I stand, tossing my thoughts aside. This isn't getting Drake found—helping him with his female. Because nothing else explains this.
My eyes scan the other slipshod hasty construction of the surrounding houses, the yellow crime scene tape that identifies this as a place where something criminal took place.
It sure did. Now we have to send out another prehistoric to infiltrate a Mutable colony. And they're a cruel shifter group. Baiting and tackling females to force-breed. If the prehistorics could gain a foothold and get to a level of healthier numbers, we could begin to met out some deserving lessons to shifters who devolve to misogynistic behavior.
I sigh. Another unfulfilled fantasy.
Tipping my head back, I move my palm back and forth underneath my nose. I take breaths evenly spaced, closing my eyes and listening to nothing, thinking of nothing.
The scent finally comes.
I lower my chin, eyes open. I will not rush to Philips Street where the pulse disc that every prehistoric has embedded behind their left ear marks their location.
Because the mix of scents tells me Drake's not alone. There is another besides the female.
My gaze narrows, and I charge out of the lonely, dead-quiet street. Using the night as cover, I move toward the city, thankful I took the time to come by the last place Drake stayed.
If I hadn't, I wouldn't know what was waiting for me.
*
I arrive at the cross section of 14th street and Minnesota hardly out of breath.
I long to be in mammoth form and lament when I can only partially shift. But I can't take the chance.
Even my half-form is huge, standing at almost eight feet tall and weighing in at over four hundred pounds. The partial tusks make talking impossible, but breathing is facilitated. Even if I could breed with a mixed female, none would think I was remotely good looking. Mammoths are an ugly beast.
And that female that I'll never meet is the beauty.
I stomp forward, the ground subtly shaking beneath my huge feet. My shoes are long gone, a joke in the half-form for all prehistorics. Our forms will always be too large to blend or wear traditional clothing.
But at three in the morning, all's well.
I move with unerring accuracy to the funeral home one block over. A huge cement building in an ironic shade of white that resembles bleached bones, hovering above gray concrete sidewalks and trimmed in blood red paint.
I always felt the imagery was gruesome.
I depress my thumb on the security pad for the building, and the tumblers clank into position. The pulse-activated door whispers apart, and I step inside, moving toward the crematorium portion of the building. The smell here is reminiscent of the torched Mutable colony. But death clings more tightly to this space.
I don't flinch, cover my nose or blink. I am a prehistoric. We kill and live day to day. Death is real and will not be feared. However, I'm here to deliver death to the Lycan whose scent is tied to that of Drake and the female.
The concrete foundation of the incinerator has a drawer with a copper handle. Installed a hundred years before, at the same time that the building was constructed.
An early ally to the prehistoric.
My fingers wrap the cool metal, and I pull it open. Weapons are arranged neatly in a row. My hand hovers over the high content sterling.
I choose two daggers. One is stubbed and wide with one side curved, in true Arabic style. The other dagger fights with being a sword but falling short. I lift the straight blade.
Perfect for stabbing.
I roll the weapons up in a loose velvet cloth with ties. I move through the tomb-like structure and stand before the exit.
I have four blocks to traverse with the wind buffeting me straight on. Even a Lycan will have difficulty scenting my arrival. Maybe, just maybe, I can avoid warning the Lycan—Drake certainly won't give me away.
I grin, feeling more confident. I depress the security lock, my thumbprint lighting up the keypad.
The door slides closed behind me after I move through.
I make my way to Philips Avenue, armed and with a sharpened focus. Ready.
I can't contain my excitement. The thought of one of my brothers being able to have a prehistoric mate is phenomenal—a cause for celebration. I don't bother with thoughts about my own situation.
So many of us are in the same boat.
7
Alex
I can smell that bitch from a hundred miles away. My Lycan form is weak, which pisses me off because really—what the fuck makes a donkey worth anything?
Oh yeah, I'm more stubborn than any shifter around. And I can kick like a sonofabitch. But that doesn't help me. If I can get to Talyn Phisher before she fucks another shifter, she can be mine. I need a Lanarre. She'll be the key to make all my forms equal. All it takes is one encounter with a Lanarre—one good fucking, and donkey would be just another form. After having her, I could use any form as my default.
I can hardly wait.
My long ears twitch at an oncoming noise. It's not that the noise is loud. It's the quality of the noise.
Purposeful.
I stand, not bothering to hide myself as I watch the action going on behind the glass in the penthouse apartment inside the old Foundry building.
There was a helluva tussle just a half hour ago.
Surprised one of the dumb humans didn't call that shit in. I grunt. Too scared to get involved, probably.
I roll my shoulders, revolving my head in a slow circle, trying to loosen the kinks before my homeboys show. We're going to have ourselves some Lycan ass with a helping of dragon on the side. That prick Drake's gonna pay. We know what he is now.
Those of us that survived.
I got torched, courtesy of coals-for-breath, Drake. I smirk. We'll show that numbnuts what it feels like to get your junk cooked. I grab ahold of my own sack to make sure I still have it. Healing that sucked ass. It'd been a close call. That enforcer bitch throwing her blade.
