The Lion and the Artist

by Veronica Sommers

  I clench my jaw. "Why are you telling me this?"

  "I thought you'd want to know that he's alive. That he's got someone there—"

  "He's a rat bastard and slimeball. I couldn't care less if he dies. I hope his scars are disgusting." My voice shakes, and tears well from my eyes. Now? Really? I pick now to cry about it?

  And now that I've started, I can't stop. "Get out, Laura! Just—get the hell out!" I scream at her, and when she scampers out, I slam the door, lock it, and throw myself onto my bunk. I bury my face in the pillow and sob, long and deep, because Jeremy's sweet mother is siding with her son—of course she is. Of course. He's her blood. But she's a woman. She should believe me. But what woman wants to accept the truth that her son is a mean drunk and a would-be rapist?

  And that's not the only messed-up thing that grates at my soul right now. Oakland—gentle, intelligent, beautiful Oakland—the accountant, the apparent playboy who was actually aching for me—he's a shifter. He can turn into a freaking mountain lion. I can't have a future with that. What is he, even? What does that mean? Is there magic in the world? Vampires? Werewolves? What the actual living hell am I supposed to do with this information?

  What about that woman, Emily? Is she after Oak's shifter abilities? What and who is she?

  Questions, questions, questions—a writhing funnel in my brain, ripping up rational thoughts and swirling them into oblivion.

  Finally I calm down enough to lift my wet face from the pillow and grab some tissues from the box on the dresser. I'm a mess—snot and tears and leftover mascara and tangled auburn hair.

  Someone taps on the door. "Marilyn?" It's Carynne. "I sent the boys out to get pizza. I thought we could all spend the evening here—chill out, watch something fun, like 'Friends,' maybe. It's hella white, but I'll deal with it for you, babe."

  Sweet Carynne. I need to hug her.

  I open the door and she wraps me in strong arms. She smells like sun, and salt, and flowers. Her bushy dark curls brush against my cheek, and I'm about to dissolve into sobs again.

  "Hey, baby, hey," she says, patting my back. "Come on, now. You let it out if you need to."

  "I like Oakland," I sob into her shoulder. "I like him a lot. What's wrong with Jeremy? Why did he have to mess up this whole week? I was looking forward to this week, saving for it all summer."

  "I know, honey, I know. Now come on." She leads me out of the hallway, through the kitchen, to the living area. "I'ma pour you a little wine, and you're gonna sit right here—" she pushes me into a cushioned chair— "and we are going eat pizza and watch some heteronormative white-ass shit that's funny as hell. All right?"

  I laugh in spite of myself. "Yeah, that sounds good. Where's Laura?"

  "She went outside." Carynne rattles through a drawer. "Where the hell is the corkscrew?"

  "Is she mad at me?"

  Carynne hesitates. "I don't know. Mad at herself, maybe. Honestly she's been a little off kilter since you two got here. Not her normal bubbly self."

  It's true. I've noticed, but I marked it down to her mild jealousy over Oakland's attraction to me. Now I wonder if it's more than that—if I missed something that I should have seen. "Is she okay? Like, did something happen? Family, school, job?"

  Carynne shrugs. "I'm not sure. She usually tells me stuff. But she'd tell you too, right?"

  I nod, absentmindedly fumbling for the remote in the tray next to my chair. Carynne and I are friends, but we're really connected by Laura. Each of us is closer to her than we are to each other, and until now, that has worked fine. But now it seems that there's something Laura hasn't confessed to either one of us.

  "We'll get her alone and figure it out," says Carynne. I hear a satisfying pop from the kitchen—she must have found the corkscrew. "Maybe tomorrow."

  "Sounds good." I turn on the TV and start searching for 'Friends.' The next second I sniff the air tentatively. "Are you cooking something?" I twist around, and Carynne shakes her head.

  "No." Carynne bends toward the wine, sniffing. "This bottle smells weird."

  I rise, sniffing again, deeply. "Wait a second." I follow the odd scent toward the hall— "It's smoke!"

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes! Run outside and call the fire department. Where's the extinguisher?"

