“Here’s what’s gonna happen, boys,” she murmured in the darkness. “Tomorrow, we’re going to call Winnie over at the hospital. She’s going to bring us some clothes, and she’s going to bring us my sister, and then the five of us will all head back to the Ursus Dwelling, where we will await the convening of the Felidae Council, the Ursus Elders, and the leadership from the other major clans. Once they’re assembled, we’ll make our apologies, and we’ll tell them how things are going to be from now on. I’ll do my special magical thing, and everyone will live happily ever after. Sound good?”
She knew they were both still awake; she knew what each of the men sounded like when they slumbered, knew that Graham snored, knew that Rowan was prone to dreamy mumbling.
“What if they all turn on us?” Rowan asked at length.
“Well,” Viola said, “then we make our own clan.” She heard Graham give a faint sigh as she borrowed his words from him, and she hoped it was a sound of approval. For those were the final words anyone would speak that night. Soon enough, the trio drifted into sleep.
CHAPTER 2
Viola woke early, her sleeping arrangements acting as something of a metaphor for her rather unique predicament: she was squeezed between two men for whom she cared a great deal, and she found it disturbing that she should turn and throw her arm around Graham while her bottom was pressed against Rowan; or should she nuzzle against Rowan’s neck, her legs would tangle with Grahams. And on, and on, until she slithered toward the foot of the bed and hopped up onto her feet so she might peer down at her sleeping boys.
Did they expect her, she wondered, to love them equally? Did they want her to pull double duty in the Den Mother department? Would they each, in turn, be free to take other mates? Was she purely a symbol, nothing more? Her brain buzzed with questions that she was entirely unprepared to face, particularly before she’d had the opportunity to eat and imbibe the requisite four gallons of coffee that was necessary to get her going each day.
She swept her sleep-mussed hair into a high ponytail and snatched Graham’s car keys from the table before slipping silently out into the early morning mist. Trotting on bare feet across the parking lot, she disarmed the truck and climbed inside, revving the engine to life with as much care and quiet as she could manage before pulling out onto the empty mountain road.
It was only just barely morning, the sun an obscene suggestion on the horizon, painting the near-night sky a rich, royal blue. She drove until she found a cluster of gas stations and fast food joints that would take her order and deliver her bag after overstuffed bag of junk food without her even having to leave the compartment of Graham’s truck.
A dubious drive-through employee handed over three large iced coffees, enough to drown a seaworthy child, and two bags full of breakfast sandwiches and hash brown patties, recently fried to a crisp, and generously salted. Her stomach growled enthusiastically when her nose registered the promise of food forthcoming, but she waited to eat, turning back out onto the road and heading in the direction from whence she came. She showed no such restraint where the iced coffee was concerned, and had sucked down two thirds of it by the time she got back to the motel.
With her three huge cups balanced in a cardboard carrier and a bag of piping hot fast food under her arm, she slipped back into the motel room, where the sonorous sounds of two men sleeping filled the air. She was careful to be quiet as she set the bag and drinks on the table and slipped out again. A phone—she needed a phone. She’d go into the office and ask to borrow the one in there if absolutely necessary, willing to suffer the indignity of dealing with the squirrely little manager while wearing only a man’s shirt and a pair of boxer briefs. But, fortunately, she was spared such ignominy, because the motel had apparently not bothered to update itself since the nineties: there was a pay phone.
After fetching a few coins from the cup holder in Graham’s Ford F150, she dropped them into the phone and dialed information, asking for Bigby-Archer Memorial Hospital.
It took a few holds, a few transfers, but finally she managed to snag the person she was looking for: “Hello?”
“Winnie? Hey, it’s Viola St. James.”
“Well, hey yourself! I was wondering when I’d hear from you.”
Viola furrowed her brow, gripping the receiver. “What do you mean?”
“I expected one of you to check in after Verity got settled—how’s she doing? I know she was eager to get outta here.”
