EAGLE (Shifter Kings L.A.)

by Holly Gunn

  “Perhaps we should begin.” The witch speaks over my father just as he’s about to say something cutting. My hand stays where it is, over my mouth.

  She’s brusque, no-nonsense, and her words are uttered in such a way that I can clearly deduce she is pissed.

  She lays out a binder on my desk. I catch a glimpse of a title on the front before she flips the flap over to reveal the first tab.

  The cover’s title?

  Supernatural-human relations.

  I shake my head before she begins because this is one issue I have a hard-line on, no matter if it’s my father, my friends, or a witch saying it.

  “No,” I tell her, closing the flap and revealing the cover again.

  She leans back at my tone which is as cold, harsh, and commanding as my father’s. In this case, I’m proud of that tone. I have a stance, and I will not budge.

  “I know why you’re here, and while I appreciate you’ve come all this way—”

  She’s smirking, not angry now, but she interrupts with, “I live on the other side of the city, Eagle.”

  I want to smile at her joke. I instead continue.

  “Be that as it may, I appreciate that you’ve taken your time to come here, but I’m against shifters coming out, against witches coming out, against the whole community of supernaturals all over the world coming out.”

  I lift a hand and try to be gentle when I do, showing her with my eyes that I understand where she’s coming from but that I’m speaking right now.

  “I know the arguments. I understand that the science now is dangerous to us, that we have shifter schools and shifter clinics and shifter towns and even shifters in politics and other areas, looking out for our interests. We’ve embedded ourselves into these areas to protect our people. I also understand that when little Susie gets in a car accident, there aren’t enough shifters in the world to have one on every shift and at every hospital, who can maneuver paperwork and make sure no blood is taken, no video is recorded in case little Susie decides to shift and heal her injuries once she’s awake. I know all this. What I’m telling you is that we fix the current system. We make sure there are enough shifters. We make sure we are protected.”

  My father wades in, “You’re not saying you agree with the Texas tribes?”

  My gaze moves to my father before returning to the witch. “I haven’t gotten your name,” I prompt.

  She smiles and offers her hand. I take it. “I’m Taryn. Those I like call me Ryn.”

  I nod.

  “Eagle,” I share my name.

  Her smile grows. “I know.”

  She would. Supernaturals know of most kings from a very young age. Girls, especially, follow because they hope they’ll have a crown-shaped birthmark. Grizz and I have a sister who’s seventeen, Annabelle, and when she was younger, there would be adolescent-girl sleepovers when Father was out of town. All we’d hear coming from her room were shouts of, “Do you see it, Tally?” Her best friend. “Do you see a mark?”

  The reply was always a sad, dejected, “No.”

  I don’t wish a mark on our little sister.

  To end up with a man she doesn’t love, maybe someone like my father who’s demanding and unaffectionate, would be one of my worst nightmares come to fruition. But that doesn’t mean the mark isn’t there. While the crown-shaped birthmark is distinctive in shape, it’s not always in a distinctive spot. Over time, there have been cases of queen marks, which were also faded. So, it might be, say, under your arm but it’s only as you age that it becomes clear. Before then, it appears to be a scar of some sorts. Many supernatural females have found scars and watched them for years until they grow into a mark—or not, as is more often the case.

  Just as there are only thirty kings per cycle, not counting potential runner-ups if a king doesn’t find his queen, there are also only thirty women marked as queens.

  Those are the rules.

  That is the system.

  And this is my point in regards to shifters coming out.

  “We have a system in place, Ryn.” I haven’t realized she’s been tense, maybe because I myself am so tense and controlled. When I use her name, however, she relaxes. She wasn’t truly smiling before. She’s smiling now, even if I disagree with her mission. There’s also something else I see, why I think I recognize her. When her face is relaxed, she reminds me of my fantasy woman, the one banging on the bongo who caught my attention and who starred in my dreams the evening before.