About a millimeter from my dick.
She's next. I don't care if she is a proficient ten. Or she's on the good side of the law, a hybrid vamp—and definitely her female status doesn't mean dick.
I keep my eyes peeled, and when I see what comes around the corner I almost laugh.
Almost.
I thought I was the fugliest shifter around. Guess what? Nah. This guy makes me look like Miss America.
A shifter in half-form strides quietly along the sidewalk, heading directly for the foundry, a neatly tied bundle at his hip.
He's huge. Now I've seen some big shifters. I'm Mutable so there's a lot of biggies in our colony.
Grizzly.
Polar Bear.
Elephant.
But nothing compares to this dude's half-form. Big squarish feet clomp down with each step, sparse hairs softly float from a high forehead and steep, jutting ridge brow. Eyes that are strangely large and soft, almost feminine—pierce the artificial gloom created by the street lamps. My vision, even in my half-donkey form is excellent, and I notice the sweep of ridiculously long eyelashes as his eyes shift back and forth, occasionally sweeping downward.
It's the tusks though.
Those are the things that make my breath catch. Ugly fuckers. They curve out of his mouth, curling backward toward his face. How he can see, or breathe—talk. Is anyone's guess. Who cares?
Maybe he's here to take Drake's ass out.
That'd be perfect. Save me work. Get the girl, death to the Lycan.
All in a night's work.
I track the tusked shifter as he slips into a narrow doorway and ascends the flight of stairs.
Soon. I'll let him do what he wants. Not worried about getting a piece of the Talyn pie. After all, prehistorics are known for defending and protecting women. I don't roll my eyes at the sheer stupidity of that philosophy, but it does stick in my craw.
My thick lips flatten. I have plenty of craw for their beliefs to stick in. I never look at myself in donke
y form. Too embarrassing. It'd taken a long time to rise in the Mutable ranks.
Pure cunning and zero integrity helped that along.
I smile, thankful there's no mirror to show my rounded jaw, my square yellowed teeth. A tongue that is disproportionately long and thick.
I think about using that tongue on Talyn while she screams at my ugliness. My small smile widens to a grin.
Soon.When the Mutables who survived the house fire meet me, we plan.
Then we move.
8
Talyn
“I'll help.” Even though I'd like to toss the plates at their heads.
This time, I figure I can avoid a sex and lickathon if I just throw some shorts on. Which I have.
I'm wearing another huge t-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts. Everything's too big.
I want my house.
And Pooky.
I decide not to cry, but it's burningly awful to stop tears that want to fall as much as mine threaten.
Merck looks up from the broom and dustpan, Drake glances at me from the cooktop.
I expect an apron would fix the vision of the two shifters making me supper and cleaning up the war torn mess they created.
At least the salsa was saved.
The smell of tender and perfectly seasoned chicken permeates the kitchen. I'm beyond hunger now, having gone into a numb spot reserved for starvation. I'm not a nice girl when my stomach's empty.
“Do you want me to help?” I ask a second time, feeling useless.
“I don't need any help. We need to get you fed, Talyn.”
I sigh, not saying anything. Then I have a brilliant idea.
Wine. Everything will be better with wine. “How about some wine?” I ask hopefully.
Drake says as he stir fries the chicken, “I don't think that's a good idea.”
I stand, hands on hips. “And I don't think it's a good idea that you busted inside Merck's house after he claimed me, ruined our dinner, and made enough revelations to crumble the house of cards down. I had a great one built. I'd stacked that just the way I like it. And then poof!” I yell, stalking over toward him.
His lips tweak at the edges.
Asshole.
“Wine might be okay, dragon,” Merck says noncommittally. He is smiling.
Drake saves his hide by reaching into a cabinet and extracting a long-stemmed wine glass.
That's better.
He finds the red wine in the corner of the counter.
It has my name on it.
He pours half a glass and I raise my eyebrows. Drake sighs, the chicken sizzling and steaming between us. Kind of like his breath.
He begins pouring again, filling the wine to the brim.
“That's more like it,” I grumble, carefully taking the glass from his hand.
Our fingers slide against each other and a spark goes off.
Now, it's not like I didn't like what he did for me. It's just—I want a man. A regular, human guy. Who drinks beer, and farts and leaves the toilet seat up.
I take a sip of my wine, grimacing.
No, I take that back. I want a real man. A guy that watches football once a year and farts when I'm not around and brings home chocolate before my period starts.
And licks like Drake.
And makes love to me like Merck.
Not. Happening.
I'll drink wine instead.
I swirl the ruby liquid in the glass and notice it's nearly gone. I frown.
Standing, I walk with more sway than's legal to Drake, plunking the delicate crystal on the raised quartzite peninsula.
“I'll take another round.” I slap the cold stone and Drake shakes his head slightly. “I have fajitas ready and you'll be eating.”
I pucker my lips and his eyes move to my mouth. “No. I want more wine.”
His lips quirk. “Well once you've had a little food of the non-liquid variety, then we'll liquor you up.”