  Carynne's eyes go wide. She fumbles under the kitchen sink and tosses me a tiny extinguisher. "It's years old! I don't know if it will work—"

  Before she finishes speaking, I dart into the hallway, glancing at the extinguisher's instructions label to refresh my memory. Pull the pin. Aim low, at the base of the fire. Squeeze, and move the stream of chemicals back and forth in a sweeping motion.

  Smoke rushes into my lungs, harsh and choking, and I look up, startled. It's already pouring out of our shared bedroom, turning the air of the hallway into murky, unbreathable sludge that stings my throat with its heat.

  I drop to a one-handed crawl and inch toward the bedroom door. Maybe I can still stop it, or keep it from eating the entire beach house before the fire truck arrives.

  Heat crawls over my skin, blazing fingers singing my eyeballs and cheeks. I squint, choking, and peer through the bedroom doorway. The entire room is already engulfed, flames flickering bright and malevolent, climbing the bunkbeds, crinkling the white curtains into black tissue-paper fragments.

  My suitcase and my purse are streaming yellow and scarlet already, and the fire has nearly reached the wooden chair where I left my digital tablet and stylus. They are precious to me, two of the most valuable things I own—the channel through which I use my gifts. If they burn, I can't afford to replace them.

  "No!" I croak through the haze. No use trying to stop the fire at this point, but I can dodge in there and grab my tablet and stylus, really fast.

  Don't, don't! cries the rational bit of my brain, but it's clouded and muffled in smoke, and my instinct takes over. I spray the fire extinguisher at the advancing flames and crawl forward, fingers straining for the tablet. It's so damn hot in this room. I'm baking, I'm burning—I can't reach it—

  Get out, get out, you idiot!

  I throw the extinguisher aside and lunge for the doorway. I want to scream because I have to leave my tablet, my stylus—

  Get out!

  Oh god, I can't breathe. I can't—

  My lungs aren't working. Something is wrong. My legs and arms aren't obeying me—they're turning into huge, heavy sandbags and I can't—I'm—I can't—

  My cheek hits the floor, and my eyes close.

  Seconds pass, maybe, or minutes, or—

  Pain sears through my left shoulder—horrifying, blinding, white-hot pain, and I try to scream but my throat is too inflamed. My eyes squint open against the blazing heat, and I see a huge feline face next to mine, its jaws sunk deep into my shoulder. I can feel one of its fangs scraping against bone. It's pulling me, hauling with all its might, dragging me out of the bedroom. Agony shrieks in my feet, and I look down to see that my flip-flops are on fire. The pain clears my head for a second and I kick the flip-flops off.

  The panther drags me down the hall. I'm gasping, coughing and coughing and coughing and I can't stop. I can't tell Oakland to stop, to let go. I can't tell him that I'm dying, that my eyes are cooking in their sockets and my skin is scorched and my lungs are charred toast. He's breaking me, he's going to rip off my arm or shatter my collarbone.

  A flaming chunk of plaster falls from the ceiling onto his back, and he shudders hard, but he keeps dragging me, foot by foot, through the living room to the back door. His fur is on fire, flames licking across his back.

  "Oakland, stop," I croak. "You're burning. Stop."

  We're at the back door. It's open. Cool air from the sea pouring in. The panther drags me across the ridge of the doorframe, and my scraped ribs scream in protest.

  He's burning. He's burning.

  He opens his jaws, releasing my shoulder, and blood pours from the puncture wounds. With fire streaming from his back and an unearthly scream burs
ting from his mouth, he bounds down the steps and rolls onto the sandy earth, turning over and over.

  Air seeps into my lungs, little by little, and I crawl down the steps after him as the beach house shudders and fire bursts from the windows.

  I'm on the sand, inching toward Oakland. He lies motionless, red and black flesh showing in great swaths across his back where fur and skin and muscle have burned away.

  Sirens. Shouts from the corner of the house.

  I reach out to touch Oakland's smoke-stained muzzle. My hand falls short, and my puffy eyelids close over aching eyes.

  Running footsteps vibrate through the ground. "Here! We've got two back here!"

  I have to warn Oakland. They're going to see him in panther form—

  I can't open my eyes.