  The mystery woman had skills with a drum the likes of which I’ve never experienced. She was also the most beautiful woman I’d ever come across, exotically so. Not traditionally beautiful. Beautiful in the way you never think to find in an individual in real life. So drawn to her, I hadn’t been able to move. Not a step. She’d had me completely in her thrall. When I finally forced myself to disengage, I was almost angry that she’d been able to steal my control like that.

  That face, though, and her music … it had been worth the momentary lapse.

  Last night, in my dream, I’d taken that control back. If she tasted in real life anything like she tasted in that dream, I’d give much to find her and show her the degree of my control.

  I have a very Grizz-like thought: What the fuck?

  Then, I mentally shake off the memory, the night’s fantasy, and my reaction to both, and I continue.

  “That system was created by our ancestors for a reason. So, let there be truth between us, Ryn ... Yes, I agree with the Texas tribes.”

  My father tries to interrupt. I don’t even look his way because as I said, on this, I have a hard-line, and not even my father will cross that.

  I may not like my future queen, but I’m going to love my future children, and I intend to bring them into a world that is safe.

  I will suffer my father’s punishment if it means I have taken a stance to protect my future offspring’s chances of survival.

  “The Texas tribes are logical. We need more shifters. Birth rates have always been such that we produce only one, maybe two-to-three children per mating, but there have been many in the last one hundred years or so who have been unable to have children. We’ve started mating with humans—”

  “Which is a disgrace,” my father can’t seem to help himself with the interruptions.

  I again ignore him and offer a counter-argument, “Which has helped us to prosper and become stronger. This does not mean that all humans will be accepting. I’m about to be king, but I’m also about to mate my queen and build a family. I want my kingdom and my children to be safe.”

  “It’s my kingdom,” my father roars, and I feel the power of his kingship fill the room. The witch’s shoulders fight hunching. With the kings, I know why they are able to withstand my father’s power, but this slip of a woman? I see she fights it, so furious to be put into a position of humbling herself to my father, the dick, and she fights it well.

  My father leans forward, no longer as imposing as he was when I was a boy. I’m a few inches taller than him now at nearly six and a half feet tall. Grizz is five, ten, but he’s also not cowering. We have power.

  This does not mean that his words do not shake me.

  I can control many things in my life. What I cannot control is the fact that when my father’s tone gets like that, my muscles involuntarily twitch and shake with nerves.

  I take a deep breath.

  “You are correct, my king,” I steer the conversation cautiously. I am not king yet. “What I am saying is that, when I enter into the role you have graciously trained me for all my life, I already know some of the changes I want to make. I also, as I have made this clear, have plans for how to keep shifters and humans separate while bringing in humans we can trust.”

  He scoffs. “There are no humans we can trust.”

  I think on this, knowing my father’s stance, but it’s Ryn who states, “Imperial, our discussions have indicated that you are in favor of the shifters coming out.”

  Interesting that she uses h
is first name, I think.

  He manages to appear even more pompous when he states, “Well, of course. We need the upper hand. To beat them, we have to join them.”

  He tells her this like she’s a small, insignificant, and incompetent child. That tone isn’t unusual for him. What is unusual is that he says it to a witch who obviously has power.

  She fixes her glasses and clears her throat. I know she’s about to start a tirade. I want to let her but I have things to do, and the less time spent in my father’s presence, the better.

  “Ryn, perhaps you can join us for the charity ball we’re hosting Saturday evening. We can discuss your thoughts and ideas. I know where I stand, but that doesn’t mean I can’t listen and try to understand, so when the time comes, if the tides shift toward coming out, I can at least be aware of which way you’d like to lead.”

  I see with every word I speak that she settles.

  People just want to be heard. I don’t know this woman, but I know people, and thinking she had an ally in my father, she rallied at that. Now, she’s learned.

  It’s a lesson my brother, our little sister, and I have all learned at a young age.

  And it’s a hard-earned one that sticks with you for a lifetime, though she doesn’t learn hers in quite the same fashion.

