by T. G. Ayer
“Eh?” I frowned feeling the throb in my cheek again and wanting to massage the area, yet knowing it wouldn't do to set Lily off on the subject of my wounds.
“Girls,” Lily repeated, then re-enacted the hand waving this time in front of her own chest while also arching her back and sticking her boobs—or distinct lack thereof—out a little more, as though for emphasis. “You know, your BFFs, the bosom buddies you can never leave home without.” Lily burst out laughing at that and hunched over as she moaned and squeezed her stomach.
I shook my head and smiled at her. “How are you feeling, kid? The treatment getting you back on track?”
Lily nodded. “The transformations have been easier lately. Your dad says in a few weeks I’d have learned how to control the shift much better. And when he’s happy, he’ll start weaning me off the drugs.”
I frowned. “That sounds like it’s a bit soon,” I murmured making a note to check with Dad what the real deal is with the treatment.
But Lily smiled and shook her head, confident and happy—two things I hadn't seen in her in a long, long while. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. Your dad said its almost like a one-step-forward-half-a-step-back thing. I’ll stay on my doses, for now, keep practicing ‘cos my brain needs to learn stuff that you guys already have in your muscle memory. And then, when I reach the next milestone, we taper the dosage back by ten percent. It’ll mean less drugs so I’d need more control, so I’ll fall back in my progress a little but if I keep at it. I’ll be fine.”
I raised my hand and curled it around Lily’s shoulders, pulling her gently against me. “You’re so brave, kiddo. I wish I were around more so I can be with you for your therapy,” I whispered into her hair, my heart warming as she snaked her own hands carefully around my waist. She didn’t tighten them, just rested the warmth of her arms against my waist. It was as good as a squeeze.
“You really need to stop thinking you have to worry about everyone,” Lily said, her voice scratchy as she held her tears at bay. “You were with me, right at my side when I needed you most and maybe I didn’t say it then, but that meant more to me than a hundred therapy sessions. And besides, I know you’re a snooty alpha princess, and a killer demon-hunter all rolled into one, but you’re not infallible. Or immortal.” Lily ended her monologue with an eye-roll of epic proportions, and I was partly amused. But the other part of my mind was stuck on her mention of immortality.
Given what I’d just been told about Grams, Lily didn’t have a clue.
Chapter 18
Logan couldn't get the memory out of his head. That conversation with Kai—in which he'd hurt her deliberately—remained in his head, even now when things were changing so drastically around him.
Logan watched the sunset, the explosion of bloody flames on the dull blue horizon. He hadn't registered how long he'd been standing there until he heard the light knock on his door before it opened to reveal a sliver of Kai's face, features drenched in shadows.
“It’s so beautiful,” he said softly, holding out a hand to her.
Her skin was pale, shadowed beneath her eyes. She was being run through the mill and there was nothing he could do about it. He dragged his eyes from her face as she stopped beside him and wrapped an arm around his torso then rested her head onto his shoulder.
Where she belonged.
But something was wrong. Logan knew her too well, was well able to detect the tension writhing within her, tension...and something else.
Logan let out a sigh and ran his hand up and down Kai's back, as though the movement would infuse her with the strength she needed. He'd done it once, a long time ago, using his fire to heal her body.
Logan laughed silently, mocking his fantastical thoughts as he said, “I heard things with you were a little insane.”
“You can say that again.” Kai smiled and laid her hand against Logan's cheek, the caress gentle and filled with concern for him. “How are you feeling?”
Logan studied her face, watched the uncertainty, the disappointment that shimmered there. And yet she didn't ask him why he hadn't called her at the hospital, why he hadn’t even sent a message. A text would have sufficed, yet he'd done nothing.
“I’m better now. I had a small episode,” Logan said, then nodded at the burnmark on her bedroom wall where the shock of Kai's injury had elicited an uncontrollable ball of fire from deep within him. A warning perhaps, that she was his weakness, and that he was also hers. A weakness that she couldn't afford right now.
