by Rider, C. P.
"Absolutely." Amir gave me a long, lazy smile. His patented flirty grin.
When I smiled back, his grin faltered, and he sat up stiffly in the chair. Stared at his iced coffee and untouched cookies. "I should get back to patrol—"
"Pardon me, are you open?" An elderly woman tottered into the café leaning hard on a cane, the rubber tip whistling against the tile floor. Her skin was so white it was nearly transparent. Her ivory hair, the texture of cotton, was swirled into a small bun on the back of her head. She wore a lilac and white-striped running suit and chunky white sneakers, and the hand that gripped the top of the cane was weighted down with heavy rings.
"Please come in. What can I get for you, ma'am?" I stood, moving toward the counter to assist her, all the while eyeing the welcome bell, which hung, silent, from the door handle. Why hadn't it rung when she opened the door?
"I'd like one of those brown cookies. The one that looks like a pig. Is it molasses?"
"Piloncillo," I said. "It's got a smoky, caramel sort of taste to it. If you like molasses, you'll probably enjoy it."
The woman appeared unsure. "If you think it's good, I'll give it a try."
"Tell you what." I lifted the cookie with a pair of tongs and dropped it into a paper sack. "If you don't like it, I'll give you one of anything else you see here for free."
"That's lovely." The corners of her mouth slowly melted into a scowl. "You're definitely the spiker."
"Neely…" Amir stood, circling the woman from behind.
Damn it! I should have read her when she walked in, but my brain was banging against my skull, and I'd thought she looked harmless since she was elderly, which was pretty ageist of me, now that I thought about it.
The woman shifted, changing from a nonagenarian grandmother into a human-sized green crocodile. Her rings hit the floor with a series of metallic pings, along with her purse and cane. Looking closer, I noticed the cane had been carved into the shape of a stylized crocodile.
"Are you kidding me?" I scurried behind the counter. "A freaking crocodile? Amir, are you seeing this?"
"It would be difficult to miss." He made a wide arc to the left, putting a couple of tables between himself and the shifter. "What do you want?"
The woman's face changed back to human. It was still green and scaly, but with human features—a truly discomforting sight. "How about you two get my animal correct, for starters? I'm an alligator. Can you not see the broad and short head? The U-shaped jaw? Do I have that ridiculous fourth tooth sticking out either side of my mouth? Maybe put down your cellular phones and pick up a copy of National Geographic once in a while."
"You have no idea who you’re dealing with, ma'am. I watch documentaries the way normal people watch … normal things."
Thppt. The woman blew out a raspberry, then shifted into her reptile again. I tried to latch onto her slippery brainwaves—it was slow going. I often had difficulty spiking into the brains of the fully shifted, but I'd eventually get there. I had to keep her talking.
"Let me guess. You need a weapon for your group. No matter how many times I tell alphas that changing me into a crossbreed will kill me, you people continue to push the issue."
The woman shifted her head back to human again. She was obviously a strong alpha, as she'd made the switch between hybrid and fully shifted twice in a very short time frame.
"That's because most alpha leaders are arrogant jerks," she snapped. "They believe they're the exception to every rule. Trust me, I was married to one like that for fifty years."
"Aren't you like that?" I eyed the distance between where I stood and the kitchen door. If I could slide a few feet to the right, I might make it through before she could attack me. Of course, that opened up a new host of problems, like how I could get out of the kitchen without being chomped.
"Well, I do lead a congregation of alligators in Brownsville. It's a gulf town in South Texas—"
"I'm familiar with it," I snapped.
"Miss Costa MacLeod, please understand. I don't wish to change you. I want to empower you. Woman to woman."
Amir stopped circling. Brow furrowed, he looked from the alligator to me. "Is she here to kidnap you or recruit you for a feminist organization?"
The alligator shifter rolled her eyes. "Ignore this male. Come with me."
"Hey, this male is my friend." I scowled at her until she showed me her teeth. I leapt back, spilling a pile of paper napkins onto the floor. Even in hybrid form, her bite looked deadly. "Cut that out. Ma'am, please go. I don't want to hurt you, but I will if you leave me no choice." Once I finally made it into her head, that was. I was so close.
