by Chant, Zoe
Marisia and Ivan exchanged serious looks, then she said, “You must remember how much change we all had seen. There were some young shifters in our community, which was much diminished after all the troubles, who felt that to be truly modern we should forget our dual natures. Stay human. Marry outside the community so that our children would lose that second nature altogether.”
Mick suddenly understood why they were having this conversation now, and not ten years ago. “Exactly what I did.”
Ivan nodded slowly. “You are very like your father in so many ways.”
“And we never wanted to take that away from you,” Marisia said quickly. “Mikhail Ivanovich was our son, and we loved him dearly. And we could do nothing to make life better when the world situation was so uncertain. He saw us as antiquated, powerless.”
“But here I am choosing someone outside the community.” Mick rubbed his jaw. “And yet Jean-Pierre’s father isn’t a shifter. Nor is Lisa Goldstein’s mother.”
Both grandparents nodded, Ivan saying, “Your true mate does not necessarily have to be a shifter.”
Marisia said, “Sharon Goldstein and Philippe LaFleur are their spouses’ true mates. Those marriages are strong because their natures, human and shifter, are all in harmony. Is your bear nature in accord with your chosen—“
“Her name is Shelley.”
“I like that name,” Ivan murmured, his voice a deep growl of affection. “It reminds me of the ocean.”
“How did you find her?” Marisia asked.
“My bear was the one who chose her. Insisted at first sight that she was my mate. I didn’t trust that,” Mick admitted. “Oona had walked out on me barely a month before I first saw Shelley. And though I’d known pretty much from the start that that marriage had been a mistake, I had been trying to make it work, after two strikes. But she left anyway. Then here’s Shelley, the most attractive woman on the set in spite of the ugliest getup my wardrobe designer could conceive. We grow up hearing ‘Do not judge by appearances,’ and ‘Do not mistake lust for love.’ What else could it be but simple lust? I’d never even spoken to Shelley.”
Ivan reached to grip Mick’s hand. “Our bears are always aware, their senses strong, even when they are below the surface of our human selves, just as our human minds retain human awareness when it is their turn to let the bear nature surface.”
“I understand that. And most of the time, my bear and I are in harmony. He stays locked down tight in the city, and I let him loose to roam the mountains when I go up to Idyllwild, but we are always awake when the other is on the surface. He picked her first. But how do I tell her? How do I approach it?” Mick asked.
Marisia and Ivan sat side by side, fingers intertwined. Marisia stretched her free hand to Mick, who took it, and the three of them sat there holding hands, as they had when Mick was little Misha, and he was frightened or bewildered.
Even after he had reached the age to understand that they did not have all the answers, the comfort was always steady and true. And strong.
“If she is truly the right one,” Marisia said gently, “the right words, the right way will come.”
***
Shelley looked forward to the new gig. She always loved riding, and she could even cut short the commute and spend the night at her old home, though her parents, both being teachers, were always insanely busy those last couple months of school. And if she kept busy, she wouldn’t think about Mick.
The production crew had chosen a scenic gully by the waterfall, with a tumble of camera-friendly rocks and trees. They spent a day doing set-up and rehearsal. Basically she’d ride around some rocks, over a little hill, then sweep up in a slide and woo the camera for a long beat.
The next day, her costume arrived, and it looked great. Someone had obviously scored some advance stills from Mick’s new film, because the commercial’s wardrobe people had produced an outfit a lot like Evil Biker Chick’s, but without the fake tats, piercings, and Mohawk.
But as soon as they started the actual shooting, things began to slide . . . sideways.
First, it was the heat. Not that she minded heat—she even enjoyed it if she wasn’t working hard, and being encased in tight leather didn’t help. Shelley had to do the ground riding at ten miles an hour with no helmet so her hair would blow photogenically. She knew it would look great, but the reality was the sun blazing down into her eyes above the cool sunglasses, and having her hair untangled and brushed out between each take.
None of that would have mattered, except that she could see disappointment in the director, a sour fifty-something guy named Eric. He chain smoked constantly, looking irritated. And he glared. She now knew viscerally the difference between what she’d taken to be the Bearzilla glare—it was Mick’s intense I see you true gaze—and a real glare from a guy who didn’t see anything but a big girl on a bike.
Who was supposed to be seducing the viewer into buying this bike.
The outfit was there, her riding was there. She was a trained actor. She knew how to fake every type of emotion. But whether the problem was her acting or Eric’s directing and shooting, she wasn’t coming across the way he wanted. Like she had in Mick’s clip, which was apparently all over Hollywood now.
On the last take, she steadied herself, and kept a mental picture of Mick firmly in mind as she circled the beautiful bike around and roared up to make her second sweep.
“Cut,” Eric snarled, chopping with his hands.
When Shelley stopped near him, he snapped, “You’re gritting your teeth like you got stomach flu. “ He squinted up at the cloudless sky, then said, “Let’s break for the day. Tomorrow we’ll try a different approach. Give me a couple of fancy aerials, then we’ll bring you in for a five second close-up, full make-up.” In other words, he’d paint another face on her.