I jerk my face back as strong arms encircle my waist and soft lips press against the side of my throat. A little groan escapes, and I want to punch myself in the head.
Real man.
Mantra time. Need a real man. Then it occurs to me that I'm no longer a real woman. I'm this Lycan girl. It makes me want to cry.
I eye the empty wine glass instead.
Drake slides a steaming plate of chicken fajitas toward me. A rainbow of peppers are prettily arranged alongside the moist chicken with sweet onion interspersed. My mouth waters. I'm suddenly starving.
Drake slides the covered tortillas my way. I open the lid and pluck a pure white flour disc out from the holder and load it full of the sloppy, delicious smelling Mexican concoction.
I eat as the men watch me. I gulp down water that Drake provides. My mouth's full and I say, “What?”
“Very satisfying,” Merck comments.
“Yes,” Drake agrees.
Finally, the neanderthals are getting along. I chew slowly, savoring the delicate flavorings and subtle seasoning of the juicy meal. When one tortilla is finished I load the second.
Only then do the men begin to dish themselves up.
They set their plates on the beaten up kitchen table and Drake pours a second glass of wine, setting it at what will be my place.
I pick up my plate and walk over to where they sit. I take my place between them.
It feels more right than it should.
9
Narah
I don't feel well.
Usually I can just blast through a workday living on coffee and a donut. Grab a supper through the fast food drive through. Done.
Order: I'd like a quarter-pounder with cheese meal.
Question: What kind of drink, miss?
Answer: Blood.
It gets Murphy every time.
I snicker.
Aeslin gives me a curious look while Murphy's is suspicious. Things that make me laugh are usually not kind or good.
That makes it funnier.
Of course, the iconic golden arches have been progressive enough to offer bagged blood.
It's gross—I'd rather take from the vein of one of my males. And that's just the way they like it too.
Aeslin and Matthews flank me. Murphy's nursing his head where Drake the dragon clocked him and being a general bitch, which I tell him.
“I am not a bitch. That description is for Lycans or some women of the unsavory order.”
Aeslin chuckles.
Murphy is his favorite vamp. Probably because he has to protect me, and he's British. His humor is largely lost on me but somehow, Aeslin finds him hilarious.
Matthews frowns at Murphy. Like I was thinking.
Matthews stops suddenly. We've made the short trek to Philips Street, scenting Drake easily. The sight that greets us is more funny than menacing.
“There!” Matthews says in a whisper only heard by the four of us.
My eyebrows scrunch. What the hell is that? It looks kind of like a—donkey?
“Oh love, this is more entertaining than I could have hoped for.”
“Shut up, Murph,” I say absently as I stare at the incredible sight. A man, maybe topping out at six and a half feet, is giving some kind of instructions to his little posse. Mutables, from the look of it.
I stifle an insane urge to laugh that is like a case of the clap. It itches. And I wanna scratch.
Long floppy ears swing as he speaks and gestures and I slap a palm over my mouth to buy my silence.
The men look at me.
I know. I can't seem to keep ahold of my shit. I blame it on the baby.
His teeth are pale yellow little Chiclets inside his mouth.
I expect braying to start.
Murphy pinches me and it wipes the urge to laugh.
Matthews punches him in the stomach for touching me.
The urge sweeps in again.
Murphy folds, knees hitting the cement.
“Thanks, Murphy,” I say, really appreciating him saving us being outed bec
ause I had a supremely untimely urge to have a giggle fest.
“Welcome,” he gasps from the sidewalk.
“He hurt you,” Matthews explains, and I fight smiling.
I wink at a gasping Murphy. “Yeah—needed it. I was sliding toward some kind of hysteric fit.”
Aeslin raises an eyebrow.
“Baby's fault,” I crow in soft indignation.
Both men appear puzzled and a small giggle does manage to escape.
Humor departs when the perp slides into the entrance of the old Foundry building. It's now commercial on the first floor with high-end apartments above. “He's on the move,” I say, going forward.
The men pace me.
I glance back at Murphy. He's hobbling to his feet.
He nods.
I beckon.
Murphy trots unevenly after us.
10
Merck
No one could have prepared me for this moment.
The moment where my life seems to settle into something resembling happy.
Drake is on one side of the couch, Talyn between us.
Music plays softly, the supper dishes soaking in soapy hot water to be done... whenever.
“I hate to say this,” Talyn begins, and I can't resist kissing her temple. “But I sort of like this.”
Drake tilts his head in her direction. “What is this?” he gestures loosely with his finger at the three of us.
“Being here, with you,” she smiles up at me, but her hand lands on the dragon's thigh.
I frown.
She presses her finger to my lips. “Don't be like that, Merck. I'm not anyone's. I'm Talyn. But I think I might consider being with a shifter.”
Drake bursts out laughing.
Talyn sits up straight, removing her hand from his leg.
Good.
He stops.
“What's so damn funny?” she asks, eyes narrowing on Drake.
I look at him with an amused lift of eyebrows.
He shoots me a go die look.
Not yet, pal, my answering look says.
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