She rose up onto her hind legs, balanced by an impossibly large, scaly tail. "Listen to me. I have all the information you need about my group right here." She swiped her purse off the floor and rummaged around in it. "Hold on."
"You carry pamphlets?" Amir appeared as intrigued as I was annoyed.
The alligator shifted further into human as she dug in her bag. Her brain energy normalized, and I latched on.
"Listen. Let me make you a cup of coffee and we'll sit down—holy smokes, that's a big gun."
I knew nothing about guns that I hadn't learned from either Chandra or watching Dirty Harry movies with my tío. This actually worked out, because I was pretty sure the monster of a gun the alligator now had pointed at my chest was a .44 Magnum.
"Stop calling me ma'am, kid. I hate that."
"It's a term of respect."
"Do I look as if I feel respected?" the alligator shouted.
In seconds, Amir had shifted to his eagle hybrid, his body covered with downy golden-brown feathers, his mouth transformed into a hooked, black-tipped beak, his upper arms webbed to his back. He rushed the gator from behind, but by then I didn't need his help. I was inside the alligator shifter's head, rocketing to the center of her consciousness.
I spiked.
Her mouth fell open, the gun dropped out of her hand and into Amir's outstretched wing, and her body collapsed to the floor.
Amir shifted back to human as he bent over the shifter and took her pulse. Brow furrowed, he peered up at me questioningly. "She's alive."
"I know." Exhaustion crashed over me in a wave. "It's probably a stupid move, but—
"Mercy isn't stupid." Amir lifted and lowered one shoulder. "Most of the time."
"This isn't mercy, Amir." With a sigh, I peered up at him. "I want to see if I can do something and I need a … well, a test subject."
Wordlessly, Amir locked the door, closed the blinds, and flipped the closed sign. He propped the woman in a chair, and I took a seat across from her. "What are we doing? Do you need to draw energy from me?"
That, more than anything, made me grateful he was here instead of Dan. Amir trusted me.
"Possibly. I'm going to try to wipe a section of her memory and give her a suggestion."
"Is this like what you did to your ex?" he asked.
I hadn't realized Amir had known I'd wiped my ex-fiance's memory to get him to stop trying to kill Lucas and the people I cared about in Sundance. It made his trust in me that much more meaningful.
"Not as intense. The danger in this type of spike is that the energy running through me feels good. So good I sometimes lose control. If that happens, will you please bring me some cold water or a piece of fruit from the kitchen? I don't know why, but disrupting me like that helps."
"Sure. How'd you find that out?" He studied me for a second. "Your father told you."
"Yep. One of the few things he's shared." I pulled the alligator shifter's hands into mine, and drew a little energy from both her and Amir. "You know, this is the third Texas shifter I've run into today. Hope it's not an omen."
"Probably just a coincidence."
"Amir, the one thing I have come to believe since moving to Sundance is that there are no coincidences."
Chapter Two
It worked.
Mostly. The elderly alligator shifter awoke with a sudden, urgent
need to return home that overrode everything else, but she hadn't forgotten me or what she'd been after. She had, however, forgotten about the gun, which Amir took home with him, so that was a win.
I closed for the day after the two shifters left, too mentally spent to deal with customers. I scrubbed down the bakery and put the perishables in the walk-in cooler, covering the rest with plastic wrap.
By then, my head pulsed with pain from the spikes. A precision spike, like the ones I'd done today, takes a lot out of me. It was exhausting to exert that sort of control over my ability. Conversely, a killing spike exhilarated, producing an addictive high that I craved so much I sometimes scared myself. Afterward, I experienced a different sort of exhaustion, one that burrowed deep in my soul.
The spike I'd performed on the alligator shifter today had left me somewhere in between the two. Body and soul weary.
I dragged myself upstairs to my studio apartment above the bakery. Once I was surrounded by my grey-blue walls, I felt better. The color calmed me, helped me feel cool and peaceful. A couple of months ago, my place had been pretty much destroyed. Every pane of glass, including the ones surrounding my bed, broken. My dishes, my oven window—nearly everything.