He turned away without another word. Her sense of affront vanished when she realized that things were back to usual. She’d always been regarded as a thing, a piece of equipment. If you weren’t beautiful, you were part of the background decor.
Until this last week. Mick Volkov had spoiled her. This is my reality, she thought. The thing with Mick—whatever it was—was too new. When she was with him, nothing else mattered, but away? It felt like a mirage.
She brooded as she changed out of her leather outfit, then drove to Altadena, where her parents lived.
They greeted her with distracted surprise and she settled right into the family routine. At dinner they talked over what her brothers and little nieces and nephew were up to, and the school politics at Mom’s high school and Dad’s middle school. They asked about her, and she gave them a noncommittal answer because she wasn’t ready to talk about Mick until she understood their relationship herself.
Shelley helped clean up and then retired to her old room, which almost looked large compared to her current closet. She lay back on her bed, looking at her film posters and framed shots of motocross tricks that had once defined her entire life. The walls were faded blue, like the rest of the house. No one would have ever known a girl lived in the house—everything was masculine, sports oriented. Mom had never been “girly” either—she was a basketball coach.
This house defined comfort to Shelley, but she sensed that she had turned some corner, and had truly left this life behind. Mick was at the center of that. Did she want a man to define her life? No. But this much she knew: she wanted Mick Volkov to be part of her life.
She pulled out her phone, her finger hovering over the speed dial. Nope. Comfortable the beat-up old house might be, but their teen years had been grievous because of how thin the walls were. She wasn’t ready for the inevitable questions if she forgot to keep her voice down.
She texted him: How is your grandfather today?
Shelley waited, then set the phone on her nightstand. He was busy, but he’d get back to her. For the first time, she noticed her own self-assurance. Wow. Another corner turned.
Half past ten, a text pinged.
H
e says he’s great. I’m back in LA—just got off the freeway. Catching up. How are you? Where are you? Can we get together?
Shelley replied, I’m at my folks in Altadena, the house of paper thin walls. Location tomorrow morning. Last day, I hope.
They agreed to meet the following evening, which made her smile as she turned out the light.
The next morning, she left before anyone else was up. She pulled into the parking lot before the sun began graying the east. By the time Eric and his production company arrived, Eric was in a foul mood as the light was thin, watery, and full of glare. Obviously he’d liked the footage even less once he’d seen it on a decent sized screen.
Let’s try some aerials,” he said. “Pump up the energy. You can do those, can’t you?”
There was just enough accusatory acid in that ‘can’ to make her look at those mostly male faces with their expressions ranging from impatient to indifferent. She was not going to admit that she hadn’t practiced fancy aerials for a long time. “Of course.”
“Good. Then we’ll lay the shots out, take some easy runs to rehearse, and if this cloud cover moves off by afternoon we can get this wrapped up.”
She did a couple of mild jumps so that the production team could plot their camera positions and angles. They went fine, but she knew she needed some serious work on that unfamiliar bike before she could step things up to what they wanted.
By noon the clouds had thickened, the humidity making the air still and breathless. “That’s it,” Eric said. “We can’t shoot in this light. This weather should be gone by morning, but everyone stay by your cells.”
The company began breaking down. Shelley reported to wardrobe to skin gratefully out of the leather and into her jeans and jacket. Then she left, annoyed with the weather, with the shoot—and with herself for her ambivalence.
By the time she got back to her folks’ house, she had a plan. Everybody was at work, but she knew she could borrow her dad’s old bike. She went to the garage. There it was, one of the first motorcycles she had ever ridden. She was going to ride it back to the location and work on aerials. The next day, she would wipe that disgusted look off Eric’s face.
She knew it was a bad idea to go alone, but the territory and bike were familiar. Shelley had her helmet and a pair of her dad’s thickest gloves. She knew what to do—she just needed practice.
And it went well. She began easy, working gradually up into higher jumps and fancier tricks. After a couple solid hours, though her clothes were clammy with sweat, she nailed the Can Can (legs to one side or the other), Double and Fender Grabs, and finally Superman and Hart Attack, with her body extended in the air above the bike.
It was getting dark when she decided to pack it in after one last trick, the Kiss of Death, with the bike pulled vertical before she kicked out her legs. But just as the bike left the natural ramp, lightning flickered, and a downpour struck with all the force of the thunder.
She gripped the handlebars, instantly blinded by water. Abandoning the Kiss of Death, she rode the arc, keeping the handlebars rigidly squared. She landed the bike—and skidded out in a wash of oily water.
The bike spiraled through the rain-slick ground. Helpless to halt it, she spun with it until with a smash the bike jammed her up against a rock, and landed hard on top of her.
She lay stunned, her heartbeat frantic.
Breathe.
Okay. I know what to do. Don’t panic, she thought as the rain poured in a cataract. It hissed in a cloud of steam from the bike’s engine, which sputtered out. Carefully she turned her head from side to side.
That was good. Fingers. Yes! Toes? One foot wiggled in her old boot, the other. Okay. Though she could barely breathe under the weight of the bike, and she hurt all over, nothing was broken.