He'd considered repairing the damage before his departure but he hadn't. It was as though he needed it there to remind him of why he had to go.
“What was that?” Kai was grinning, her mouth twitching with amusement. “Did you burp, or was it a sneeze?”
Laughing softly, Logan replied, “It was a fireball that went a little wrong, and I ended up passing out as soon as I threw it. I wasn’t conscious for the rush to put the flames out, but from what I was told the fireball’s bark was worse than its bite.”
Concern flared in Kai's eyes as she shook her head. “When did that happen? You look okay to me.”
Logan gave a nonchalant shrug. “Early hours of yesterday morning. I was out for almost the whole day, but I’ve been fine since I got up.”
Kai shook her head and frowned. “Sienna came by to see me at the hospital. She didn’t say a word.”
Guilt twisted its blade inside Logan's cowardly heart as he lied. “Yeah. I didn’t know a thing about your little hospital adventure until this morning, and then they were telling me you were already discharged. I had to cancel my Get-Well-bouquet too. Pity.” Logan's attempt at lightening the mood got him a smack on the forearm. “Hey, don’t abuse the patient.”
Kai wasn't in the least apologetic as she shifted to face Logan, then wrapped her arms around his neck. “You do not appear to be very patient-like right now.”
“Oh really?” Logan asked, his voice gritty now, a blend of guilt and desire. “And what is it that I appear to be.”
“Kissable.”
The kiss was enough to tempt Logan to change his mind, and he had to remind himself of his duty.
When they parted and caught their breath, Kai said, “I came to see how you were doing. And…”
Logan cursed himself for the pang of relief that she'd only come to check on him, and not to help him figure things out.
Silencing her with a finger to her lips, Logan said, “I don’t need you to explain to me. You do what you have to do.” He felt a rush of emotion, mostly pain and regret. He was being an asshole; she was the best thing to ever happen to him and yet he was still going to leave her.
“I love you, Logan Westin. Or whatever your name is,” Kai said softly.
“I love you more, Lady Kailin Odel.”
Logan sucked in a breath, then bent to kiss Kai briefly. And when she stepped away, he didn't stop her.
“I don’t have any more time or my ride will leave without me,” Kai said, her eyes filled with emotion. Then she walked to the door where she paused. “When I get back...we have a thing.”
“A thing?” Logan asked, glad the shadows in the room had deepened so she wouldn't see the sadness in his eyes.
“Yeah. I don’t have time. But it’s to do with Saleem and it’s crazy dangerous and crazy important so rest up, soldier.” With a brief wave, Kai was gone, leaving Logan wondering what the heck was going on with Saleem. And why nobody had told him until now.
“Take care of yourself,” Logan yelled after her, “and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Why does everyone keep telling me that?”
Kai's parting words filled Logan's mind, and somehow her voice was filled with accusation.
And Logan deserved it.
Chapter 19
With Lily having unwittingly brushed on the truth, I found myself focusing again on Grams and Mom and the past. I’d heard much of the tale in a state of semi-sleep, and until now it had all seemed like a dream.
The proble
m was Mom had a somewhat convoluted way of telling a story. Still, in the end, she’d spilled it all.
And it was about time.
I wasn’t sure how they’d kept such a secret all these years. Especially when those details had been relevant, not just to me, but to Greer and Iain too. I had to wonder—though it plucked a chord of intense pain deep inside me—if Greer would have been different had she known of our history.
There were many things in the family’s story that could possibly have touched her, in whatever way she’d felt she’d needed it most. In ways that none of us were able to.
Almost automatically, I entertained the thought that Greer would have enjoyed the fact that she had royal blood in her veins, and perhaps that, combined with the fae DNA, would have filled the gaping hole within her that her inability to shift had left. Perhaps it would have been a way for her to feel a sense of belonging.
I paused as I left the rolling lawns of the park that sat at the edge of the settlement where the accesses to the mountain trails, as well as the burial tombs, welcomed one and all.
