*He deserves it,* I said. Even more so now that he’d blasted me with ice water. My feet crunched on gravel as I left the paved street and started up the road to the clifftop. *He fired Holly today.*
*So? She’s leaving to have the baby soon anyway.*
*Yeah, but she needs a job to come back to. Joe doesn’t make enough to support them both without her salary.* Joe and Holly lived in the apartment across the landing from mine, and we’d been friends since they’d turned up with wine and chocolate on the night I moved in. They were my kind of people, even though they were both werewolves. Thinking about the hardship that Johnson’s arbitrary decision would cause them brought my resentment boiling back.
*And how does stealing Johnson’s altarpiece help? The first person you try and sell that to is going to turn you in.*
I sighed. She was just scared—so scared that she hadn’t left her cat shape in the months we’d been here in Berkley’s Bay. If she’d given herself time to think about it, she would surely have realised I wasn’t that stupid. This was the fear talking.
*I’m not going to try to sell it.* I was breathing deeply now of the salt air as I climbed the path, sure-footed in the dark. At least the exercise had warmed me enough that I’d stopped shivering, though my wet clothes clung uncomfortably. The only sound out here, other than my feet squelching in my sodden shoes, was the waves breaking on the rocks at the base of the cliff. I stopped partway up and looked back over the lights below. Most of the houses were dark, but the streetlights cast a soft glow over the sleeping town. I grinned as I saw that every light in Johnson’s house was ablaze. Perhaps the mayor would be awake all night, frightened that a mouse might leap from nowhere to scale the vast bulk of his pyjama-clad leg.
*Then what are you going to do with it?* Syl’s mental tone was a little calmer now. *Why risk exposing us to take it?*
To seaward all was dark, though my night vision, enhanced by the link to Syl’s cat form, revealed the occasional flash of white down below as a wave broke. I reached the top of the cliff, and stepped as close as I dared to the edge, a salty wind in my face.
If I’d kept going along the clifftop path, I would have come to the home of another shaper, one far more powerful than the mouse-fearing mayor. But I wasn’t afraid of running afoul of Jake Steele, because this home, despite being by far the grandest house in town, was only a holiday house. And Steele spent all his time in the city. He had a seat on the Ruby Council, and not just as one of the Seated, but as a full Master, making him far too grand and important to spend any time in a tiny little one-horse town like Berkley’s Bay. Most of his time would be spent either in Crosston or in his regional capital, overseeing the whole of the South-East. His “holiday house” here in Berkley’s Bay commanded three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views from its spot on top of the headland, but I kept well away from its manicured lawns. Hidden by the dark trees, I pulled the statue of Manannan Mac Lir from my backpack.
I wound my arm back, the statue snug in my hand. *I’m going to hide it somewhere he’ll never find it.*
The golden sea god arced through the sky, tumbling end over end, and disappeared into the night. I didn’t even hear a splash over the relentless shushing of the waves below. The irony of it appealed to my warped sense of humour. If only he knew where it was, a watershaper like Johnson could easily retrieve it.
Syl’s mental voice was plaintive. *But why?*
Did she really need to ask, after what the fireshaper Anders had done to us? *Someone’s gotta stick it to these shaper bastards. Sack a pregnant woman for no reason? They think they can do whatever they like, just because they’re shapers.*
*They can, Lexi. That’s the point. If you couldn’t accept that, you should’ve stayed in the human territories.*
*Let Johnson see what it’s like to have random shit happen to him for a change. Karma’s a bitch.*
*You’re going to get us killed.*
*You worry too much.*
*And you don’t worry enough.*
2
It was just on closing time the next night, and still pouring, when my carefully constructed life began to unravel. It only takes a little tug to loosen one thread and then, before you know it, you’re missing a whole sleeve, and the remains of your shirt are trailing behind you in the dirt.