Viola squeezed her eyes shut, her heart pumping like she was readying for a kill. “Verity isn’t with me, Winnie.”
The line was dead static between them, until: “She… she didn’t come to your apartment?”
Viola breathed a sigh, shrugging as though Winnie could see her over the phone. “I honestly don’t know, I haven’t been there in days.” She could hear the girl breathe a sigh of relief at the other end of the phone.
“Oh, well, she could be just fine, then.”
“Yeah,” Viola dubiously intoned. “She could be.”
“Thank God.” There was a pause, and something in Winnie’s tone changed. “What’s gotcha callin’ me so early in the morning, then, Miss Viola?”
“Actually,” Viola said, cringing, “I need a favor.”
***
When Viola returned to the motel room, Graham was up and in the bathroom; she could hear the shower running, see steam seeping out from underneath the door. Rowan, for his part, had a pillow over his head and was groaning slightly.
“Good morning, sunshine,” she sang with false gaiety, coming to sit on the edge of the bed.
“This is not my life,” he said from underneath the pillow.
“Oh, come on, it isn’t so bad,” she said, giving him a gentle shove. Begrudgingly, he peeked out from underneath the pillow.
“I kissed him,” Rowan said, his eyes wide, “by accident.”
Viola quirked a brow. “So? What about that adventurous college phase you told me about, hm? The one where you dated that guy—what was his name? The one with the tattoo of a pirate ship on his chest?”
“Devon, and that was different,” Rowan protested, sitting up in bed and wiping the sleep sand from his eyes. “Devon was a shipwright, and he had very strong arms and a very round ass and that isn’t the point. Graham isn’t…” He sighed, frustrated. “I didn’t think it was even him,” he explained. “I thought it was you. I rolled over in my sleep and the sheets smelled like your hair, and I reached out and I felt a warm figure and I scooted closer and I just sort of…”
Viola was grinning ear to ear. “What?”
“I kissed his shoulder, all right?”
Viola snickered gently under her breath, trying to imagine the whole scene. “What did he do?”
“Oh, he was a perfect gentleman,” Rowan said, trying to suppress a grin of his own. “He was just like, ‘Mr. Weaver, I hardly know you.’”
They laughed, tossing their heads back and letting the room fill with the sound. It was a relief to her, to be herself with him again, even if it only lasted a moment. “Well, I’m glad you told me,” she said, rising to her feet and fetching one of the gigantic iced coffees. She brought it to him, holding it out as something of a peace offering. “It really brightened the morning.”
“Coffee,” he chanted, “coffee, coffee, thank you.” He sipped, and hummed his approval: it was full of cream and sugar.
“It was strange,” Rowan mused quietly, “that moment right before my, ah, mistake brought everything back into focus.”
Viola was rifling through the bags of food, and she tossed a breakfast sandwich over to Rowan, who plucked it deftly from the air. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“I had forgotten everything in the night,” he said, “and in my head it was just you and me in a bed, and I could roll over and slide my arm around your waist…” They heard the water go off and Rowan bounced one shoulder in a shrug even as he began to pull the yellow paper away from his sandwich. “Ah well,” he said, and bit int
o it with a satisfied grunt.
Viola sat at the table and was nibbling absently at her hash brown when Graham emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, and another in his hand, which he was using to vigorously rub at his hair.
“Ah,” Graham said to Viola, “you’re back.”
“And I’ve brought food,” she said, “and coffee.”
“You angel.” He smiled warm and broad to Viola and offered something slightly more reserved to Rowan. Rowan just grinned back.
“I told her about our little, ah, tryst,” Rowan said, and the three of them chuckled. Maybe this would all work out after all.
Graham sat down at the table and helped himself to food and coffee, and Viola sat on the foot of the bed to eat and be equidistant from each of the men. “So,” she said around bites of her hash brown, “let’s make a plan.”
“It’s important that we have a united front when we stand before the council, the elders, everyone,” Graham said, crossing one leg over the other so he could look as businesslike as possible wearing only a white motel towel that served to conceal precious little.