  “I accept,” she replies with a swift nod. Her look is assessing when she asks, “May I bring a friend?”

  “I don’t think—”

  My father starts to speak, and for the first time since I was eight and had my jaw broken after he slapped me across the face, I interrupt him.

  “Of course,” I reply smoothly, thinking about the fact that he hadn’t let me shift to heal the break for a whole day.

  I know I’ve told her what she wants to hear when her smile warms.

  I notice something else in her face as well. She’s assessing me, and as I see her turn to Grizz, I realize that maybe all the future kings in the area are being assessed.

  She won’t trust my father again.

  But maybe she’ll learn to trust the future shifter kings of Los Angeles.

  3

  Elizabeth

  The elevator dings, and I take a deep breath.

  I’m not nervous.

  This is my third tryout of the year. I get a good half-dozen a year when some Have-not in a suit sees me playing my bongo on the street. He or she thinks I’m moldable, poor, and willing to bend to their will in order to get rich.

  I’m not moldable. It’s the one thing about me that drives my parents insane.

  I’m not willing to bend to anyone’s will. Fuck that.

  I’m not poor.

  And last, I don’t care about being rich.

  I have a place with my girls.

  I have food on the table.

  I have a job I love.

  I have it all.

  What I don’t have is a paying gig, and that’s why these stuffed-suits think they’ve got me.

  I smirk as I exit the elevator and walk to the first door on the right.

  Soaring Talent, LLC.

  I like the name. I like the eagle in the logo. Its wings are huge. I even like that the Have-nots’ door is rough, very rock and roll.

  I don’t knock. I’ve been told to just walk my ass in.

  When I walk in, the place is like a museum. Clean lines. Modern. Cold. Also, the mood is tense. Very not rock and roll.

  “Yo …,” I call out casually, normal volume, but it’s like I’ve yelled it.

  Three sets of eyes instantly flick my way—shifter-bright eyes. Well, there you go.

  I smile.

  “Cool,” I comment.

  “Rock and roll!” a guy with medium length blond hair and a few dreads of his own—he looks like a Viking—no shirt, and a few tattoos, yells, his pierced tongue out, his devil-sign in the air.

  “Rock and roll,” I reply. My voice, what my cousins like to call ‘sweet and melodic’, is in direct contrast to my dreads and nose piercing. Then again, without the latter two, I do look sweet. Too sweet. Bleh. Not my gig.

  A beefy guy with a shaved head who looks like he could herd buffalo with his bare hands asks, “You’re Elizabeth?”

  I wrinkle my nose.

  Yeah, my full name is sweet too.

  “I go by Iz or Izzy.”

  “You saw our eyes,” the gruff man who’s wearing a tee, but even with a tee, I can see he’s got hair along his arms and chest, the likes of which would make Esly probably swoon.

  I make a mental note to introduce them. Then, I throw my drumsticks on the shiny leather couch, and oddly, the men look at each other like what I just did is sacrilegious.

  I ignore the vibe and curtsy slightly. “Dabbler witch at your service.” I stand to attention and then wink. “Not really. I’m not into service. And if I don’t like it, I leave it. It’s my life motto.”

  The cautious, burly man introduces himself as Heavy. “Grizz didn’t say you were a Dabbler,” he comments, but his words don’t suggest he’s being judgmental.

  My head ticks to the side and I ask, “Grizz?”

  “Dickhead, seriously?” the Viking asks, turning to the hairy beast. “You don’t even know the chick you invited to audition?”

  The way he says ‘chick’ is judgmental. My eyebrows go up in the ‘hell no’ way that means I’m about to pull out some magic. My girls and my exes know to run when this look comes out.

  “What the fuck is wrong with a chick, asshat?”

  Viking man turns my way and shares quickly, “No offense, Iz, but change fucks with the vibe.”

  He starts to turn back to the hairy one I’ve surmised is Grizz by Heavy’s earlier comment.