Lucas had swept in like a fairy godmother and paid to have my apartment repaired. I hadn't liked the idea of being beholden to my boyfriend in that way, but I also recognized that the offer had been extra generous coming from him, since what he really wanted was for me to move into his house. It would have been an easy thing for him to force the issue that I'd be safer at his place. Instead, knowing that my apartment was my refuge, he'd had it fixed. And, in doing so, had fixed me a little, too.
Bypassing my living room area, I kicked off my shoes and headed into the kitchen nook for a glass of water. My kitchen was tiny, but efficient. Pine wood cabinets and shelves, and clean white countertops, gave the room a cheery, bright look. As I stood barefoot on the polished white pine floor, I considered making myself something to eat. Eventually I decided I was more tired than hungry. So I drank my water, then flopped onto my bed and conked out for six hours.
I would have slept longer, but my phone rang.
"Amir and Dan said you closed early today." Lucas's low voice thrummed through my body and I suddenly wished he was in the bed beside me.
"Yes." I rolled onto my back and forced my eyes open. "Lucas, I don't want Dan watching the bakery anymore. I don't want him near me."
There was a long silence, then, "All right. Are you okay?"
"Yes. A senior citizen alligator shifter pulled a gun on me and I had to spike her. And some humans who walked in at the wrong time. You know non-lethal spikes always give me a brutal headache."
"Because you have to hold back."
"Exactly." I rubbed my temples. "Oh, I almost forgot about the Texas wolves. I had to spike a wolf today and threaten another."
"I take it they all lived." Since I was certain Amir had told him I'd allowed the alligator shifter to live and he knew I'd never hurt a human bystander, he was asking about the wolves.
"Yes." I sighed. "You know, I hear other panaderias only serve drinks and pastries to their customers."
"You serve up an ass-whooping," Lucas said.
"And have my own ass whooped in the process." I let my eyes slide shut again.
"You say you're okay, but you don't sound okay."
"I am as okay as I get these days. How was your day?"
"It sucked. I met with the sort of people who schedule meetings instead of sending an email. Chandra threatened to choke the shit out of a guy for suggesting we extend the thing another hour to discuss changes to the fiscal year projections, which was cool. Otherwise, the whole day was full of tom-fuckery. I'm not doing these anymore. It's video conferencing or nothing. Bunch of time-wasting bastards."
"Uh, didn't you hire those people?"
"Yeah, well, I didn't hire them to waste my time. Anyway, I'm home now. You want me to pick you up for the party tonight?"
"No need. Chandra's bar is close enough to walk. I sent cookies and bolillo rolls over this morning with Earp, so I'm not carrying anything."
This time there was a short silence. "Are you coming home with me tonight?"
I opened my eyes and smiled at the phone. It was cute when he showed me his vulnerable side. "I don't know. Will you be making coffee for me in the morning?"
"God no," he replied.
"Then yes. I'll come home with you tonight."
We ended the call. Instead of immediately rolling out of bed and into the shower, I lay there for a moment and tried to figure out my life. Always a mistake, taking stock on New Year's Eve, but I could hardly help it. It had been a banner year in the life of Neely Costa MacLeod.
I’d lost my family, in that the uncle who had raised me since I was thirteen died, and I found out that the woman I’d assumed was my mom wasn’t my mom at all. I'd also gained family, in the form of a deceased mother I had never known, and the sudden reappearance of my very-much-alive father.
Dad and Lucas had worked together to find me in that godawful sanctuary where I’d been imprisoned. Of course, I'd had my dad in my life through phone calls for years, but we'd never been close. We still weren't, but he had things to tell me, and for that alone, I'd shove my anger into a little pocket in my mind and deal with him.
Being hunted by alphas, trapped in a sanctuary, and nearly dying inside Lucas's brain were only some of the highlights of my illustrious year. Or was that lowlights? Lights. Definitely lights.
But there was good, too.
For the first time in my life, I had true friends. Friends who were family. Chandra, Dolores and Dottie, Fiera, Earp, Amir, and Imogen and Carter Reid.
And Lucas.
