Saving Soren (Shrew & Company Book 7)

by Holley Trent

  She rubbed her arms, chasing away her sudden chill at the thought.

  She couldn’t afford overcast skies and sweaty touches. She was working. Needed that job so she could settle.

  He picked up his phone. Tapped the screen.

  Moments later, her phone buzzed. She turned it over discreetly while sipping her water and read, Black Bear. Made. Gene didn’t lie about that.

  That warmed her up quickly enough.

  The next message said, Whoever the other non-normal is in here is by him or her.

  She turned her phone face down again and leaned back in her seat as the server slid her Georgia-sized sandwich in front of her.

  “Lord, help me.”

  “Girl, that ain’t nothing but chicken, and it’s not like it’s gonna peck you back.”

  Marcella lifted the toasted bread on the top of one half and cringed. “An entire chicken?”

  “You’re funny.” The server put Soren’s plate down, and he had his fork into the beef before the lady even pulled her hand back.

  “I’ll eat what you don’t,” he said.

  “That may be more than I expected.”

  “Need anything else?” the server asked. “Hot sauce?”

  “Antacids,” Marcella murmured.

  “Napkins, please,” Soren said.

  “Be right back,” the server said.

  As Marcella concentrated on getting her hands around half her sandwich in some strategic fashion, Soren’s phone buzzed on the tabletop.

  He hit the speaker button. “Yes, Mamă?”

  Oh shit.

  Marcella smiled her thanks to the server who’d returned with a pile of napkins and then got busy stuffing chicken into her face. If her mouth were full, she couldn’t talk.

  At least, in theory. Bear manners probably didn’t square up with what she knew to be proper etiquette.

  “English then?” Soren asked.

  “Yes,” his mother returned.

  “Fine.”

  “No need to speak English for my sake,” Marcella muttered.

  “Probably for the best,” Mrs. Ursu said to her.

  Already, Marcella had forgotten about the sensitivity of Bear ears. She groaned.

  “Are you settled?” Mrs. Ursu asked.

  “More or less. Why do you ask?”

  “What is that noise?”

  “In the background? I’m in a restaurant. Barbecue.”

  The noise Mrs. Ursu made was an emphatic verbal shudder. Marcella agreed with her.

  “I will send you an email. Your father needs you to run an errand.”

  “No.” Soren shoveled string beans into his mouth and dug in for another pile.

  “You can’t say no. He’s your father.”

  “I told him no myself already. I’m on vacation from that.”

  “You can’t take a vacation from your father.”

  Soren chuckled dryly. “Maybe you can’t, but I’m not the one who married him.”

  She spat something low in what was probably Romanian, and then returned to English. “Do it. Quick job.”

  “Quick is relative. Where his favors are concerned, quick could be anything from fifteen minutes to two weeks.”

  “This is nothing like that. I promise.”

  “Really? A promise, Mamă? Must be something important.”

  “Very.”

  “Fine. Send the email. I’m not saying I’ll play along, but I’ll at least take a look. Bye.” He hit the speaker button again, ending the call.

  Marcella swallowed the food in her mouth. “What do you think the favor is?”

  “Could be anything. My parents tend to understate the difficulty level of the errands they ask Peter and me to run. I think sometimes they see us as little more than interns they can demand to do their bidding.”

  “Sounds like my grandmother.”

  “Yeah?”

  Marcella bobbed her eyebrows and took another awkward bite from the corner of her sandwich. “I lived with her whenever my mother wasn’t home, which was most of the time. She used to send me out fetching things no child should have had any business handling. Everyone knew her, though, and so they knew me. If I went to the store and said Granny needed white rum, they’d hand me the bottle, and I’d give them the exact change she’d counted out. ‘Don’t let them charge you more than that,’ she’d always say.”

  Gathering odds and ends for Granny’s potions and brews had been particularly humiliating at times, and not because Marcella was the emissary, but because those people knew what her grandmother was.

  They knew what Marcella probably was, even when she was a girl.

  “Hated being her minion but learned a lot?” Soren asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Same with Peter and me.”

  “So, how did Tamara manage to avoid becoming yet another of your parents’ unpaid employees?”

  “Oh, she didn’t know about any of that stuff. Didn’t know what we were.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “My parents are very good at that—keeping secrets. Peter and I had to learn to do the same. We always knew there was a chance Tam wouldn’t be quite right because certain traits are inherited. There was a chance she’d be like my grandmother, and she is. When she reached puberty and couldn’t shapeshift, all the vigilance became even more necessary.”

  “I don’t know if my family would be able to hide a secret like that. Where I grew up, there were no secrets. Not really. Around there, secrets spread like the common cold. Not having any is easiest.”

  They’d all known she was a witch, but Marcella had managed to keep one secret—her not-quite-human nature. She didn’t talk about what she was, nor did her mother or her grandmother. Their makeup was a personal thing they didn’t bring up around others, and a thing they didn’t let other people see them do. Her people understood witches, but they couldn’t possibly comprehend beings who were flesh and bone one moment and liquid the next.

