midst of this they’d lift their eyes to look at one another—smiling, glowing, and in love. I’d feel ill, then jealous, then ill for feeling jealous…no. Not right now. “That’s okay. I’ll be fine here.”

  “So you’re going to divorce him?”

  “I guess.” I hadn’t thought of it in those terms yet. Divorce seemed so final.

  “Look, honey, why don’t you and I go out and grab a drink? It’ll be like old times. You can tell me all about it.” A baby began to wail in the background. “Oh, damn it. I have to go. Call you back, okay?” The phone clicked.

  Owen’s footsteps sounded from above, the sound of shuffling. How long would it take him to pack a bag? I took a deep breath, trying to pull myself together, and went to the foot of the stairs. “You’ve got ten minutes!” I yelled up at him.

  “Where am I supposed to go? My brother’s out of town. There’ve been two murders downtown in the past six months—you want me sleeping on the street? It’s my house too!” he shouted back.

  “I fronted the down payment and I’ve been paying the mortgage for six months. Who do you think a judge would award it to?” Oh, wonderful. We were already arguing about how to divide assets. Day one: find husband cheating on you. Day two: fight over who gets what. Day three: murder? Probably.

  Owen appeared at the top of the stairs. He had a backpack slung over his shoulders and a half-zipped duffel bag, clothes spilling out and threatening to take up residence on the staircase. “Maybe,” he said, and I’d never seen him look so serious, “maybe we should talk.”

  It felt like someone had my brain in a vise. “Talk about what? That woman in our guest bed? I don’t want to hear her name. Ever.”

  “Jane?” He looked at me with bleary eyes, brows drawn together.

  “Get out!” My fingers found a death grip on the stair railing as I relived the scene, one more time.

  He practically ran down the stairs, his hand slapping against the railing as he passed, the acrid smell of smoke filling the air. Was the…was the seat of his pants on fire? What the hell was going on in my life? But then he was gone and the door was shut and I was alone once more.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Great,” I said to no one in particular, throwing my hands in the air. My husband was gone, the dog was gone, and my house now smelled faintly of dark chocolate. I stopped and sniffed. It was definitely dark chocolate, and it was definitely coming from the stair railing. I leaned toward the darkly varnished wood. It didn't look any different than it normally did. For a moment—remember, I'd watched my throw pillows disappear the night before—I thought the railing might have somehow turned into chocolate. I touched it.

  It felt like polished wood. And the smell was gone.

  A knock sounded at the door. God dammit would he just leave me alone? I would rather pay money for Owen to sleep in a five-star hotel than to have him back in the house, so on my way to the door I pulled up a list of nearby hotels on my phone and grabbed my purse. I opened the door.

  It wasn’t Owen.

  “Hello, are you Nicole Philbin?” The man who stood in my doorway looked as if he’d stepped out of an Armani advertisement. His dark brown hair was cut short and styled to look somehow casual and formal at the same time. Brows lay low over hazel eyes. He had a jaw that defined the word “chiseled,” high cheekbones, and only the faint shadow of stubble along his chin. I had to look more than a little up to meet his gaze, which at five foot eight was unusual for me. All the moisture seemed to leave my mouth; my stomach and my heart felt as though they’d decided to tussle somewhere in my midsection. It took me a moment to realize the man was dressed in a black suit, crisp white shirt, and black tie. He held a black leather briefcase in his left hand.

  “I...what?” My mind raced, trying to remember what it was that he'd asked me. I became acutely aware of my rumpled and unwashed work attire—I still hadn’t changed out of it from yesterday.

  “Forgive me,” he said, gaze traveling over the purse beneath my arm and the phone in my right hand. “You were expecting someone else.”

  “I forgive you,” I replied without thinking. Idiot, idiot, idiot! I chastised myself.

  He looked at me oddly, but didn’t comment. “Are you Nicole Philbin?”

  I gathered myself. Distantly, I saw one of my neighbors jogging past, her head turning to check out the ass of my visitor. “Yes, that's me. Are you selling something?” Somehow everything would make sense if he were selling something.

  “In a manner of speaking,” the man said. “You contacted me earlier. You were looking for a divorce lawyer?”

  I had? I didn’t remember contacting divorce lawyers. But something brushed over my unease, burying it. Sometimes I was so efficient I surprised myself. “Oh. I was. I mean, I am.”