  Someone presses a mask over my face. "The female has smoke inhalation, with first-degree and second-degree burns on the feet. She's bleeding heavily from some trauma to the shoulder," says a man's voice. Fingers press my wrist. "Pulse is weak, but steady. Male has second and third-degree burns on his back. He's in bad shape."

  Tears trickle from my swollen eyes, and they hurt—oh hell, how they hurt.

  Oakland saved me again. Damn it. It was my turn to save him.

  -10-

  Don't Go Breaking My Heart

  When I open my eyes, the first thing I notice is that breathing hurts.

  Breathing, the thing I barely think about from minute to minute. The process that's so natural, so automated, that I take it for granted. It hurts.

  And my left shoulder hurts like fire itself whenever I move. It's heavily bandaged. No broken bones, apparently, but there's bruising, and I lost a lot of blood from the puncture wounds.

  I'm not intubated, so that's a mercy. I remember using a mask for part of the night, though. People came in and out of the room, checking my vitals, administering this and that. My feet are bandaged, but all my toes are still there. The doctor said the little one on my right foot is a mess, but it won't have to be removed. It's going to look butt-ugly once it's healed, but I can't worry about a little scarring—not until I know if Oakland is all right. They wouldn't tell me anything last night except that he was getting the best care.

  I shift, turning my head so I can find the call button for the nurse. I'm going to press it again and again until somebody tells me something about Oakland—

  And there he is, asleep on his stomach on a cot beside me. He's naked from the waist up, his back swathed in bandages. When did they bring him in here? Why isn't he in intensive care in some burn victims' ward or something? He looks—good. There's color in his cheeks—all the soot is gone from his face and hair. There's no IV. He doesn't look like a third-degree burn patient.

  "Oakland," I whisper. Gosh, my throat is sore. I try again, louder. "Oakland." But his mouth is still slack, his eyes sealed, his entire body deeply relaxed.

  Maybe he heals faster than normal humans. Maybe this is some sort of super-deep healing sleep?

  Maybe he needs to wake up so he can answer the hundred questions that have been swirling through my head since he shifted in front of me, out on the rocky point.

  I press the call button and ask for water. Within five minutes a nurse arrives, and I croak, "Is he all right?" pointing at Oakland.

  "He's fine." She rolls her eyes. "He supposedly had third-degree burns, but that initial report was a mistake. I guess the EMS guy couldn't see the wounds properly, or assumed they were worse than they were? Your guy there has got a couple first-degree burns—nothing too bad. He refused to let us bandage them unless we brought him in here with you. I'm not even sure how he convinced the doctor to approve it. Is he a relative? Boyfriend?"

  "Significant other, maybe?" I grimace. "I'm not sure yet. But he did drag me out of a burning house. Almost got himself killed."

  Her eyes spark with interest. "Well, we won't kick him out just yet then. Are you interested in some breakfast?"

  "Yes please."

  "It should be along soon. And then we'll see about getting the doctor in to see you. You should be able to leave this morning."

  "My—my credit cards, my driver's license, my insurance card, everything is gone. Burned." My throat constricts. My phone. My tablet, my stylus, any art I didn't back up—my clothes, makeup, everything—and of course I don't have insurance on any of it. It will cost a fortune to replace it all.

  "One of your other friends contacted your mother, I believe," says the nurse. "I think she's on her way. Don't you worry about a thing. We'll get it all sorted out."

  After she leaves, I turn my head to the side to watch Oakland sleep. His face is smooth, relaxed—the sight of it calms me.

  He wakes a few minutes later, lifting himself on those beautiful muscled arms. His green eyes meet mine. "Marilyn?"

  "Morning." I smile, because who wouldn't with all that male gorgeousness an arm's length away?

  He swings onto the edge of the cot, tense as a bowstring, agony in his eyes. "Your shoulder—how is it?"

  "It's painful. It isn't broken though."

  "I'm so sorry I hurt you."

  "You were trying to save me." I narrow my eyes. "Why didn't you just walk in there in human shape and help me get out? That's what you did at the costume party."

  "The two I helped at the party were just at the fringe of the fire. It wasn't nearly as wild or hot as the one you were in. I had to go in as the cat, or I wouldn't have survived." He clasps his hands together, his large fingers wound tight with anxiety. "In cat form, shifters have more stamina, more strength. We can go right to the edge of death and come back. If I'd gone in as a human, we would both have died."