  “How’s the chicken?” Soren asked.

  “If you’re asking if there’s going to be any left for you, I believe that’s a safe bet.”

  “Tamara got used to me eating her food.”

  “I’m sure she had to.”

  “Got to the point where she’d order food anyway even if she didn’t want any. Either Peter or I would relieve her of the responsibility. Buffets were our favorite.”

  “Because she was your extra plate.”

  “Fewer trips that way, and fewer nasty glares from the managers. I’m sure you’ll learn plenty about our particular kind of appetite through Maria. Eric’s not immune to the cravings in spite of his…” Soren glanced around the room, probably to determine whom, if anyone, was listening too closely. He shrugged. “His late conversion.”

  “Ah.”

  Although she’d spent some time with a variety of shapeshifters in Jamaica, Marcella didn’t understand all the nuances of what made born ones different from made ones. Apparently, though Eric was a made-Bear, he had the instincts, power, and psychic aura of a born one. He’d hand-flapped the subject of his nature away over dinner one night, saying he couldn’t exactly boast about his strength. He didn’t believe he’d have his power if not for his tight enmeshment with Bryan and his inner circle.

  Maybe he was right. Bryan didn’t think so, though.

  Marcella slid a potato chip between her lips and chewed thoughtfully. Learning everything there was to know about freaky people on a small island hadn’t required a great deal of mental endurance, but the world was so much larger than Jamaica, and she was living out in it.

  Or trying to be, anyway. Marcella’s permanence in the country was predicated on her getting hired by Shrew & Company. That wasn’t an opportunity she was willing to let slip through her fingers.

  “Soren.” She picked up another chip, but didn’t eat. She stared at it.

  “Hmm?”

  “I really need this job. This audition isn’t a game for me. I don’t have a safety n
et to fall back in like you do. Every gig I get paid for finances my travel to the next place. I’m barely scraping by, and I’m tired of living like that. Do you understand what I’m telling you?” With a great deal of effort, she looked up. Looking at him was always a trial because he pulled triggers in her without even trying. She wanted to either slap him silly or climb onto his lap.

  Can’t work like this.

  He set down his fork and rested his elbows on top of the table. “I think I do.”

  “I don’t know if I believe you. Will you stay out of my way?”

  “No.”

  “You just said—”

  “No, I’m not going to stay out of your way. That would go against both Bear and human common sense. I’m going to help you.”

  “This is my audition, not yours. The Shrews already know you can do the work.”

  “But they sent you down here with a partner. What do you think they assumed I was going to do? Stand a hundred yards away from you at any given time and swoop in to assist when you’re in danger of getting hurt? No.” He shook his head hard and picked his fork back up. “My father taught me to be proactive, and that’s how I do my solo jobs.”

  “You being proactive could cause the dismantling of any plans I make before I even have a shot at implementing them.”

  “Are you so averse to communicating with me?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him.

  “The fact that I choose to work solo most of the time doesn’t mean I’m not entirely proficient at working in teams. Peter and I work together fine when we have to.”

  “But you know each other’s quirks. You can predict how the other will behave and know each other’s thought processes. I don’t know you.”

  “So get to know me.”

  “A little late for that. The time for that was yesterday. We’re already in the frying pan.”

  “Unfortunately, you didn’t want to get to know me yesterday.”

  “I’m not so sure I want to get to know you today, either.”

  He chuckled and stuffed the last of the beef into his mouth. “Of course you do. You can’t pull the wool over the eyes of the Bear the goddess has made your mate. I can read you like a book.”

  Grimacing, she worried he actually could. She wasn’t dealing with a regular asshole like she did in her usual line of work. Soren Ursu was an alpha Were-bear sort of an asshole, and there was a small—or maybe huge—chance she was out of her depths.

  Not knowing what else she could do, she took a bite of her sandwich and scoffed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Soren pulled Marcella’s chair closer to his, chuckled at her long sigh, and then leaned in to whisper, “The Bear is the woman.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The woman. I couldn’t immediately tell whom I was smelling because there are too many scents here from the food and people. The Bear isn’t in the dining room, but back in the kitchen.”

  Marcella started to turn.

  “Don’t look,” he said in a rush.

  Stopping mid-movement, she growled quietly.

  So cute.

  “She’s behind the window passing dishes out,” he whispered.

  “If you can smell her—”

  “No.” Knowing what she was getting at, he shook his head. “That doesn’t always work both ways.” He leaned in a little closer. The conversation wasn’t the sort that was appropriate to be overheard by people who weren’t in the know. “Made-Bears can’t smell born-Bears unless they’ve encountered them before and memorized their unique scents. The born-Bear nose is far more sensitive.”

  “I see.”

  “Come get these ribs,” the cook shouted to the waitress.

  The Bear was older, perhaps late forties. A handsome, heavyset woman with dirty blond hair and a tattoo on her forearm that said KIMMY inside a pink heart. She probably made a reasonably formidable beast when she shifted. She was certainly formidable enough on two legs. Soren sure as shit didn’t want to get on her bad side.

