by RJ Blain
“Tigress,” Anatoly insisted. “From the reports I’ve heard, you possess dark fur with darker stripes and sapphire eyes the shade of deep waters.”
I hissed at his poetic turn of phrase.
The other man coughed. “There will be time for shifter politics—and flirting—later. Lady, I’m a mystic. A doctor. Let me help you before we continue the discussion.”
I gave my hand a single flex to see if I could. It hurt so much tears streamed from my eyes. I shuddered. Mystics I could trust. Those who healed kept their word—usually. Remembering Cleo and his drugs still hurt the hole where his friendship might have been if I hadn’t fled like a coward.
Trust had gotten me in trouble in the first place, tricked by a mercenary I’d been a fool to trust. I stared out the broken window towards freedom, but the distance still remained too far for me to traverse. How could I escape when I doubted I could stand?
Both men waited in patient silence for my answer. I swallowed, wincing at the ache in my throat. “Thank you.”
I hoped neither noticed how broken my whisper sounded.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I learned the mystic’s name was Henry, and he was Anatoly’s friend, if I could call the rowdy discord between them friendship. They argued over everything from how best to deal with my abused, worn body to how to punish my kidnappers. Anatoly, like me, wanted to leave them in small chunks.
Henry wanted to prolong their suffering, an idea I found intriguing.
In a way, their bickering reassured me. When they fought, I dodged their scrutiny while seizing a certain sense of security. Their tones carried sharp edges, but they seemed to enjoy cutting each other. Their bodies remained loose and relaxed, unconcerned by what might be lurking in the darkness.
My entire body ached and throbbed, and bruises blackened my hands and feet. Touch and motion woke stinging agony, and I feared it’d be a long time before I could move my shoulders or arms without tears burning my eyes.
I also feared Henry’s magic was the only reason I still had hands and feet.
Dawn lightened the sky when Henry finally declared I could be moved. Had I been thinking clearly, I would have recognized the difference between ‘I could move’ and ‘I could be moved.’ Henry didn’t need to use any sedatives to knock me out; I managed to do the job on my own when I placed weight on my abused feet.
At least I had upgraded from waking on a cold floor to a warm bed with a soft blanket and an even cozier pillow. I even remembered to avoid moving without first experimenting to find out what I could handle. I’d suffered through so much bad luck I worried I’d end up tied up on another floor if I fainted again.
I started with my toes, wiggling them in turn. The pain reassured me I still had toes, and I could cope with the tolerable ache. Playing dead offered some advantages, so instead of blinking my eyes open, I peeked through my lashes.
Mystic lights illuminated the room, floating near the ceiling. Someone with a blue fetish, paint, and too much time on their hands had attacked the walls, splattering them with color. Splashes of red, orange, and yellow drew my eye to the dresser.
I liked the windswept leaf motif. It reminded me of the open spaces of Wyoming and the jagged rocks of the Badlands.
Everything else in the room followed the same chaotic trend with the exception of a sole wooden chair near the bed. Someone had invested a lot of love and effort into making the chair. After spending time among those who valued art created from the spirit, I’d learned to recognize the product of a single hand versus one crafted with the help of mystic-powered machines.
I braced myself for a world of hurt and lurched upright. Pain stabbed at my shoulders, and my breath hissed through clenched teeth. My hair tumbled in my face, and the sweet scent of soap teased a sneeze out of me. Lifting my hands, I stared at my bruised skin, curling my fingers to prove I could.
It hurt, but like my feet, I tolerated the pain easily enough. My shoulders protested the movement, but I patted my head. My beads and feathers were gone, as were my cuffs, and their loss bothered me most of all. Frowning, I eased the covers off.
Silk pajamas clung to me, a luxury I had never purchased for myself. The evidence of wealth annoyed a low growl out of me. Determined not to faint again, I swung my black and purple mottled feet off the bed to the floor.
