“I don’t either. But do you know what I had to do after I lost my temper?”
Damian shook his head again.
“I had to go to the Care building and learn how to keep myself under control. That’s all this is, Damian. It isn’t punishment, and I’m not banishing you. Right now, you need behavior lessons more than English lessons. Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” Damian said, sniffling and wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Do I have to go now?”
“Yes. I’ll take you to sit with Jane while I get your things, and then I’ll call your dad.”
“Okay.”
They walked across the courtyard together, through the playground and dodge ball court, over the bridge on the duck pond, and between the rows of upturned earth where they’d planted their little vegetable garden. Flags covered with crayon drawings of vegetables labeled the rows “Kukumbrs”, “Scwash”, and “Wattermellins”, along with several other vegetables which had, miraculously, been spelled properly. While Killian had made the kids practice the proper spellings, he’d decided to leave the flags as they were. Perfection wasn’t nearly as important as validation to his mind, and the pictures had been drawn with such pride and care that the misspellings didn’t matter much.
Once Damian was deposited into Jane’s care and Killian had retrieved the boy’s things, Killian returned to Jane’s desk to use the phone. As he reached down to dial, something red and wet splashed over the buttons. It took him a moment to realize that it was blood; even though Damian pierced his sub-dermal layer, he should have begun to heal already. Frowning, Killian peeled back the torn shirt sleeve. He heard Jane gasp beside him, but he was too shocked to react to her. The skin around each puncture on his forearm had started to swell and peel, leaving the wounds exposed. Thin scabs would form, then fail almost immediately as the blood pooled and trickled down his arm. As he stared at it, it began to burn like fire. The wound wasn’t simply failing to heal; it was getting much, much worse.
There was only so much that sweeping could do on the outside walk, and Pan did all he could. Eventually he’d been forced to accept that it was done, and had wandered back into the shop to find Boris reading a magazine. The shop was as clean and organized as it could get, and time seemed to stretch on forever.
“We should open later,” Pan sighed. “Or open, close for five hours, then open again. Literally nobody comes in from ten to three, everybody’s busy doing something.”
“You busy yourself. We stay open,” Boris said, leaving no room for argument. Pan flopped down in a chair and began to spin lazily, staring at the ceiling. He knew Boris wouldn’t listen to reason. They’d had the same argument at least twice a week since Pan started working there, and Boris never budged once. He spun until he was dizzy, then spun the other way. Just another never-ending day in the safe, beige purgatory of Regis Thyme. The phone rang and he lunged for it, grateful for the distraction.
“RT hair care, this is Pan, how may I help you today?”
“Pan, it’s Killian. I need to speak to Boris.” Killian’s voice sounded thick and labored, and Pan was instantly concerned.
“Are you canceling today?” He asked with a sinking heart.
“Don’t know yet, Pan. Really need to talk to Boris, it’s kind of an emergency.”
“Okay, sorry. Here he is.”
Boris asked a question with his thick eyebrows, and Pan shrugged. He mouthed “emergency” as he passed the phone over.
“This is Boris. He did what?! That boy will feel the crack of my…! No, of course. Yes, yes, much better plan. For myself? I don’t think for me, Natalia would…oh. Everybody, or he don’t go back? What kind of teacher you think you are, kicking my boy out of school? No, that’s no plan! Bad plan! I don’t need nothing from…!” Boris’ words became too deep for human-shaped ears to understand as he suddenly shifted in a flash of anger. His already massive physique increased in both height and breadth as thick silver fur sprouted over his body. Pan glanced at Boris’ wolfish face with boredom. This was nothing he hadn’t seen before. Boris had a quick temper and little control over his shift, though he’d never hurt anyone in a temper as far as Pan knew. Boris transformed back into a man in mid-sentence.
“Another thing, you don’t think I will teach the boy myself? I will!” Boris paused for a moment. “Very well! We take this to higher level!”
Boris slammed the phone down and stormed out of the shop, grumbling in Russian as he went. Pan, confused, watched him leave and then come back to slam the door open.
“You watch shop!” Boris bellowed. “I take care of brat!”