A customer—probably my last customer of the evening, considering the weather—had just left the shop. Caught by the wind, the door slammed shut behind him, shaking the glass panes in their panels; the bell above the door jingled a complaint at the rough treatment. The cold wind took the opportunity to fling itself around the front of the store, whooshing past the books piled on the sale table, across the biography shelves and the thrillers and crime novels that faced the door. It ruffled Syl’s fur where she lay curled on a faded pink cushion, in pride of place on the battered counter beside the clunky old cash register. She flicked one ear in disapproval and yawned widely, showing her pink tongue and needle-sharp teeth.
*I feel like vegetarian pizza tonight,* she said.
“It’s a shame cats are obligate carnivores, then,” I said. “If you took your human form now and then, you could eat all the vegetarian food your little feline heart craved.”
I could link with any animal at all, but I couldn’t talk to them the way I talked to Syl, because Syl wasn’t exactly an animal. My friend was a werecat, who’d shifted into cat form when we’d left the city three months ago and had refused to budge out of it ever since, despite my pleas. She’d been a cat so long and so determinedly that no one in Berkley’s Bay had seen her human form. Not even the other shifters in town realised she was more than a cat. No one did, except maybe Alberto.
Alberto owned the town’s only pub, plus this tiny second-hand bookshop and half the other businesses in town. He’d been in Berkley’s Bay so long he was practically an institution, and if there was anything worth knowing going on in his town, you could be sure Alberto Alinari would know about it.
*I like being a cat.* She stretched luxuriously, her front legs straight and stiff, the pads of her feet separated and her claws extended. She pricked at the velvet cushion with those claws, kneading it into a more pleasing shape.
“Don’t you ruin that cushion. I’m not buying you another one.”
*Cheapskate.*
I checked the old clock on the wall above historical fiction. Its elaborate filigree hands showed five minutes past six. Alberto was a little late tonight. He usually popped over once it got dark, to see how the bookshop was doing. That was why I stayed open after the other shops in our little row closed. Syl and I rented the apartment above the shop; it was dirt cheap, and the commute to work was easy, so I didn’t mind staying open later. And since Alberto provided the accommodation as well as the job, it only seemed fair.
Besides, my mother had brought me up to be polite to vampires.
They occupied a unique place among shifters. They were rarely seen in their shifted form. Maybe being a bat wasn’t much fun, or perhaps the fact that they had to spend the daylight hours asleep made them reluctant to give up any of their human nightlife to flying around hunting insects. Most people forgot they were shifters at all, and once the “undead” rumours got started they seemed to be in a class of their own. But I’d seen Alberto breathing. I figured the undead thing was just something they cultivated to add to their mystique.
I knelt on the worn carpet in front of the romance section. A lady had been in here earlier today, rummaging around, pulling things off the shelf and then shoving them back every which way. People, even booklovers, just didn’t have the same respect for second-hand books as they did for new ones. I’d been too busy to re-sort the books earlier, so I took the opportunity now to get them back into alphabetical order. While I was doing that the door jingled its discordant tune and I felt another gust of icy wind.
*Hunk alert! Hunk alert!* Syl called from the front counter.
I scrambled up as the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen rounded the shelves. He was tall—way taller t
han me, which was saying something, since I towered over most women. I looked up, past a wide muscular chest and a broad pair of shoulders, to a face with cheekbones so chiselled you could have cut yourself on them. Above that was a pair of blue eyes that would have been striking if not for the hint of arrogance in their cool gaze. Damn. That was shaper arrogance. My interest cooled as fast as if someone had poured a bucket of ice-cold water over me.
“Can I help you?” No man had the right to look that hot, especially not a shaper. As if they didn’t have enough advantages already over us lesser folk.
Those arrogant eyes flicked over me. “I was looking for Alberto. Is he here?”
“No.” Shapers were trouble, even ones that looked criminally good in jeans and tight T-shirts. “Did you ask at the pub?”
Berkley’s Bay wasn’t a big place. Its numbers swelled in summer when the tourists arrived, but at this time of year it was only the locals, and every second house stood empty. The pub was where everyone congregated, the heart of the little beachside community. It had no windows, and there had never been a break-in there, since everyone knew that the owner slept the day away in the cellar. Alberto was a convivial host; wine and beer flowed until late on Friday and Saturday nights. He could almost always be found propping up the bar after dark.