I stood, made it two steps to the chair, and sat before I fell, hissing at the stabbing pain. The excursion, while a success, limited my choices. With no idea if I was among friends or foes pretending to be friends, I needed to be prepared. I had no weapons, and there was no sign of my possessions.
If the moon had been any indication, at least several weeks had gone by. Dipshit and Devil Spawn were probably long gone, taken to auction and sold—or held as evidence. Would Dawnfire hold my animals for me despite my failure to report in as ordered?
I doubted I’d get them back. Mercenary guilds didn’t stay profitable by taking on charity cases. Even if the new owner—or owners—couldn’t break them, they were invaluable for breeding. I slumped in the chair, staring at my bruised hands.
Within a week, the black and purple would fade to green and yellow. It’d be at least that long before I’d be able to use my hands without much pain. Within two weeks, the bruising would be mostly gone. If my luck held, which I doubted, there wouldn’t be any permanent nerve damage. Mystics could do a lot, but even they struggled with healing nerves.
For as long as two weeks, I’d be reliant on strangers. With pain and effort, I might be able to hold my sword—if I could retrieve it. It, like my horses, was probably long gone. Anyone who found a katana like mine lying around would take it in a heartbeat.
Its loss cut deep, along with the losses of my beads, feathers, cuffs, and horses.
I really hoped Dipshit and Devil Spawn were nestled, safe and sound, in Dawnfire’s stables, waiting for me to return to them. I also hoped they were costing the guild a fortune in ruined stall doors. Without Dawnfire’s mandate to stay in Charlotte, I never would have gone to a bar for a beer. If I hadn’t gone for a beer, everything would be different.
Memories of prowling through the forest stirred, bringing back the feel of wet soil beneath calloused paw pads. I grimaced at the recollection of plowing into trees in my haphazard effort to learn how to be something other than a human crammed into a giant feline body.
My first shift should have fixed a lot of problems for me, not added to them and delivered the bill in the form of a multi-week kidnapping. I didn’t even understand why anyone would want me. If I had been grabbed for the old bounty, wouldn’t my captors have taken me to Dawnfire to collect?
Anyone angling for my bounty wouldn’t have risked injuring me.
I’d earned my bruises being a trusting idiot, although the mystic who had captured me had played the game well. Sincerity partnered with plausibility had disguised his trickery.
I still didn’t understand. Why me? What could someone possibly want with a first-time shifter?
Whatever it was, I doubted my captors had meant to keep me alive long-term. For my hands and feet to have so much damage even after a mystic’s care, I must have been on the brink of losing fingers, toes, or worse. Flexing my hands brought tears to my eyes, which I blinked away.
In a couple of weeks, I’d learn if I’d be able to pick up where I’d left off with my life, or if I’d be forced to, yet again, start fresh somewhere else.
Until I understood my limitations, I couldn’t attempt a daring—and potentially stupid—escape. I used the bed as my base of operations, walking around it and counting my steps to see how far I could go before the pain proved too much for me to handle.
My first attempt lasted five steps before I fell, sprawling on the bed by virtue of luck rather than deliberate intent. The pain stunned me, but I forced myself to get back up and try again.
My best walk ended twenty steps later, which eliminated any hope of escape. With twenty steps as my range, I’d make it to the door and not much
farther. I sat on the edge of the bed to contemplate my other options, of which I had exactly none tucked up the pale, silky sleeves of my pajama’s top.
A faint click from the door caught my attention; I tensed, waiting to see who—or what—would come inside.
Ever since my idiocy in Miami so many years ago, I’d developed a strong and immediate dislike for tall, dark, and handsome men, especially men with nice lips. I didn’t even remember anything else about Nate, just his sinful mouth. A short acquaintance and my tendency to deliberately forget the past conspired to leave me with only a vague impression of the man.
Men who fit the description worried me, yet I always stared, tempted by them. They were a lot like fire; they warmed me up whenever I got close, but if I took one step too close, I’d end up charred—or, as the case had been, with a massive bounty on my head to show for my stupidity.