She tried moving. Her head could only turn a little; she could feel the mud-slick wheel against the back of her neck. Her hips were pinned against the boulder. She was trapped.
Shelley could only bend one arm at the elbow. She felt for the storage pocket on the bike where she’d stashed her phone. She doubted there’d be service even if the deluge didn’t ruin the phone, but if she could reach it, she would try . . .
She extended her arm until her entire body trembled. The rain pounded the lower half of her face below the cracked helmet, forcing her to breathe through her mouth. She grunted with effort . . . nothing.
Okay, she’d have to wait out the storm. If necessary, all night.
Then she remembered that she lay at the bottom of a gulley, scoured out over the years by flash floods from the waterfall a mile or so away. Another flash flood could sweep through the gulley that night, and drown her where she lay.
***
Mick had risen early to drive over to talk with his film’s post-production people before he met with his agent and some prospective producers. For work purposes, he’d named the pilot Lone Rider, but to him it was Freeriding Shelley.
He knew she was up at Santa Anita Canyon finishing up her commercial, but he texted her after the lunch to say that so far everyone seemed to be on board. Of course everyone always makes nice, and no one believes a word until checks were actually cashed, but he wanted an excuse to communicate with her.
Maybe they could meet early.
She didn’t answer, so he figured the shoot was running late. He peered eastward at the sky. Storm clouds moved steadily out toward the hazy mountains where Shelley was shooting. Surely they wouldn’t be filming under that.
His bear stirred uneasily.
He glanced twice more at what little of the sky was visible through the windshield, then finally pulled over to check his phone. No answer to his text. He tried calling. The phone went straight to voicemail.
Even if they weren’t shooting, they might set up and rehearse while waiting for the weather to pass. Rational, logical, typical reasons streamed through his mind, but beneath that his bear stirred more urgently. Danger.
He remembered that he had Jan’s number, and called her. Jan’s cheery voice came on after the first ring, “I’m asleep, singing, or slinging hash. Leave a message!”
He hesitated, then rang off, not sure what to say to someone he’d only met once. I think Shelley might be in danger. How do I know? Well, it’s just a feeling . . . Yeah, he’d sound real convincing.
He pulled the car back into the traffic stream and drove on home to the pile of work waiting on his desk. But he found himself staring down at the case containing Shelley’s DVD.
Again his bear stirred, and he paced to the broad windows that looked over the Hollywood Hills.
Water.
The image pulsed, causing him to open the French doors, step out, and crane his neck eastward. Lightning flickered under the low clouds.
Brown water in a tumbling stream . . .
“She’s up there,” he said to the air.
His bear surged, nearly breaking free.
He grabbed his keys and bolted. Five minutes later he guided his car down the road, and within ten he roared down the freeway, dodging between cars.
Big splats of rain began falling. The tires hissed, and he drove white-knuckled, knowing that this was the most dangerous time to be speeding, when rain first hit the dry freeways, loosening the dust and oil.
By the time he reached the 210 freeway, the rain bucketed down, washing behind the cars in feathered streams.
Water. Danger.
His bear knew something. He had no idea how, because though his sense of smell was fabulous, there was no way the bear could pick up any scent from this distance. But he believed his bear; his job was to drive carefully, to think ahead. He pushed the speed as far as he dared, until at last he pulled off and turned north into the hills.
He reached the parking lot, which was empty of production people, hikers, and teens making out. He got out of the car, ignoring the rain, and let the bear come partially out in order to sniff the air.
There.
Carefully, methodically he stripped off hi
s clothes, folded them, and laid them on the driver’s seat.
He finished transforming, let the bear extend his senses, and began to run.
***
At first it was a trickle.
Shelley told herself that it was just runoff from the rocks, and after all this was L.A. They practically made a mini-series whenever it rained more than a half inch. She just had to wait.
But the trickle became a stream. She was soaked and shivering as water ran along her sides, numbing the hand pinned under her thigh. Brown water lapped against her helmet, splashing her face.
A sudden surge struck her feet first, washing over the bike and wedging her in tighter than before. A muddy wave washed over her face. She gasped, coughing as it rushed away. If only she could draw a deep breath!
She lay in a rising stream, mud building up against her boots, wedging her feet tighter under the handlebars. She turned her head up as much as she could, though her helmet had filled with water like a bowl, her ears gurgling. Another sudden wash of gritty water caught her before she could whoop in a breath, and she gagged as it filled her mouth. She coughed it out.
More water. Her panic began to rise. She gritted her teeth against it. If only the water would shift the bike even one inch . . .
She tried to fight the panic by remembering good things. Mick. Why hadn’t she just gone right out and told him she was in love with him? Why did she have to be so stupid, believing in the wrong guy, then wasting all this time with the right one . . .
Sploosh, sploosh. Someone was coming. Someone, or some thing, really big. Was she hallucinating?
Another, huge surge of water poured over her in a wave. Her lungs burned, then suddenly expanded as the crushing weight lifted away. She gasped, coughing, her trembling limbs twitching. A huge shape loomed over her. She tried to make it out through the smeared helmet: an enormous, blond, furry shape.