“I went there first. They told me to look here,” he said, as if that should have been obvious.
“Right.” So I was just supposed to produce the vampire out of thin air? Did I look like a magician?
“I’ll wait.”
Lucky me. Well, at least the view was good, though he seemed oddly hostile, considering we’d just met. As if it was my fault Alberto hadn’t appeared on demand.
*Nice arse,* said Syl.
My thoughts exactly. Not that I would tell her that. And not that either of us could afford to be distracted. *Sylvie Wentworth! Behave yourself.*
*What? I’m just saying. Nothing wrong with admiring the view, is there?*
*He’s a shaper.*
*Damn. Well, wouldn’t that rot your socks.* Despite her flippant tone, she leapt down from the counter and disappeared behind the shelves. I didn’t blame her for wanting to put some distance between her and the shaper. Our experiences with them so far hadn’t been happy ones.
I stayed with the romances as long as I could, hoping that Alberto would appear and take my unwelcome visitor away, but eventually I had to admit they were all in perfect alphabetical order. I loved this place; it had that old-book smell of paper and dreams, and on a sunny day the honey-coloured wood of the shelves glowed in the light that crept in the front windows and through the panes of glass set into the bright red door. Every day when I unlocked that door and flipped the sign from CLOSED to OPEN I took a deep breath of that intoxicating smell, and wondered what treasures might come through the door today, their covers worn smooth from years of love.
Tonight’s customer stood in front of the historical fiction section, his back to me, while the rain pounded down outside. Having him in my little bookshop haven set my teeth on edge. Shapers were unpredictable, liable to take what they wanted without regard for the rights or property of non-shapers. Thank the gods there were so few of them, or the world would be in an even bigger mess than it already was, divided into human territories and shaper lands, rubbing along in an uneasy peace that always threatened to spill over into another outright war. Personally, if I never met another shaper in my life it would be too soon.
I slid behind the high wooden counter and glared at his broad shoulders. What was a shaper doing in a tiny little no-account place like Berkley’s Bay? As far as I was concerned, shapers were always bad news. I busied myself with tidying the already tidy counter, rearranging the displays of bookmarks and other knickknacks, wishing that he and his cute arse would take themselves elsewhere.
When I looked up, he was watching me.
“What?” I demanded. “Have I got a smudge on my face?”
“You look beautiful, as I’m sure you’re well aware. What’s your name?”
I was well aware? What was that supposed to mean? Was he calling me vain?
“Lexi,” I said shortly. If I was vain, why was I wearing jeans and a windcheater, now dusty from the new arrivals I’d sorted this morning? I had no lipstick on—no makeup at all, in fact—and my long black hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail. I was certainly not vain. Nor did his opinion matter one bit.
“Lexi,” he repeated, his expression cool. “I’m Jacob Steele.”
*Uh-oh,* said Syl. *The lord high mucky-muck? That Jacob Steele?*
*I doubt there’s more than one.* My heart sank. Even more reason to keep a low profile: Jacob Steele was one of the four Masters on the Ruby Council, second only to the Ruby Adept himself. The whole of the South-East fell under his jurisdiction. Despite his owning that empty mansion on the clifftop, I’d never expected to see him here. He was way too important for a place like Berkley’s Bay. This guy who looked as though he’d stepped off the cover of one of our romance novels was one of the most powerful shapers on the eastern seaboard. An anxious hollow opened in the pit of my stomach.
The way he was staring at me made me nervous. Well, more nervous. It was not a pleasant look. I cast a desperate glance out at the rainy night. Where was Alberto?
“I’m curious, Lexi.” He folded his arms across his chest. Despite the cold, he wore no jacket, and without meaning to, I found my eye drawn like a magnet to the tanned biceps his T-shirt showed. “What are you?”
