There are different classes of wielder magic—physical, spiritual, mental, and emotional. The more he tells me about each class's potential, the more terrified I become. I try not to show it. I nod, taking small, rapid bites of egg and bacon, chewing, smiling, all the while freaking out inside because these wielders can insert thoughts in minds, change emotional responses, take pieces of souls—
"Emily is a mental wielder," he says. "She can make you think you're in terrible pain, even when she's not actually harming you. She tricks the nervous system into simulating a pain response."
"So that's what she did to me at the restaurant."
"On a small scale, yes. She's an expert at torture. She also deals in blackmail, in secrets, and that's why she needs me. There's a file she wants, but it's in a heavily protected facility. I could get in there in cat form, find the papers, and bring them to her."
"But why you? Why not some other shifter?" I ask.
"There aren't many of us left, and the ones that exist guard their identities very carefully. I imagine that I was the only one she could find. An unfortunate result of an incident last year. So now she knows about me, and therefore she knows that my brother and sister are also shifters."
I almost choke on my bacon.
"Yeah, it runs in families," he says, smiling a little and reaching forward to pat my back. "You need me to Heimlich you?"
"No," I wheeze. "I'm good." So if Oakland and I have a future together, our children would be shifters too?
That's jumping way too far ahead into the future. He may think I'm quick-thinking, but right now I can barely keep up with everything he's telling me, much less decide how I would feel about pursuing a long-term relationship with a panther shifter.
"Anyway," he continues, "Emily has threatened to go after Daera or Ryden if I don't cooperate with her. And she's also promised to torture me thoroughly and then reveal my secret to the humans. So my only way out of this is to kill her."
"Can't you just steal whatever it is she wants you to take?"
His eyebrows lift. "You want me to steal for her?"
"I'd rather date a thief than a murderer."
Shock flares through his eyes. Maybe he hasn't let himself think the word "murder" until this point.
"If I don't kill her, she'll keep asking me to do jobs for her. She'll be a shadow behind me for the rest of my life—which, by the way, is longer than a human's."
My heart sinks. "How much longer?"
"We live anywhere from two hundred to three hundred years."
Another nail in the coffin of our potential relationship. He'll be young and handsome when I'm a doddering old lady with age spots and a walker.
I can't do this.
I look up at him, into his eyes. His face changes as he reads my expression.
"It's too much, isn't it?" he says quietly.
I can't speak, so I nod.
"I thought so. When we were out on the rocks, I let myself hope—but I knew it wouldn't work."
"Oakland, I'm sorry. You're beautiful, and sweet, but—I'm not ready for this. I don't want it, and I wish I didn't know about any of it." I shake my head, as if the movement could dislodge the unwanted knowledge. "I think it's better for both of us if we back away now. Before we get in too deep."
He stands, giving me a single, resigned nod. "Talk to Laura when you get a chance. Find out what's going on, and then send her to me. If her powers are awakening, she needs help, and training. I know where she can get both of those things."
He walks to the door.
"Oakland."
He turns, a flicker of hope in his eyes.
"Thanks for everything," I say.
His lips tighten and he nods once more before slipping out into the hallway.
I want to tell him to stay. But I can't. I just can't. I want to be a great graphic designer, one of the best in the business. I want to have a couple kids and a nice, normal husband. I do not want to be involved in magical shit with a panther shifter who is going to outlive me by a couple centuries. And having children is complicated enough without them being able to turn into little panther kittens.
This is not what I want. He is not the one I want.
So why is my appetite suddenly gone? And why do I feel like crying?
***
My mother arrives not long after Oakland's departure, and I give her the non-magical version of the events since the start of this ill-fated week. One minute she's reprimanding me for not telling her about Jeremy immediately—the next, she's commiserating with me over my dreadful luck.
"I've already talked to your dad, and he's going to replace everything you lost. No objections!" She holds up her hand to stop my words. "This is something he wants to do."
