by Laura Taylor
“That’s what my father always told me,” Skip said, sounding unhappy. “A proper young lady shouldn’t sit on the floor, or climb on things, or go barefoot, or go outside without her hair done properly, or…” She smacked the trunk of the tree suddenly. “I hate him! Fuck… he never let me swear, either. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Kwan grinned at that one. Goodness knows there was enough swearing around the Den for Skip to have picked it up fairly quickly.
“I don’t know who I am!” Skip told him suddenly, plaintively. “I was supposed to be all polite and proper, and dignified, and then you want me to climb trees and run around on the grass barefoot, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to be!”
That, at least, Kwan could relate to. His own parents had assumed he would be a doctor. No asking him what he thought of the idea, or if there was something else he might have preferred to do with his life, and coming to the Den had been an eye-opening adventure into a staggering range of possibilities. From the sounds of it, Skip had been experiencing something very similar, a round peg being shoved into a square hole.
“Okay,” he said, thinking fast. “How about this…” He crouched down on the ground, gesturing Skip and Aaron down with him, and they huddled together at the base of the tree like children about to share a closely guarded secret. “You know how caterpillars have two lives,” Kwan said. “They start out as little green worm things, and crawl around and eat and eat and eat… and all the while, they have no idea what they’re going to turn into. And then one day, they suddenly come out of their cocoon, and discover they have wings. But,” he said, in a conspiratorial tone, “I don’t think they realise what those wings are for. Not straight away. Can you imagine it, a bright new butterfly, sitting on a twig, thinking he needs to crawl around and eat leaves like he’s been doing his whole life? I think when they come out of the cocoon, they’re all horribly confused, and maybe they only learn to fly by accident. Like, a strong wind comes along, and knocks them off their twig, and then suddenly they discover what their wings are for. But then,” he went on, looking Skip in the eye seriously, “they discover how much fun flying is, and they can hardly stop themselves from doing it. So maybe you’re like that,” he suggested hopefully. “Maybe you’ve just turned into a butterfly, but because it’s all so new, you haven’t quite figured out how to be the new you. And that’s okay, because everyone goes through that. We all have to grow, and learn, and try new things to see who we’re supposed to be.
“So try doing some new things. Try climbing a tree. Maybe you’ll like it, and want to do it some more. Maybe you won’t like it, but that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with it. It just means you’re not a tree-climbing butterfly. Maybe you’re a swimming-in-the-lake butterfly. Or a rolling-in-the-snow butterfly. But unless you try, how will you ever find out?”
Skip stared up at the tree, thinking the idea through… and a slow smile spread across her face. “Okay,” she said simply. “So let’s try climbing a tree.”
With a grin, Kwan stood up. “Watch carefully,” he said, lacing his fingers together and offering his hands to Aaron, who carefully placed his foot in the support. And then Kwan hoisted him up onto the first branch. He scrabbled about, trying to find hand and foot holds, and then he was standing on the branch, grinning down at Skip as she watched on in excitement. “Make sure you’re always holding on with at least one hand,” Kwan told her, readying himself to hoist her up the same way. “Don’t stand on any branch that’s dead, even if you think it looks stable. And most importantly… remember to have fun.”
CHAPTER NINE
April 20th
Silas was waiting in the foyer for Skip and Simon to join him. It was six months since Skip had joined the Den, and lately, Simon had reluctantly admitted that she was rapidly surpassing him in regard to the various hacking and security tasks he was in charge of.
The latest discussion the pair had apparently had involved Skip’s growing concern that the Den’s computers were in serious need of an upgrade. After a prolonged discussion with Baron and Anna, they’d been given leave to replace them with faster and more powerful machines. The Noturatii were doubtlessly employing the latest and greatest computer gadgetry in their quest to exterminate the shifters, Simon had pointed out, and so if they were going to hold their own in the Endless War, Il Trosa was going to have to make a few serious investments into technology themselves.
Today was the big shopping trip. Simon had located a computer warehouse in Manchester that was likely to have everything they needed – the sort of place frequented by computer nerds and people buying company supplies, rather than by the general public – and Silas was going along as their bodyguard. Skip had been bouncing off the walls for days in anticipation of the excursion, and Silas had to smile as she came dashing into the foyer now. She skidded to a stop, smiling at him gleefully, then hovered near the door. It was likely both a sign of her eagerness to be on their way, and her normal wariness around him. While she was always friendly and polite to him, he’d also noticed that she always made a point to give him a wide berth, and in return, he made an effort not to impinge on her space.
Five minutes passed, and Silas checked his watch. No sign of Simon, so he took out his phone and dialled his number. In a house as big as this one, it was usually quicker to call a person than run around trying to track them down. And two minutes later, he had his answer.
“Bad news,” he said to Skip as he hung up. “The server’s just crashed. Simon’s working overtime to try and get it working again, so he said he’s going to have to take a raincheck on the shopping.”
Skip’s shoulders sagged almost comically. “Damn server,” she complained. “Couldn’t have waited two more days until we got a new one.” She pouted and let out a sigh. And then she pulled out her phone, quickly getting Simon back on the line. Another brief chat, in which Skip seemed to be trying to convince him to come, and then she passed the phone to Silas.