Suddenly chilled, I jerked my gaze up to his face and met cold blue eyes. “What do you mean?”
“There are basically three kinds of people in the world: shapers, shifters, and sheep. You’re not a shifter, and you’re certainly not a shaper, but you don’t feel like a sheep either. So what are you?”
*He forgot Number 4: shitheads,* Syl said acidly.
*Not the time, Syl.* The last thing I needed was another shaper trying to poke his nose into my business. I squared my shoulders. I wouldn’t let him see how much that chill gaze frightened me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I think you do.” He flexed his fingers, and tiny flames sprang to life on their tips. I didn’t quite manage to hide my flinch. Hard blue eyes pinned me to the spot. “There’s something different about you. Tell me what you are.”
The flames danced a little higher. I swallowed hard. He could kill me in an instant, just for kicks, or for no reason at all, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him. The hairs on my arms rose as a chill ran down my spine.
“You might want to go easy on the fire show.” My voice came out in a frightened squeak, but I refused to be cowed. Damn fireshapers ought to be put down like the savages they were. I clenched my fists to hide their shaking. “This shop belongs to Alberto. I don’t think he’ll be too impressed if his stock goes up in flames, but it’s your funeral, I guess.”
He moved closer, and I stood my ground, just barely. My cool act probably wasn’t fooling him, but I was saved by the bell—literally. The door flew open, setting the bell to jangling wildly, and a man I’d never seen before rushed inside in a swirl of wind and spattered raindrops.
“Sir, you’re needed,” he said, without even glancing at me. Steele let the flames wink out, and I remembered to breathe again. “Someone’s reported a missing child. Mr Alinari is organising a search party.”
Without a word, the shaper strode out into the night.
3
Syl came out from behind the bookshelves, her tail still flicking from side to side in agitation.
*What was his problem? Was he seriously going to set fire to the shop?*
History was repeating all over again. I could smell the smoke, hear the screams. If the gods had had to invent shapers, couldn’t they have come up with something big and dangerous and hungry that liked to eat them, too? I hated the fact that I was still shaking from his casual threats. That he felt entitled to make them.
“Shaper arsehol
e. They’re all the same. Think they only have to snap their fingers and everyone around them will jump.”
People like him were the reason Syl hadn’t left her cat shape in three months. Her memories were every bit as horrifying as my own. I changed the subject to something safer.
“I wonder who’s missing?”
*Probably just some kid who forgot to tell his mum he was going to a friend’s house after school. All a big fuss about nothing.*
“Probably.”
Outside the rain was still falling, not heavy but persistent, the kind of rain that seeps right through your clothes and down into your shoes until every part of you is cold, wet, and miserable. And spring had only just started, so we weren’t exactly talking heat wave temperatures either.
Her tail gave one final nervous twitch. *Maybe we should go check, just in case.*
Yeah, maybe we should. The less I saw of Jake bloody Steele the happier I’d be, but if someone’s kid was missing in this weather, I couldn’t hide in the shop. I took a deep breath and forced my panicked heartbeat to slow. He wasn’t going to kill me if I went out there.
A few more cars than usual were parked outside the pub; people were starting to gather. Two women darted across the road, sharing one inadequate umbrella, and went inside. One was Tegan, the weretiger who ran the hair salon next door. She had her arm wrapped firmly around the smaller woman’s shoulders. With a sinking heart I recognised Rosie, with a hanky clutched in one hand.
“Oh, no. I think it’s Cody.”
Cody was a good kid, twelve years old, with a shock of blonde hair and a lively curiosity that sometimes led him into trouble. He was the son of Rosie and my next door neighbour Joe, though they’d split up years ago, not long after Cody had been born. Relationships between shifters and humans were often rocky, and theirs had been no exception. Since Rosie was human, Cody was too; this would have disappointed most twelve-year-olds, but Cody took it with his usual unruffled calm. Joe’s pack couldn’t have adored him more if he had been a wolf.
Stolen Magic (Shadows of the Immortals Book 1) Page 2