“Good morning,” he greeted, stepping into the room and closing the door. I had the sense I knew his name, but I couldn’t remember it.
The angry, annoyed part of me wanted to demand answers, but the wise part took control of my mouth. “Hello.”
My voice still sounded like I had a habit of swallowing sharp objects.
“Good timing. Henry’s making your breakfast, and I was volunteered to wake you up. Apparently, he believes I am the most likely to survive being mauled by a hungry tigress in a substantial amount of pain. I was also volunteered to answer any questions you have.”
When provided with a gift horse, a wise woman turns her head and avoids looking it in the mouth. Gift horses had a bad habit of biting me really, really hard. I thought about it, struggling to remember the man’s name. Nothing materialized, not even a hint. I had a vague recollection of having heard Henry’s name before, but the significance of it slipped between my fingers. “Henry?”
“The mystic in charge of your recovery. I’ve been informed you are from the tribes? You have a tribal name.”
“Runs Against Wind,” I rasped. “Cheyenne.”
He nodded, strode across the room, and sat on the chair beside the bed. “I’m Anatoly.”
The name resonated, and I straightened, a memory of researching in the National Archive hitting me so hard I sucked in a breath. Not only was there an Anatoly in the Clan Council, he practically ruled the damned thing, with only the First Gentleman outranking him. I glanced out the corner of my eye at the window, wondering if my twenty steps could get me out and away. “You’re a Siberian tiger, right? I think I heard you say that.”
I hoped he took my reaction for wariness around one of the world’s meanest shifter predators rather than awareness of who he was and his rank. The last thing I needed was someone with so much influence poking around my past and finding the dark, bloody bits.
He snorted. “I don’t bite.”
“Tigers are predators. It’s your nature to bite.”
“Your nature, too.”
“Why would anyone want a first-time shifter like me?”
I felt Anatoly’s stare, and I fidgeted, keeping my gaze diverted to the window. A tree blocked most of my view, although I didn’t mind. The green leaves shifting in the wind soothed me, helping me take deep breaths and control my growing unease.
“What do you remember about your shift?”
“I remember going to a bar for a beer.” I hesitated. I had a vague recollection of a fight, but many of the details had slipped away. “A bunch of thugs tossed some man on the bar while I was trying to have a drink in peace and quiet. I think I took offense. There was a fight, I think. I don’t remember anything after that.”
Anatoly remained silent, but something about his eyes made me think he was barely containing his laughter. Lifting his hand, he waved for me to continue.
“That’s all I remember. Next thing I knew, I was in a stream somewhere, a big black cat.”
“Tiger, Siberian. While normally Bengals are the ones who carry the color mutation gene, it isn’t unheard of for other tiger shifters to have unusual colorations. Your coat is not a true black, although your stripes are. I’d guess a dark gray, but until I can have a look for myself, I won’t be able to confirm it. There are plenty of witnesses who all agreed you had black stripes.”
My worries loomed. “Did I hurt anyone?”
His chuckle surprised me into staring at him. “To the relief of Charlotte’s law enforcement, who witnessed the incident, your first shift caused only minor mayhem and chaos. A few injuries, but they’re all attributed to people who couldn’t get out of your way in time. You bit one man who thought he could take on a first-shift tigress with his bare hands.”
When I encountered a predatory first-shifter, the first thing I did was leave the area, getting as far as possible. “That was stupid of him.”
“I’m certain he realized that when you took a chunk out of his arm.”
“Will I owe restitutions?”
“No. It’s part of the first-shift no-liability laws. Anyway, he lost any right to a case by approaching you fresh from your shift. Considering the circumstances…”
I clacked my teeth. While I wanted to snarl my frustration, I replied in a calm tone, “I don’t remember the circumstances.”
Anatoly sighed. “How much of the fight do you remember?”
Many didn’t remember much about their first shift, but the loss of memories added a sharp bite to my voice when I replied, “Someone threw a gentleman wearing a suit on the bar. I started a fight with them. I don’t remember the fight ending.”