“Just make sure you still have a brat tonight,” Pan said, only half-joking.
Boris’ only response was a yellow-eyed glare, then he stomped away again. Pan sighed and leaned against a chair. The clock told him it was barely ten o’clock in the morning. Five more hours until Killian may or may not arrive, and not an appointment in sight between now and then. He finished cleaning up Boris’ station, then went on to clean the rest of the shop. After an hour, he was hoping for a walk-in. After two, the entire shop had been disinfected twice, and as a result it smelled like a hospital. He lit a candle to combat the ultra-clean aroma, but it didn’t seem to help. A glance at the label told him why. “Lemon-kissed linen.” Too clean.
Boris returned after three hours, with Damian in tow. Damian looked as if he’d been crying, and Boris’ face was an uncomfortable mixture of fury and defeat. He silently pointed to a folding chair at the back of the shop, and Damian meekly walked over to it and sat down. He stared at his shoes, which sent a pang of sadness through Pan’s chest. He usually loved Damian’s visits. The kid was spirited and smart, and work was always more fun with him around. Today, though, there was a heavy cloud of tension filling the space. Pan never had been able to bear tension gracefully. He pretended not to feel it, and sashayed over to Damian to sit down beside him.
“Hey, buddy! Long time no see! Knuckles?” He held out his fist, but Damian wouldn’t bump it.
Boris was leaning over the back of a chair with his head in his hands, and took no notice of the one-sided conversation.
“You’re out of school early today. That’s pretty awesome, right?” Pan tiptoed around the elephant in the room, gently caressing its leathery skin with his innocent words. Damian shuddered a little and sucked in his lower lip to keep it from quivering, which just about broke Pan’s heart. He gently bumped Damian’s shoulder with his, a small gesture of comfort with no expectation of reciprocation. Damian sighed through his nose, and seemed to unwind just the tiniest bit.
“Let’s play a game,” Pan suggested brightly. “I’m bored today. Ze-ro interesting clients. You gotta help me out, kid, I’m dying here.”
Damian slid his eyes over to look at Pan, but said nothing.
“Okay, I’ll start. What’s black and white, but red all over?”
Damian hesitated a moment, then shrugged.
“A newspaper! Oh, wait. Do you know what a newspaper is?”
Damian silently shook his head.
“Dang. Never thought that joke would be dated. Let’s try a different one…oh, here we go. How many giraffes can you fit in the refrigerator?”
Damian turned toward him with a puzzled look, but still didn’t say anything.
“The answer is three,” Pan said confidentially. “But how do you know if three giraffes have been in the fridge?”
Damian shrugged shyly, and a tiny smile began to play at the corners of his mouth.
“There are six holes in the top and the salad is missing. How many elephants can you fit in a van?”
Damian thought for a moment, then held up two fingers.
“Yes! One in the front, and one in the back. How do you know if two elephants have been driving your van?”
Damian shrugged, and his grin widened.
“The tires are flat, and there are peanut shells all over the floor. Last question. You ready?”
Damian nodded.
&n
bsp; “How do you fit two elephants in the refrigerator?”
Damian shrugged exaggeratedly.
“You can’t! It’s full of giraffes!”
Damian laughed out loud for a split second, then whipped his head around to stare at his father in fear. Without children of his own, Pan generally avoided active, conscious, judgment of parents. For a moment, though, a flash of fury ripped through him on Damian’s behalf. He swore to himself in that moment that no child of his would grow up with the fear and terror that he saw etched on Damian’s smooth, innocent face. The rigidity of Boris’ spine reflected the tension in Damian’s tiny little fists, and all Pan could do was shake his head. It wasn’t his place to interfere and he wasn’t generally the kind to do so, but damn he wished that he was genius enough to navigate the electric storm brewing in the shop. Boris slowly turned toward them, his eyes glinting with something close to fury.
“Boris, hun, that was all me,” Pan said quickly. “Adults can’t even resist my genius comedy.”
Boris raised a heavy dubious eyebrow at the word “genius”, but his attention was on Pan, which was the goal. Pan grinned and shrugged.
“Just can’t help myself,” he said. “Gotta be crackin’ jokes, all day every day.”