Aggravating, confusing, wonderful Lucas Blacke. A man who was possibly my true mate—an idea that sent chills down my spine in all the wrong ways. Although if I had to be metaphysically bonded and telepathically connected to a person, I was glad it was someone I was already in love with.
Enough mooning over Lucas. It was time to get up. The party started in an hour, and my hair smelled like yeast and French roast. Not entirely unappealing, according to Lucas, but I'd rather not enter a room full of shapeshifters smelling like breakfast.
Slowly, I rose from the bed. My head was foggy, my feet didn't move as quickly as I wanted, my hand didn't grasp the doorknob tightly enough. I wound up pushing it open with my shoulder. When I stepped into the bathroom, the shower seemed miles away. I glanced into the mirror above the sink and saw that my nose and mouth were crusted with blood. A turn of my head told me my ears were, too. Slowly, and after much deliberation, I turned to look back at my bed.
The sheets were soaked with blood.
* * *
I managed to get myself clean, opting for a bath instead of a shower since I felt too weak to stand for long enough to get my hair and body clean. Once that ordeal was over, I wrapped myself in a towel and went into the kitchen to drink some water and eat a sandwich. I also made a cup of pour-over coffee and sipped it. I didn't know if any of that was going to help, but eating was something my tío always told me to do when I didn't feel good, so I went with it.
It actually did make me feel better.
I pulled the bloody bedding off my bed and dumped it in a pile in the corner of the room. I doubted all the cold water in the world could save those sheets, but I'd give it a shot. If I took it to Lucas's place to wash—which was where I did my laundry lately, he'd worry, so I'd have to take it to my uncle's house instead.
Not right now, though. I had a party to attend.
I slipped into a little blue dress—halter top with an above-the-knee hem—the gold ball and lock bracelet Lucas had given me as a gift, and a pair of matching strappy heels. I tucked a pair of ballet flats into my purse for later in the night, slapped on some mascara, blush, and a little lipstick, picked out my curls so they ran in damp little spirals down my back—they'd dry on the way over—and made my way to The Dusty Cactus S
aloon.
People write love songs about January weather in Sundance. Sonnets and haikus and beautiful verses. It's cool enough to wear a jacket in the evenings, even a stylish scarf, but it never snows. It rains just enough to keep things alive, and the wind is brisk, but not frigid. It is the closest thing to perfect weather in the world, in my opinion, and since I was the only one around, my opinion was the only one that mattered.
Chandra Smith, Lucas's second in command and all around badass, had purchased the Dusty Cactus from the original owner a couple of months ago, and was slowly getting it into shape. She'd repaired and refinished the chunky hardwood tables and chairs, put in ceiling fans, had Earp renovate the bathrooms, and even had town gossip Margaret Lentz—who nobody, except Earp, had known was an artist —repaint the brilliantly-hued desert scene mural on one wall.
But what I really loved about Chandra owning the bar was watching her agonize over the perfect way to pour a martini, or stress over her shipment of enchanted scotch. She normally tore people apart for annoying her, so to see the ex-assassin have to deal with people using diplomacy instead of her fists was enlightening. She had more patience than I'd thought.
"Norman, I will rip out your goddamned heart and feed it to you if Karl Strauss isn't on my doorstep by tomorrow at 9 a.m."
As I walked through the door to the Dusty Cactus, I nearly collided with Earp, who was carrying four mugs of beer on a cork-lined tray. Both Earp and Chandra wore the bar uniform—jeans and a black shirt with a green Dusty Cactus Saloon logo emblazoned over the right breast.
"Who is Chandra threatening now?"
Earp replied, "Norman Hooper. He works for her supplier. One of 'em, anyway. Fella thinks he can pull the wool over Smith's eyes the way he did Phil's, but he'll learn the way the others did."
"Not funny, you deceptive sack of garbage. Of course I don't mean the man." Chandra switched the phone to her other ear.
"I thought she met with a supplier in San Diego today."
"She did, but this one has a better deal on some of that IPA beer a couple of the guys around here like to drink. She's a bargain hunter, that one. Thing is, ol' Norman doesn't realize she's also an actual hunter—of people who piss her off." Earp chuckled to himself and shuffled off to the table of shifters near the old-fashioned jukebox.