  My frown relaxes. "Okay. I guess I'll forgive you for the shoulder wound. What about you? You were really badly burned, and now—"

  He nods. "We heal fast, even in human form. I'll be back to normal by tonight. No scars."

  Now I'm a little jealous. "I don't suppose you can lend me any of that healing ability. I'm probably going to have scarred feet, and I'm not too thrilled about it."

  "Sorry, it's not really something I can share. And I'm sorry about your feet. I'm sorry I didn't get in there faster."

  "Oakland, it's fine. I'm half-joking, okay? I'm grateful to be alive, and I'm so thankful you saved me. But I'm also upset. I mean, seriously, why does Fate have it in for me? Haven't I been through enough this week? Now all my stuff is gone—everything. It's all burned to crisp."

  "I know."

  "Sorry. I'm being selfish. You lost your things, too, didn't you?"

  "Some of it, yeah." He rubs a hand over his unshaven jaw. "Just some clothes and shower stuff, really. I left my wallet in Cliff's car, so that's safe."

  "Where are the others, anyway?"

  "They were here most of the night, so I told them to go get some rest. They were stopping by the house to see what's salvageable, and then they'll pick up a few things at the store and check into a motel. I guess Carynne contacted her parents, and they're gonna handle the insurance stuff."

  "It's weird, right? All the fires?"

  Oakland cuts his eyes away, and I almost sit up straight—but the shock of pain in my shoulder makes me sink back down. "You know something about it!" I accuse. "Tell me."

  "It's not knowledge, exactly. More of a suspicion."

  "You have to tell me." I reach over and touch my shoulder, wiggling my eyebrows at him. "You owe me—for this."

  He chuckles. "I think you've got that backwards. Don't you owe me? That's three times I've rescued you."

  "Debatable." I smile back at him, but the next second the grin slips from my face. This fire thing is getting out of hand, and from what I've seen on the news, the police have no leads and no idea how the arsonist is starting the fires. If Oakland knows anything, he needs to speak out. "Oakland, if you know anything about it, you need to tell the police."

  "It's not the kind of thing I can tell the police." He stares into my eyes, like he's trying to send me a secret message.

&nb
sp; "You mean it's a supernatural thing?"

  A half-smile curves his mouth. "You're quick. I love that about you."

  My heart does a twirl in my chest. "How do you know it's supernatural?"

  "I don't know, for sure. It's a hunch, really. I sometimes get a weird feeling when I'm near a person with powers—kind of a sixth sense, I guess. And I've been getting that feeling around one person lately. Someone else who has been near each fire event. The outlets, the costume party, and then the duplex, which coincidentally is right next to the nightclub where Cliff, Carynne, and Laura went the night you and I had our date. And then, last night—"

  My brain does a quick process of elimination. "It's Carynne or Laura."

  His eyes never leave mine. "Has either one of them been acting odd lately? Experiencing more negative emotions than usual?"

  "Laura," I breathe. "You think Laura is starting the fires? You're crazy."

  "Unintentionally," he says quickly. "I think she's a wielder with a very rare ability. It's obviously tied to her emotions somehow. I don't know much about higher-class magic, though. Shifters are considered low-class magic users—"

  He's about to say more, but a woman bustles through the door of the room with trays of food—one for me, and one for Oakland. He doesn't speak again until she has disappeared, and then he says, "You should eat. We can talk more about this later."

  "You think I want to eat right now? You're telling me about real, live magic. Witches, or wizards, or mutants—"

  "Wielders."

  "Whatever. I want to know more." But my stomach growls, embarrassingly loud, and he grins. "Eat something, Marilyn. Please. Tell you what—for every bite you take, I'll take you one fact about the supernatural world. Deal?"

  I remove the cover of the tray. Eggs, bacon, and toast, with jello and orange juice. Not bad for a hospital breakfast. "It's a deal."

  Oakland tells me how the high-class wielders, the ones gifted with natural magic, look down on the shifters and their "carnal" magic. The only magic users who are lower on the scale than shifters are the plain old ungifted humans who use spells, symbols, amulets, and herbs to achieve magical results.