“Two horses made a commotion at the bar, and you walked outside to deal with them. If rumors are true, you ordered them to sit, and they obeyed. There are now several variants of the story going around, and the most humorous of them involves the lead stallion of Charlotte having been one of the horses.” Amusement lightened Anatoly’s voice. “After that, a Starfall stone burst. You and several others in the burst radius underwent first shifts. You were closest to the burst. You and the other shifters hightailed it out of the area, and people are speculating the Starfall stone is responsible for triggering your flight instinct. You were the only one to actually get out of the city.”
My mouth hung open. “A Starfall stone what?”
“Burst, rather dramatically. It was a strong pulse, too. It hit everything within a two and a half mile radius.”
“A Starfall stone.”
“Yes. It caught everyone by surprise.”
I either needed to laugh or I’d cry. “Sounds like a bad joke. A beer and a Starfall stone walk into a bar…”
Snorting his laughter, Anatoly shook his head. “Too bad it wasn’t a joke.”
All I needed to do to make the past repeat itself was open my mouth and tell him I’d once been the Water Viper, an assassin who had dodged a half a million dollar bounty with the help of a mayor’s daughter. No one would believe it.
I kept my mouth shut, determined not to make the same mistake twice.
“Don’t be shy. Have any questions?”
I lifted my bruised hands, staring at the blackest spots, which marked where the rope had dug into my skin. “Why?”
“We don’t know. It could be in connection with the Starfall stone. After it burst, it disappeared. You were closest to it at the moment of its burst, so it’s possible they wanted you for that purpose—to see if you had the stone or they could siphon its power from you.”
I clasped my hands together, keeping my expression neutral despite my desire to grimace from the pain. “I don’t remember a stone.”
“I was hoping you might have some insights on why anyone would want to kidnap you.”
“Not that I’m aware of. There are those who wanted my horses. Part of a group attacking couriers.”
“Yes, I know about that situation.”
“Were my horses confiscated?”
“Dawnfire has custody of your animals.”
I closed my eyes and sighed in relief. “I’ll get them back?”
“You actually want those things b
ack? They’re demented.”
I opened my eyes, leveled a glare at Anatoly, and lifted my chin. “Say what you will about Dipshit and Devil Spawn, but they are my horses, thank you very much.”
The shifter’s calm disposition cracked when I said their names, and he bit his lip, probably to keep from laughing. Narrowing my eyes, I considered if I wanted to waste my twenty steps to march over and indulge in violence.
“Dipshit and Devil Spawn, despite appearances, are good horses.”
Howling his laughter, Anatoly doubled over, clutching his sides. His entire body shook from the strength of his mirth. “You named your horses Dipshit and Devil Spawn. That implies they aren’t good horses.”
I growled at Anatoly. Hints of bright green lit his eyes, and his laughter shifted to a growl the match of mine. “My horses.”
For a long moment, we glared at each other, then his expression smoothed to an amused smirk. “Going to roar at me, tigress? I’d be careful if I were you. I bite back. You’re just a kitten, so you don’t stand a chance against me anyway. Don’t waste the effort. You’re in no condition to do anything right now.”
The challenge in his tone coupled with his casual dismissal cut me. Fury born of impotency and frustration rolled through me, and I rose to my feet, twisting to face him. “I’m not useless.”
Anatoly raised his hands in surrender. “I’m merely concerned for your health. Your feet must hurt, as well as your hands and shoulders. Perhaps you should sit.”
The condescending tone of his voice annoyed me so much I took three careful steps in his direction before coming to a halt, staring down my nose at him. “Perhaps you shouldn’t try to tell me what is or isn’t worth my time and effort.”
“Make me.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
I really needed to stop doing things that made me black out from pain. After I regained use of my common sense, I needed to quit allowing strangers to goad me into acts of stupidity. While I was at it, I made a mental note to learn how to shift on purpose, otherwise I’d ruin more clothes than I could replace. I didn’t even know how much silk pajamas cost, but I owed someone a set.