  “I apologize for coming over like this, but I have a very limited schedule, and it was on my way.” He held out his hand. “Kailen.”

  I slipped the phone into my pocket and took the proffered hand. Warm, firm grip. My wits began to assemble themselves into an orderly line. I’d never mooned over a man before anyway, even if he was tall, handsome, a lawyer, and had warm hands. “Nice to meet you, Kailen. Why don't you come in and we can discuss business? How long do you have?” Kailen...had I contacted someone named Kailen? All these lawyers went by things like Teagan, O'Farrell, & Associates. I just didn't recall.

  He checked his watch—brushed silver with a thick band. Something clicked and whirred. “Twenty minutes, give or take five.”

  I stood off to the side as he brushed past me and into the house. The faint scent of cologne followed him—slightly sweet and with a hint of spice. I found myself leaning in a little and breathing it in. What was wrong with me? He was a divorce lawyer—D-I-V-O-R-C-E. I’d been speaking to my husband not five minutes before. I shook my head. “This way,” I told him as I took the lead. “We can sit in the kitchen.”

  I settled myself in the chair closest to the window, my customary spot. Kailen set his briefcase on the surface of the table but didn't open it. Odd. I folded my hands on the tabletop. “Are you part of a firm?”

  He shook his head. “No, I used to be. I work independently now. I find it allows me to better focus on my clients. When I worked as a part of a firm, I felt the clients were treated more as paychecks than as people. I think each client deserves individual attention.”

  He drew out the last two words, made them sound slick as damp silk. Oh god. Was I blushing? “And how many years of experience do you have?”

  He shrugged. “I have plenty of experience. Six years. How much experience are you looking for? My previous clients seemed to think I was well-versed.”

  I’m sure they did. A man who looked like that probably had women throwing themselves at his feet. Experience, experience—why'd I choose that word? “Oh. That sounds fine. So,” I said, “why should I hire you?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Do you always cut to the chase like that?”

  “I do when I'm paying for an employee out of my own pocketbook.” Finally, back in familiar territory, no innuendos to speak of.

  “Fair enough. You should hire me because I won't cost you an arm and a leg, I'm able to settle most of my cases out of court, and you think I'm ridiculously handsome.”

  “What?” I was with him until that last part.

  He met my gaze with those hazel eyes and my knees went suddenly weak. “Don't you?”

  “What if I did?” I brushed a hand over my black hair, wishing I were wearing something a little more appealing. My gaze focused on his lips and my heart pounded in my chest. Was I...was I flirting with my possible future divorce lawyer?

  “Nicole”—he reached his hands across the table and took mine between his—“you're young, you're beautiful, and your husband just cheated on you with someone you don't even think is attractive. Don't you ever just want to live a little? Do something a bit crazy?”

  My husband had just cheated on me
with Mousy Jane. Wait. “How do you know I don't think she was attractive?” I asked.

  He gave my hands a squeeze, one that left me thinking about what else his hands could do. “Let’s get out of here, you and I. I'll buy you a drink.”

  “I thought you only had twenty minutes.” My wits stumbled over themselves, jumbling together in an incoherent mass. Somewhere I knew what he was doing, an old sales trick—change the subject when the customer asks a question they won't like the answer to.

  Kailen glanced back down at his watch. “Ahh shit.”

  I looked over at the microwave. “It's only been four minutes.” Some of the fog in my mind cleared. “Is your watch broken?”

  He sighed, and when he turned his gaze on me again, the playful seductiveness had disappeared, replaced only with steel. “Get up.”

  I was on my feet before I'd registered what he'd said. A knot of tension formed at the back of my neck. You know that moment when you realize that things are about to go from bad to worse? Everything goes sort of hazy and clear at the same time, and you don’t even feel like the things that are happening are happening to you. You just retreat inside your head.

  The events of the past day blazed through my mind, bright and clear as pictures on a wall. I hadn't written an email to divorce lawyers. He couldn't possibly know where I lived. I'd invited a stranger into my house and I was alone. “Who are you?” I'd have been proud that I kept my voice steady if my hands hadn't been shaking like two little hairless dogs.

  “As I said, I'm Kailen, and I'm a lawyer.” He stood up and hit the clasps on his briefcase. “I'm also here to protect you.” The case fell open and he pulled out a long piece of metal. In two movements I couldn't quite follow, he snapped his wrist up and out. The piece of metal unfolded and clicked into place.