“I have some questions, then,” Rowan said, chewing absently on the straw to his iced coffee. “For starters, how does this whole threesome thing work?”
“Rowan,” Viola groaned.
“What? It’s an important question. Like, do we all do it together, or do we switch off, or…? Because Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays are probably best for me, with every other Sunday, but—”
“I hadn’t…” Graham cleared his throat, averting his gaze as he drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “I hadn’t really considered the logistics…”
“So, let’s consider,” Rowan said.
“Well…” Graham cast a furtive glance at Viola, who simply shrugged. “Let’s ask the lady, I suppose.”
She parted her lips to speak, but no sound came out. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I don’t feel prepared to discuss the, ah… details of the, um… interpersonal aspect of this arrangement,” she said, “not yet.”
“The fact of the matter is,” Graham interjected, “that we will need to present a plan to the clans that involves the merging of our… ah, that is to say, we need to…”
“Procreate,” Rowan said. “I mean, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m aware,” Viola muttered, looking down at her hands.
“But what we need to determine is the political implications,” Graham said, “of such a union.”
“My body isn’t the fucking United Nations,” Viola said, surprised by her own vitriol.
“I asked you first what you thought, Viola,” Graham said gently. “You didn’t have anything to contribute, and we need to make some headway.”
“Fine,” she said, sucking in a deep breath through her nostrils. “Fine. Here’s what we do. We tell them all that we are united, the three of us. We urge members of the clans to cross-breed, we present a unified front with the two of you at the helm, and we see what everyone says.”
“No,” Graham said, locking his gaze on Viola, “You.”
“Me...what?”
“You’ll be at the helm.”
Viola blinked, her eyes wide as saucers, and looked desperately over at Rowan, who was grinning a lopsided sort of grin. “It’s the only thing that makes sense, Vi.”
“So, I’m just supposed to… what, like… lead all of shifter kind?” She scoffed and stuffed the rest of her hash brown into her mouth, talking around it as best she could. “I don’t exactly have leadership experience.”
“You won’t be alone,” Graham said. “Rowan and I will be your advisors, and he and I have our own councils. You won’t be expected to do it on your own.”
“And when I push out a gaggle of shifter mutants?” she asked, swallowing the remainder of her breakfast. “Then what?”
“Then you will be a mother who is also in charge of the largest sect of shifters in the country,” Rowan said, and Graham nodded in agreement.
“But what if,” she began, licking her lips, her palms sweating with nerves, “what if I can’t have children? Or what if we—”
“Viola,” Rowan interrupted, his eyes kind, but his voice cool, “It doesn’t matter. This is all symbolic. It’s not like the three of us are going to settle in to be one big weird alternative family.”
Oh. Maybe she looked crestfallen, or maybe she’d registered his comment as offensive, because both Rowan and Graham were looking at her like they wanted to go to her, to wrap their arms around her shoulders. But neither of them moved.
The moment was broken when there came a knock at the door, and Viola slid off the bed to open it. Winnie was standing there with a black duffel bag hoisted over one shoulder.
“Hey there, girlie,” she said, smiling and pushing her way into the motel room. Her eyes landed on Graham, then Rowan, and she grinned as she registered their state of disrepair. “My, my, my,” Winnie said, all singsongy, “looks as though you folks had quite the night last night.”
“It wasn’t like that, Winifred,” Graham said rather sharply, but there was a smile dancing in his eyes.
“Whatever you say, Mr. McCallum,” Winnie said, dropping the bag down onto the bed. She glanced at Rowan then, canting her head gently to the side so that a few errant yellow curls fell into her line of vision. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” she said, moving around the corner of the bed and extending her hand to him.
He took it, shook it and let it go. “Rowan Weaver,” he said. “Please forgive me for not getting up, but I would so hate to offend.”