I can't believe she actually called my father. And I can't believe he offered to take on the replacement costs for everything. But then, he has always been one for grand occasional gestures. Since I didn't live with him after the divorce, I guess he feels bound to show me his love by tangible means occasionally.
The next few hours are a whirlwind of doctors and paperwork. Carynne and Cliff stop by to say goodbye—they're busy dealing with the aftermath of the fire and then they're heading home.
"No word on how it started?" I ask her.
"No." The light in her dark eyes is dimmer than usual. "I hate to ask this, Marilyn, but—you were the last one in that room. Did you smoke or anything in there? Burn a picture of Jeremy? Leave a curling iron plugged in?"
I shake my head. "Nothing. When Laura left the room I lay on the bed and cried until I got up to open the door for you. That was it."
"All right. Well, you feel better, honey, okay?" She strokes my hair. "We'll see y'all around campus soon. Sorry this week turned into such a mess. It's like someone cast a curse on us."
"Don't be talkin' about curses." Cliff glances over his shoulder and shivers. "Let's just hope the bad luck has run out, yeah? See ya 'round, Marilyn."
After they leave, my mother steps out of the room to take a call. A moment later, Laura sneaks in, looking thin and pale, her eyes immense and sorrowful, like haunted blue lakes.
"I'm leaving soon, driving back home," she says. "I just wanted to see you first." She perches on the edge of the cot where Oakland slept last night.
My heart rate picks up again. Is there any good way to ask your friend if she's a pyromaniac witch?
"I'm checking out soon," I tell her. "They're going to check my shoulder again and tell me how to take care of the puncture wounds and the burns."
"Those puncture wounds," says Laura slowly, "I heard they looked like an animal bite."
"Yeah, weird." I laugh it off. "They took a bunch of pictures and asked me questions—but I was unconscious from the smoke. I have no idea what happened."
Her eyes narrow slightly. I've known her long enough to discern the suspicion and disbelief in her gaze.
All right then. Enough games.
"You know I'm lying," I tell her. "So why don't you just ask the question?"
"Because it's crazy."
"No crazier than the question I want to ask you."
She stiffens instantly, panic flooding her eyes. "No, no! Not now, Mari, don't ask me now! We're in a hospital, for goodness sake! Do you know what could happen—"
"If your emotions get out of control? You could start a fire here, right? Or somewhere nearby."
She gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. "Mari!" It's a cry for help, and a plea for mercy.
"Just—calm down," I tell her. "Breathe. I'm not angry or scared of you, okay? You're still Laura, and I love you. Breathe. Come on. Deep breaths, in and out."
"I've tried that!" she snaps. "It doesn't work. It's probably already too late."
"How do the fires start?"
"I don't know. I've tried to figure it out—the radius, the location, the triggers—I can't make sense of it. The fire starts after I've had a strong burst of emotion. But it's always somewhere a little distance away from me, like
in another part of the building I'm in, or an adjacent building. At first I thought it was just coincidence. I still think it is, sometimes—but if a fire starts here, in the hospital, it's going to be awful, Mari! People could die!"
She's getting worked up again, her hands clawing deep into the cot's thin hospital mattress.
"It's okay," I tell her. "Just a second."
I press the button for the nurse and say, "My friend just came to visit, and she smelled smoke on one of the lower floors. Could you have someone check the building? Just in case."
The nurse agrees, though she sounds doubtful.
"There," I tell Laura. "Now they're on alert. They'll be watching for any sign of fire, and if one starts, they'll be able to quell it quickly. Now listen—Oakland is the one who told me you might be the one starting the fires. He can feel something around you—your power, or energy. And he says he knows people who can help you learn to control this."
"Seriously? Oh, thank God!" Her shoulders slump with relief. "I've been wondering who I could tell, who might be able to help. I've scoured all these weird websites, looking for something legit, but I couldn't tell the real from the made-up crap." She licks her lips nervously. "Oakland is something too, isn't he?"