Here, within the forest of oaks and elms and fire, I found a sense of peace I’d been unable to access these last few days. That connection to nature was a fundamental aspect of the walker species, a part of me that I’d ignored, denied, rebelled against for so many years.
I followed a path between the trees, here and there massive trunks seeping a golden sap, and breathed in the fresh scent of pine needles and moss and nature. The night was cool with the inky hills to west having engorged itself on the sun hours ago, but here within the dense forest the sun rarely shone—and if it did manage to snake its way through the canopy of woven branches and leaves it only graced the forest floor with a gentle dappling of faded sunbeams.
Surrounded by the elements, the earth and the creatures who live and thrive around me, my wild spirit fought for freedom, pulling, tugging at the barrier around her. I'd spent years within this battle with my inner feline, only recently coming to revel in the feel of the freedom of the shift.
I shook my head and gave in to the deep need with a low growl, the sound careening out around me, sending birds aflutter as the predator called its warning.
Not that I'd indulge in an after-dinner snack of the feathered and beaked variety. Walkers had evolved over the centuries, no longer the feral creatures of legend, no longer the predator who sowed fear and mayhem wherever they stalked.
Harmony.
We'd become a people of harmony, a species who lived alongside the humans, who would even marry and breed with them—a transition born of the desire for peace among Earth's people.
And, as with many attempts to sow the seeds of peace, trust, and a happy coexistence, it failed. The crumbling of the foundations of peace had come slowly, over decades, perhaps even centuries given that much of our past had been lost to war, raids and annihilation.
And those shattered bonds of trust had shifted something within the nature of the walker species, something that had over time festered and turned one too many to seek justice in their own way, in the solace of claws and teeth and the slick warm arms of fresh blood.
To my left leaves rustled and whispered, stones scattered and rolled, and I snapped my attention toward the trail, spotting the flutter of a bushy feline tail as a small cat disappeared into the brush. I squinted, an odd sense of familiarity skimming my awareness. Strange, as I'd barely seen enough of the creature to even feel any sort of recognition.
I blinked and focused, working my jaw now as the panther undulated within me, the heat of the shift rushing through bone and blood and flesh, cresting to fill my mind with her visceral, animal desire.
Ears burned, cartilage shifted, lengthened, thinned, jaw and cheekbones, the plates of the skull all vibrated, set alight with the flame of the change, parting and performing the age-old dance of rearrangement, of the almost magical separation of cell from cell, the inexplicable dance that saw them seek out new bonds, like birds migrating to an alien destination, a journey controlled by a magnetism that was not seen or known, but that was destined, unavoidable, unstoppable.
This I'd learned through the long years of fighting my truest nature.
And now I slipped my feet from my boots, followed soon by my socks, tights and the rest of my clothing— all of which I rolled into a bundle and tucked up in the hollow of a nearby oak.
Little packages of clothing littered the forest, a communal offering to shifters on the prowl, to those who wanted the freedom to run free on the spur of the moment without having to worry about being caught running nude through the forest by the random ranger or hiker who ventured into mountain range that for centuries had been guarded by the magic of the shifters, a ward that caused the human eye to skim over and not see, to take a fork in the road without knowing why, to avoid a stream or glade, a copse or a falls, repelled by some strange force and perhaps to never ask why.
Now, naked, the cool air of the forest caressing my bare skin, the call of the nightbirds enveloped me, urging me to be, to just be. To stop questioning, analyzing, weighing the why's and the wherefores and to fall into myself, eyes closed, arms spread wide, falling, trusting in my nature to protect me.
And my nature complied.
The shift rippled through me, lengthening limbs, thinning bones, skin sprouting dense, smooth body fur. And then the very sight of the world shifted, colors danced and split and swirled, swaying and evaporating, to leave behind the hues of the night vision, the feline sight.