“Please, offend away,” Winnie teased, and Rowan couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Thanks for coming all this way, Winnie,” Viola said, rifling through the bag and laying out the clothes she’d brought, all brand new, two sets for men, one for a woman, with tags still on.
“It’s no trouble,” she said, glancing around the room. “Seems as though y’all got yourself in a bit of a pickle.”
“So it would seem,” Graham muttered.
“Well, I’ve been there, particularly early on, when I was in my teens.” Winnie tossed a pair of dark denim jeans and a black tee shirt to Rowan, then a hunter green button down shirt and jeans for Graham. “You know, before you really learn how to control it and you’re just shifting left and right, ruining your wardrobe.” Viola plucked a pair of black yoga pants and an oversized grey tee shirt out of the bag for herself. Oh, and black lace underwear and a bra, thanks, Winnie. She was pleasantly surprised that Winnie had correctly guessed her sizes, and she disappeared into the bathroom to get changed while Winnie, Rowan, and Graham could continue to exchange euphemisms.
Viola abandoned Rowan’s shirt and boxer briefs and stepped into the shower even before she’d given it a chance to warm up. She was grateful for the solitude, for the feel of the cool water against her skin, for the quiet. She used the cheap motel toiletries to wash her hair, face, and body, and let herself linger under the steady stream of water for a long, long time. Long enough for someone to rap on the door to ensure that she was all right.
“I’m fine,” she said, “Just… indulging.”
She let her mind go blank, trying to give her heart the floor to speak for itself, but her heart was just as silent. Gonna have to trust the gut, then, she thought, and her gut was telling her to get out of the motel, get to the Dwelling, find Verity, and step into her place as a leader. Sure, she hadn’t much experience at leading, but she figured she could learn on the job. All that mattered now was finding her family, finding her home. So what if her relationships with Rowan and Graham were symbolic? That wouldn’t mean her life would be bereft of love. She’d figure it out, she always did. She’d land on her feet, and everything would be fine.
She stepped out of the shower and used the heel of her hand to wipe the steam away from the mirror so that she could examine her reflection. The events of the last week had aged her considerably, it seemed: her mouth was a ste
rn line, her eyes were bloodshot and dim; her hair was a knot of black thread, and her shoulders were slumped. She could hardly take control of the clans looking like something the cat dragged in: she’d spend time when she got back to the dwelling making herself look presentable. For now, clean and clothed would have to do.
Viola tugged on her new clothes and joined them in the bedroom, where the three of them were chatting amicably. But Viola, now, was all business: “Did Verity say where she was heading?” Viola asked.
“Ah,” Winnie said, perhaps slightly irritated at having been interrupted mid-thought, “she said she was going to stay with you. She hasn’t checked in yet?”
“She’d have no way to get in touch,” Viola said. “I don’t have my cell phone on me, and she doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Ah. Why don’t you try calling your apartment?” Winnie suggested.
“What, like… a house phone number?” Viola asked, brows quirked.
“Sure.”
“I don’t have one of those—who has those anymore?”
“I do,” Rowan said. “I have one of those.”
Viola gave a quick shake of her head. “Never mind. I need to find a way to track her down.”
“Do you know her cell phone number?” Graham asked.
Viola shook her head. “I don’t have it memorized. Hell, I don’t think I have anyone’s number memorized…”
“Maybe she’s listed?” Winnie suggested.
“Maybe.”
“We can’t do anything from here,” Graham said at length, “so let’s just get to the Dwelling, and figure out what to do from there.”
CHAPTER 3
Everything was a metaphor, everything felt political. They headed, the lot of them, out to the truck and Viola wasn’t sure where to sit. If she got into the passenger’s seat, would she be declaring some sort of favor for Graham? If she got in back, and Winnie sat in front, would that be some sort of Ursine superiority? If Rowan and Graham sat in front, well, she didn’t like what that said about the place of the woman, but at least then the two men might feel at ease. If my life becomes about appeasing them, she thought, I might actually go insane.
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