“You crack jokes somewhere else,” Boris said heavily. “Today, Damian sweeps shop.”
“Aw, but my four o’clock…!”
“You can play with the silky black hairs later day! Today, shop is for me and boy. Go play outside, squirrel boy.”
Pan did a double-take at the nickname, and looked closer at Boris’ face. He was calm beneath the irritation, as if he’d made an important decision that had been weighing on him. Pan hoped, for Damian’s sake, that the decision had been a sane one. The fact that he’d used the nickname he’d given Pan years ago was a good sign. If he had still been pissed off, he would have used Pan’s full name as an epithet.
Pan slid off the chair and met Damian’s miserable eyes. He gave him what he hoped was an encouraging smile and pat on the shoulder, then walked past Boris. He tried to tell Boris to be gentle, but the words wouldn’t come out. So he settled for an intense look, and hoped that he and Boris had developed enough of a psychic bond for the older man to get it. Boris’ face was completely unreadable, and Pan resigned himself to stressing out about the situation for the rest of the day. But, like any good pseudo-Uncle, Pan made sure that the tree he chose to sit under was close to the shop door. From here, with his wolf ears on, he would be able to hear anything louder than a murmur.
It had taken Pan a full six years to learn how to change individual body parts. As far as he knew, only one other person in town had developed that particular skill; the head doctor, Henry Snow. Pan hadn’t interacted with the good doctor directly; Snow preferred to trim his own hair, and Pan hadn’t been badly injured or sick since he became a shifter, so their paths had never crossed. Still, he wondered occasionally if he should sit down with Snow and discuss the various intricacies of isolation shifts. Shaking off the stray thoughts, Pan instructed his ears to turn. They framed his blue faux-hawk like two white doves against an electric sky, and swiveled their pale pink centers toward the barber shop.
Murmurs in monotone. Whimpers. He couldn’t hear any words, they were speaking too softly, but he could hear the tones. Boris sounded stressed to the breaking point, and the tension in his voice grew tighter with every syllable. He was trying, though. Pan had to give him that much. He was desperately trying to keep his temper and discuss whatever the problem was rationally. Pan respected that, and he finally knew how he could help. From his pocket, he drew a flute, put it near his lips, and began to play.
Shifters are sensitive creatures, physically and emotionally. Scents, textures, and sounds…especially music… had a different effect on shifters than on humans. The particular frequencies of the Pan Flute were soothing to humans, and almost hypnotic to other animals; including shifters. Emotions were calmed and clarity was easy to find under the influence of the rippling notes. He played softly at first, slowly growing louder so as to creep into Boris’ subconscious before he could resist in anger. Boris’ nickname for him was validated as squirrels popped up from their holes, nestled under bushes and tangled boughs of yellow autumn grass, or scurried down from between brilliant, fiery leaves, drawn by the music. Birdsong silenced respectfully, and the branches above him were soon filled with birds of all kinds who had stopped by to learn a thing or two.
Suddenly the spell was broken as a shadow fell over him. Birds and squirrels scattered, shrieking in fear. Stopping short, he looked up, and his heart skipped a beat. There was Killian, tall and lanky with his beautiful glossy black hair and sharp features, and those deep, chocolate-brown eyes. It took a moment for Pan to notice that the eyes were glazed over, or that his skin was sallow and drawn. A tight, pained grimace contorted his beautiful face, and Pan stood quickly to ask him what was wrong. Before the words escaped his mouth, Killian collapsed. Pan barely caught him. He flinched with pain and shock when Killian’s head touched his skin. The man was burning up.
“Hey,” he murmured, rolling Killian in his arms to look at his face. “Killian, come on. You need to walk.”
Killian’s eyes rolled back in his head, and all Pan could see were the milky whites. His heart sank, and he wrestled Killian over his shoulders. He was smaller and thinner than the other man, but the hospital was just the next building over…on the far side. He thought about calling for help, but there wasn’t time. He could feel Killian’s heart racing on the back of his neck. If he didn’t move now, he was afraid that Killian’s heart would explode. So he shifted the weight evenly across his shoulders, crouched down to settle the weight in his thighs, and ran.