On all fours now, I surged ahead, loping along the narrow path before me—allowing my panther to make her own choices—I abandoned the worn strip of sand and rocks created from years of passage, and sprang over a fallen log to land in a dense copse thick with leafy bushes and saplings, then skittered past a shattered trunk almost hidden by a thick carpet of pale orange mushrooms, the fungus too large, too ugly to even hint at it's tantalizing aroma and delicious taste when sliced just so, and braised with onions and garlic and thyme.
But very soon, the thought of food evaporated as I became one with nature, with the forest and its residents, as my paws slammed into soil and grass and mud, claws skittering, gripping, sending stones cascading as I made my mad dash across the forest.
As I ran, I caught sight of the pale cat, running along a parallel path to my left and I wondered where it was headed, and why it hadn't yet fled from the company of a predator feline ten times larger and about an order of magnitude more deadly.
One moment it was there, and then it was gone, a feline wisp, a furred shadow flitting between the trees, teasing my awareness before it was gone, as though it hadn't been there in the first place.
I didn't know where I was headed, not until I arrived at the edge of the tree-line, where the moon filtered in through the columns of the straight and tall sentinels of the elms guarding the wide and lush green lawn that surrounded the entrance to the Burial Tombs.
Panting softly, I scrambled to a stop, my claws scraping the flat stones marking the beginning of the paved pathway leading to the broad stone entrance to the burial ground of the people of Tukats and those of the shifters living around the settlements for up to a fifty-mile radius.
Though the goddess Ailuros presided over the caves and the great number of panther souls occupying the warren of caves and alcoves, these burial grounds have never, and likely will never deny entry to the dead of a different sub-species of skinwalker.
Or perhaps to any species, considering the number of fae and djinn and humans currently languishing at an address within the cave's halls. Odd that, despite the fact that the walkers knew full well that everyone was equal in death, many had supported the walker councils attempts at reinstating the taboo against intermarriage.
I sniffed, tossing my head up and down as I scented the air and scanned the lawn with a sweep of my head. A throbbing sound and a subtle scent told me that the lone occupant of the burial grounds was no threat to me and likely never will be the one to threaten or endanger my life.
Fluid heart seared my form, bones cracked and splintered as though shattering beyond a state of repair. And then, in a patch of silver moonlight, I was standing, sweat coating pale skin, the night bathing the expanse of my hot—and very naked—skin.
I threw my hair over my shoulder and hurried to a nearby elm, marked with a small green glyph, it's unusual, seemingly natural long irregular lines filled with a twist of three types of moss, making the sign appear to have been born of the natural curve of the rugged bark.
Just above the sign, in a lee formed by two branches and an umbrella of overlapping leaves, I found a plastic ziplock bag.
Inside were what appeared to be dozens of rods, narrow and supple, and the white one I selected drooped as I lifted it away from its companions.
The pale fabric had been tightly rolled in order to save space to ensure the stash of garments would be large enough so walkers from the area wouldn’t need to be checking to restock the caches more than once a month. A quick glance confirmed more than enough remained to cater for a dozen shifters making a trip this way once a day for an entire month.
I gripped the ends and let the garment roll free, grabbing it as it flapped wildly in a gust of wind that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. I dusted the fabric out and bunched it's length up to draw it over my head.
Seconds later, I'd fastened the loops and knotted the ties of the long floor-length Roman-styled garment. The white silk was soft and smooth and settled in elegant folds over one shoulder, before swirling around my torso, leaving the other arm bare before sweeping around my waist and dropping to the ground.
The elegant toga resembled that of the goddess Ailuros in her mother form, and many a walker woman enjoyed the formal, yet comfortable, garb.
Now dressed and decent enough for company, I made my way across the lawn toward the wide entrance to the burial tombs.
And my steps faltered as the high-pitched yowl of a cat echoed in the trees and filled the clearing, the sound roosting in the trees and slipping between crevices and cracks. It was as though the creature was issuing a warning, not a message filled with danger, but one that said it would return, that I hadn't yet seen the last of it.