  Marcella whispered, “And the other?”

  “I still don’t know. Given time, I could probably puzzle out what they both creatures are, but I’m not so sure they’re important.”

  “Why not?”

  “Not everyone who hits my radar needs to be pursued. Some people who don’t know they’re a little weird will go to their graves never finding out. I don’t want to be the one to inform them of something they didn’t need to know.”

  “Smart.”

  “Of course I am. I’m an Ursu. I’m not only pretty; I’m intelligent.”

  She rolled her eyes and leaned away from him.

  He picked up her untouched sandwich half and took a big bite. “We could come back later.”

  “Didn’t get enough meat and sugar water?”

  “Yes. Precisely.”

  “I will pray for you, Soren Ursu.”

  “Pray for both of us. While you’re at it, pray that there won’t be rain on our wedding day.”

  She opened her mouth to rebut, then probably thought better of bothering. Arguing with Soren was pointless.

  The server squeezed between their table and the next with a rag in hand.

  “Excuse me, Miss?” Soren called after her.

  The lady barked with laughter. “Ain’t nobody called me miss in ten or fifteen years. Whatcha need?”

  “What time do you close?”

  “Owner usually comes by to send folks home and lock up at around eight. You still hungry?”

  “No, but maybe I will be hungry again then.”

  “Lawd, and you ain’t got a speck of fat nowhere on you, do you? You must exercise a lot.”

  “Some. The rest is good genes.”

  Marcella snorted quietly beside him.

  “If you’re looking for more ribs, you’d better get your order in now because I think they’re down to one slab back there,” the server said.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  She moved on and swiped her rag across the sticky red sauce splatters on the neighboring table.

  Soren checked the time on his phone and then stuffed the device into his shirt pocket. He grabbed a couple of wet wipes from the container on the table, pushed his seat back, and cocked his head toward the door.

  “Are we leaving?” Marcella asked.

  “Mm-hmm. Have some things to do.”

  “Oh?”

  He nudged her toward the door, tearing the tops off the hand wipe packs with his teeth as they walked.

  He didn’t say anything else until they were in the SUV, his fingers were reasonably clean, and all the scents he’d inhaled inside the restaurant had cleared out of his nostrils.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Communicating.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I gave you some information. I’m curious about what you might do with it.”

  “You’re giving me a pop quiz here in the parking lot? I’ve barely had a chance to think.”

  “You don’t make a habit of thinking on the fly?”

  “Of course I do, but this situation requires careful thought.”

  “Because the job is important to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “But don’t let worries about your performance get in the way of your instincts. What are they telling you?”

  “Obviously, to go talk to the woman. That’s why we left, right? So we could regroup and speak to her after the restaurant closes.”

  “Yes.” He put his foot on the brake and started the engine.

  “And obviously we’re not going to sit here in the parking lot looking suspicious, so we’re going to…”

  “What makes sense?”

  “I’ve got to say, this isn’t generally how my mind works. I use different methods to find leads.”

  “Magic ones?”

  “Of course. I use the skills I have.”

  “That’s what you were doing in your room when I picked you up, right? Working some kind of magi
c?”

  She didn’t respond, but she didn’t have to. He was starting to get a better handle on Marcella. Often, her silences seemed to stand in for yeses she didn’t want to give him.

  “Magic can be too slow,” he said. “Sometimes, plain old investigative work is faster.” He backed out of the space and then pointed to the glove compartment. “There’s a map in there.”

  She took it out.

  “My father taught Peter and me that we should always know the lay of the land. If there’s a shifter group in a town, see where they might roam.”

  “You mean, in their beast forms.”

  “Yes. The full moon isn’t imminent. That means we can probably snoop without much interference.”

  “Short of using magic or having a Were-bear’s nose, I’m not certain how you expect me to determine where on this map a group of shifters might congregate.”

  “Male black Bears tend to have a roaming territory no larger than sixty square miles, but a minimum of ten. Bear shifters share territories, wild bears, so we don’t need to worry too much about whether or not we’ve picked the right place. When bear shifters congregate, they leave plenty of evidence.”

  “You keep little factoids stored in your memory to spit out whenever convenient?”

  “Yes.” He pulled his stare from the road and briefly studied the map she wasn’t looking at. He needed to be farther south. “In my line of business, I have to know.”

  “And the Shrews know all that?”

  “No. The Shrews know who to ask when they need to know something. Drea is very good at fielding queries and directing them to the right parties. You don’t need to know everything. You need to know what you don’t need to know.”

  “You just said a whole lot of nothing.”

  “My mother tells me that all the time.”

  Marcella shifted down a bit lower in her seat, looking as relaxed as he’d ever seen her. She looked out the window to the right, still gripping the edges of the map.

  “What are you thinking?” He wanted her to talk some more. As long as she was talking and asking questions, she couldn’t possibly remember how unreasonably invested she was in pushing him away. Deterring him would, at best, be a regrettable waste of her energy. She was still going to get him. She may as well have started considering him one of her limbs.