“Hang in there, buddy,” he said, though he didn’t think Killian could hear. “We’re almost there.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Killian faded in and out of consciousness. Scents of hair products filled his nostrils, overlaying a masculine scent he recognized. Pan, he thought. Today was his appointment with Pan. He should check the time….
“Doctor! Where’s the doctor?”
The panicked shout startled Killian awake. A swirl of brown, white, and soft fluorescent spun in his vision, making him dizzy. His ribs ached. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the dizziness to go away. As it did, so did he. Dreams filled his mind in abstract colors and incomprehensible sounds, pummeling him as he fell into a bottomless pit. Everything was burning. A massive needle moved toward him in slow motion, rippling and undulating like a headless serpent, aiming for his arm. He screamed and tried to run, but he was caught in a free-fall. His heart raced as the serpent inched closer and closer, taunting him, until finally it struck. Embedding itself in his arm, the serpent shrank and was still. The burning shapes around him went out one by one, and he found himself lying flat on his back in a meadow of ice. Clear plastic birds filled with sloshing liquid flew overhead, singing a persistent song in unison. Beep. Beep. Beep….
With a gasp and a violent shake, Killian returned to the waking world. Henry Snow’s severe, disapproving face glared down at him.
“Might want to work on your bedside manner, doc,” Killian said as he fell back against his pillow. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were gonna lecture me.”
“I am.”
“Oh. Guess I don’t know better.”
“What the hell were you thinking, Killian?”
“Which time?”
“The time you decided to mess around for four hours instead of coming straight here.”
“Oh, that. Had an emergency to deal with.”
“What on earth could have possibly been a bigger emergency than that?!” Henry jabbed a finger toward Killian’s arm, which had been wrapped from wrist to elbow.
“The kid who inflicted it,” Killian said. “And his irritating parents.”
“Discipline is secondary to injury, Killian! Do you have any idea how bad this is?”
“Pretty bad,” Killian sai
d nonchalantly. “Lee and Brad were left to deal with fifteen kids today. God knows what I’ll be walking into Monday morning.”
“A casket if you don’t start taking this seriously.”
Killian frowned at the doctor. “What are you talking about? This little bite? It’s not my first, Henry. You know that.”
“Yes, I do. But I also know that this is the first time that your arm tried to peel off of your body afterward.”
Killian’s frown deepened, and Henry sighed. He peeled the dressings off of Killian’s arm, revealing the horrific sight beneath. Black tendrils snaked out from the center of each puncture, sketching a web over what remained of his skin. His skin itself was a splotchy mess of tomato-red and flaking white, punctuated by angry yellow blisters. Sweat trickled down his spine and he swallowed hard.
“I’m sorry, Henry. I wrapped it up before this happened. It was angry, but I figured it could wait until Damian had been taken care of.”
“And the fever? Or didn’t you notice.”
Killian shook his head. “The fever didn’t hit for a couple of hours. When it did, I was already hip-deep in negotiations with Boris and Broderick. I couldn’t leave it like that, he was talking crazy. As soon as we wrapped it up I headed your way. Got a little…lost.”
“You’ve lived here as long as any of us. Just how exactly did you get lost?”
“The world sort of started to melt.”
“Melt?”
“Yeah. Melt, congeal, twist…I haven’t hallucinated like that since…well, never. It was bad. I finally passed out in the middle of an orange ocean, then…was Pan here?”
“He brought you in.”
“How?”
“He carried you.”
Killian laughed. “No, really.”
“Really. He lifted you over his shoulders and ran here. Bernadette’s treating him for a sprained knee right now.”
Killian was impressed. Pan wasn’t the strongest person in the world; he was shorter than the average shifter, and thinner. He was built like a model or a ballet dancer, and didn’t put much work in to strength training. Killian and Pan just happened to have the same personal schedule for the gym (a fact which Killian liked to believe was accidental, but he knew better), so Killian had a pretty good idea of Pan’s personal fitness priorities. Flexibility and stamina were top of his list, and Killian had spent many post-workout showers imagining why.
Dying to Live: The Shifter City Complete Series Page 19