"He's a shifter. He can turn into a mountain lion."
She lays a hand over her mouth. "So he bit you?"
"He saved me. Dragged me out of the fire, and nearly cooked himself in the process."
"And Jeremy? He tore Jeremy up, didn't he?"
"Yeah." I glance away, fighting the emotions that surge in my chest. Jeremy is somewhere in this very hospital, still recovering from the slashes Oakland dealt him.
"That's insane and awesome," Laura breathes. "Why couldn't I have that kind of power, instead of this stupid pyro thing?"
"The shifting deal isn't as awesome as you think," I mutter. "It comes with a lot of drawbacks."
"Where is Oakland, anyway?" she asks, glancing around as if he might materialize out of thin air.
"Probably on his way home."
She spears me with a look. "Marilyn. Did you send him away?"
"Sort of. It's too much for me, okay? I'm not getting involved with a freaking shapeshifter."
"You're an idiot."
"Am I? He's going to live way longer than me, he's in trouble with some freaky torture mentalist, and any babies we had would be shifters too. That's too much. I'm not signing up for that."
Her expression shifts to eagerness. "So he's fair game then? I mean, if you're backing off—"
"Sure. Have at it. You'll be seeing him anyway, right? To get help with your powers. You can make your move then." I say the words as casually as I can, but inside I'm twisting, pained at the idea of Oakland's fingers in Laura's hair, his hands caressing her shoulders, his mouth moving on hers—
"You should go," I said quickly. "You have his number right? Call him on the way. Maybe you can even meet up with him on the road and talk it over."
"Yes, I have his number. And I still have my credit card, driver's license and phone—I put them in my pockets after the beach because I thought we might go out later. I'll call him. Thanks, Mari!" She kisses my forehead. "And get out of here soon, okay? Just in case a fire does start."
"I will. And Laura—please eat something. You look so tired, and thin."
She smiles, wan and weary. "Isn't being thin a good thing?"
"Not when it's an unhealthy kind of thin. Get some protein in you, girl!" I force a smile, because even though I'm jealous and heartsick, I care about her. "A full belly might actually help you regulate your emotions better. I'm always more positive when I've had a nice meal."
"Good advice. Love you!"
"Love you too."
When she's gone, I rehash the conversation in my head, thinking of all the ways that I could have been more supportive, more helpful. Thinking up things I could have or should have said. But after all, there's no instruction manual for "How to help a wielder transition into her powers," or "What to say to calm your fire-starting friend."
Or "How to hand off your potential soulmate to your BFF."
-11-
All In My Head
My mother stays with me at my tiny studio apartment for a few days, until I figure out how to manage most tasks with my left arm in a sling. It's actually not too bad. Thank goodness Oakland didn't sink his jaws into my right shoulder, or I'd really be in trouble.
It's a relief to be home, in my quirky little one-room space. I was lucky to snag this spot in the North Davidson neighborhood, Charlotte's hot zone for all that is offbeat and artistic. Plus it's a 20-minute drive from UNC, depending on traffic—so it's incredibly convenient.
Laura used to live in the same building with her cousin—but her cousin is getting married in a month and moving out. And all this fire-magic stuff going on, I'm not sure what Laura will end up doing. I haven't heard from her. She hasn't responded to any of my probing texts.
Maybe she and Oakland are somewhere far away, on a magical journey of self-discovery, supernatural training, and budding romance. Maybe they've forgotten all about me.
I crush the corner of a sofa pillow. It's not enough to relieve my frustration, so I hurl the pillow across the room, narrowly missing the tall, twisty porcelain sculpture I made sophomore year.
Classes start next week. Laura had better figure out something soon, or she's going to miss the beginning of the semester.