  “First,” I intone, my voice no longer sweet but still totally melodic, “I’m not ‘Iz’ to dickheads. And second, if you think a chick fucks with the vibe, then you are not doing it right. You control the vibe. If you don’t know how to control it or at least go with it, then no way in hell you’re going to score a chick in this band. Chicks who rock know the score. Fuck, they settle the damn score. And they roll with the vibe. That’s rock and roll.” Then I challenge, looking over each of them one-by-one but letting my gaze settle on the yet unnamed Viking. “Unless I walked into the wrong room, and you’re really a boy band?”

  Grizz growls.

  Heavy chuckles.

  The Viking’s jaw ticks and his eyes narrow. Then slowly, he smirks.

  “Welcome to the band, Vibe.”

  “It’s Izz—”

  He takes a step forward and ruffles the top of my hair. It’s my turn to growl and narrow my eyes as I look up at him.

  “No,” he states firmly, “You’re totally Vibe.” He twists his body toward the others. “Vibe’s in. Who’s next?”

  “I didn’t even try ou—”

  Again, I don’t get the chance to finish.

  Heavy comes forward and just out of reach, tugs gently on one of my dreads. I’m not big on strangers in my space, but these are shifters. Shifters are touchy in general. I find it endearing coming from him. “Go with it, Izzy-babe.”

  His rough voice is very big-brother, so I find myself grinning and rolling my eyes.

  Grizz growls, “No one’s next. We still need a guitarist and a piano man.”

  I raise my eyebrows again, this time in question. I can do a lot with my raised eyebrows. In fact, my face is very much a wide-open storybook of what I’m feeling. I’m not very good at hiding my emotions.

  “So, you’ve got what?” I ask. “No guitarist, no pianist, and no drummer …?”

  Grizz shakes his head. “We don’t say pianist. It’s pansy. We say piano man. But … we’ve got a drummer now …”

  “Right, Vibe?” Viking asks.

  I face them each, in turn, then shake my head and roll my eyes again. “Sure thing.”

  The tension in the room suddenly dissipates. I guess they were really worried about a drummer.

  “Can I get your names maybe?” I face Heavy. “You’re good. I al
ready got yours.” Then, I point to the man I assume is Grizz. “Grizz, I’m guessing?” He grunts, smirks, and holds out his hand to me, saying, “Lead singer.” I shake his hand firmly, nod, and twist toward the Viking. “Unless your name is Viking, I’ve got nothing,” I add with a smile.

  He copies my earlier move, only he bows instead of curtsies. “Snake, the bassist, at your service.”

  My heart rate increases—not with fear, with excitement.

  I glance around the room. No, not glance. I stare at all three of them.

  “I’m guessing those names aren’t road names?”

  “You’d be guessing correct, Vibe.”

  Kings. I’m in the room with Shifter kings. Way cool, and also kind of scary. I can’t imagine being queen to any of these men, but I brush that thought aside. I’m not a twelve-year-old girl. I’m thirty-three, a grown woman, and life is not always about romance and fantasies. Right now, it’s about a band. This is serious shit.

  Snake leans his ass against the large cherry-wood desk, although it screams ‘money’ and I’ve never had the desire to work at a desk, I wish I had a desk like it. I’m not into possessions, but that desk is sweet.

  I follow Snake’s movements.

  “Is she going to faint?” Grizz seems to ask the others. Not me.

  The fact that he asks this question and asks it as though I’m not in the room has me shaking my head to clear it.

  “Is your magic stable?” Heavy asks.

  My body twists slowly toward him, and I know my eyebrows are up, my body language clearly shouting, ‘attack’.

  “Dickhead move,” I hear Snake say and he comes to stand close to my back. I can sense him there, and I know he’s trying to calm down a volatile situation.

  “Fuck,” is all Grizz says as he rubs a hand along his full growth of beard.

  Heavy looks to the others. “What? She’s a Dabbler. She seems intense. I’m just preparing.”

  I’ve been talked about like I’m not in the room.

  I’ve been judged for being a girl. Granted, Snake apologized (sort of) after.