I flick through headlines on my phone, as I've done a dozen times already today. I've been keeping an eye on the news reports for the Outer Banks area, but there's no mention of any major fire in or near the hospital where I stayed overnight. Maybe Laura got herself under control quickly enough before she set anything ablaze, or maybe the hospital staff were able to catch the fire before it spread. Either way, it's a relief.
Except for my damaged feet and shoulder, I'm ready for classes to start. I'm ready to have something on my mind besides Oakland, and shifters, and wielders. My tablet and stylus may be gone, but my dad has sent me money to order a replacement. And in the meantime, I have my beautiful computer in my apartment, as well as plenty of sketchpads.
I've been drawing Oakland over and over—his sleek, muscled human body, his lithe panther form, his profile, his silhouette, his hands, his jaws. I've drawn Laura a few times, too—usually with fire springing from her palms or licking up from the soles of her feet. I even designed a full-color portrait of Emily, the pain-giver, with her toothy smile, elegant red dress, and bony fingers.
I haven't drawn myself, because I no longer belong in this story. I've written myself out.
Sighing, I rise, stretching as much as I can without causing prickles of pain through my shoulder. I've been on the couch all morning, scrolling through news apps and social media feeds. My brain feels fuzzy, and my eyes are blurring a little. I need to get out of here, take a walk, enjoy some fresh air.
But the morning rays of the sun have dulled, interrupted by a growing layer of clouds. It's going to rain. So much for taking a walk.
Groaning, I shuffle to the fridge for a Coke and amble back to the couch, collapsing onto it in a kind of comfortable resignation. Idly I type the word "mountain lion news" into my browser, not really expecting anything to show up.
But the very first result makes me sit bolt upright, my eyes widening.
"Mountain lion captured inside local research facility."
With a trembling forefinger I tap the link.
"Security personnel discovered the full-grown male mountain lion inside the Carmichael Building late last night. Officials are mystified about how the animal managed to get through the facility's layers of security and make it all the way to the records room. Police are theorizing that the event may have been a bizarre practical joke. The animal was caught by a team of animal control experts and is being held at Bertram Wildlife Rescue until the police investigation has concluded."
There's a grainy photo of a tawny panther. It's impossible to tell if it's Oakland
—but what other mountain lion would be sneaking into a research facility's records room? Of course it was Oakland, on his mission for Emily. And he got himself caught.
I read the article again, and again.
Bertram Wildlife Rescue.
Oakland is trapped there, in panther form, and he can't change back into a human. If he does, he'll not only expose himself as a shifter—he'll be sent to jail. So he has to stay in panther form until the police investigation is complete, which could take weeks, or months. He'll miss the start of school. He'll have to act like a real mountain lion the whole time—submit to physical examinations, tests—what if they draw his blood and find something unusual about it? They might keep him there even longer, for study. He may never get out.
Emily won't be coming to save him. She wouldn't risk exposure of herself and her plans. She'll probably write him off as a failure and go looking for someone else to retrieve whatever she was after.
I leap off the couch, grinning. Oakland needs me. He actually needs me. This is my chance to pay him back for all the times he has saved me.
I'm going to Bertram Wildlife Rescue, and I'm going to set him free.
It's an animal rescue facility, so they shouldn't have heavy security in place. Who would want to walk in there and take an animal out?
I spend the next hour searching the location of Bertram Wildlife Rescue and exploring the facility website. As I suspected, there doesn't appear to be much in the way of security. It's a long, low building, with a couple of wings, some outdoor pens and yards, and a drop-off area for injured animals. From the photos, it looks like the best way in is through the front office.
Now all I need is a good excuse to be there.
***
Driving the half hour to Bertram Wildlife Rescue is more nerve-wracking than I expected. My left shoulder still needs to stay mostly immobile in its sling, so I have to drive the whole way one-handed—and when you're careening around tight curves on narrow country roads, it gets interesting. Fortunately I pull into the parking lot safe and sound, with no damage to me and only minimal scraping to my front bumper where I grazed it against a fencepost.
The Lion and the Artist Page 10