“Hey, what’s happening?” he asked, putting it to his ear.
“Skip has a point,” Simon said, his voice muffled as if his phone was tucked under his chin while he continued working. “We’re going to need the new server sooner or later. But Skip knows enough about what else we need to find the right stuff. So if she’s okay with it, you may as well take her without me, and then at least I can just load the data onto the new server, rather than trying to get this pile of shit to work again.”
After he’d hung up, Silas handed the phone back to Skip. “So how about it?” he asked, assuming Simon had already told her she could go without him. “Just you and me?”
Skip nodded. “No problem.” She was out the door in an instant, bouncing down the steps towards the garage. Silas did one last check of his guns and knives, and headed after her-
“I’m coming with you,” Caroline declared, appearing out of the sitting room where she had apparently been listening in on the conversation.
“What? Why?”
“Skip spending half a day alone with a man? Are you nuts? She’ll feel better with a woman along.”
“Skip said she was fine with it,” Silas argued. “And even if Simon was coming, it would still be her on her own with two men, so no big difference there.”
“I’m coming,” Caroline said, folding her arms defiantly.
“Not unless you can give me one good reason why.”
“Because Skip is scared of men,” Caroline said, slowly, as if she was trying to reason with an idiot.
Silas raised an eyebrow. “And yet she spends hour after hour closeted away with Simon in that dim little IT office, and no one bats an eyelid. I don’t think you’re worried about her spending the afternoon with a man. I think you’re worried about her spending time with me.”
Caroline didn’t deny it. Instead, she stepped closer, pointing a finger at his chest. “I’ve heard the rumours,” she said coldly. “I’ve heard what you did back in Afghanistan. Baron seems to think you’re harmless as a day old puppy, b
ut I disagree. So know this: if I find out you’ve laid so much as one little finger on her, I will gut you.”
Silas’s mild scowl deepened into one of genuine menace. He closed the distance between them, so they were standing chest to chest, barely an inch of air between them.
“You listen to me, you mangy upstart. You know nothing of what I went through before I came here. Skip is a part of my family. This is the family I fight for. The family I bleed for. And the family I kill for. So I will never hurt her. Nor will anyone else, so long as I am breathing. You understand me?”
The battle of wills went on a moment longer, each of them trying to stare down the other. At last, Caroline gave a nod. Looked away. Stepped back. “Good,” she said simply. Then she turned and stalked away.
Four hours later, Silas was feeling totally exhausted. Simon had called ahead, and the warehouse had set aside the model of server they were after, but Skip had taken her time perusing the rest of the toys on offer. Laptops, monitors, wireless routers, a scanner, two printers, nine different types of cables, gadgets and widgets galore as more and more things that Silas had never even heard of were added to their pile of purchases.
The sales assistant had seemed surprised at the size of their haul, so Silas had felt compelled to explain. They worked for a company in Italy, he’d said conversationally, while Skip went about her work, but they were opening an office in England and needed the full set of computer equipment for their new staff.
“She seems a little young for this,” the assistant had said softly, not wanting Skip to overhear, and Silas had forced a laugh. “Would you believe she’s nineteen?” he said, lying through his teeth. “Something of a genius, as I’m led to believe. Finished a computer science degree in two years, and was snapped up the moment she graduated. I don’t know anything about this shit myself,” he said with a smirk, gesturing to the rows of machines around them. “I’m just here to pay the bills.” The assistant had laughed at that, and asked no more questions, much to Silas’s relief.
And so, after two hours of traipsing around the shop, Silas had brought the van around to the rear door, helping the delivery men load their numerous boxes into the back of the van. When the last box was loaded, he slammed the door and joined Skip inside the van. It was getting late, and if they didn’t hurry, they would hit peak hour traffic. With a two hour drive as it was, Silas wasn’t inclined to waste any more time.
The lane was deserted, numerous warehouses backing onto the narrow road, and he eased back towards the main road carefully, large bins and blind corners making it a tight squeeze to get out-
Silas slammed on the brakes as he rounded a corner, and cursed blackly. “Get down,” he snapped at Skip, already drawing his gun. “And stay in the car.” There were four men standing in the middle of the road waiting for them, and though he couldn’t imagine how they had found them, Silas would have bet a year’s pay that they were from the Noturatii. Damned vermin had a knack for showing up in the most unlikely of places. Which was why it was a rare thing for anyone to leave the estate without a bodyguard.
“Gentlemen,” he said grimly, as he climbed out of the van. “Mind stepping out of the way? We were just leaving.”
The men grinned. Drew their own weapons with a casual confidence that said they didn’t expect one man to be much of a challenge. And then Silas was launching himself into a fight for his life, as the men attacked as one.
Silas stared around himself, breathing hard. The carnage was complete. The four Noturatii men lay dead on the floor. One was missing a hand, though Silas didn’t remember cutting it off. The bloody knife in his hand confirmed that he must have done.
One of the men was all but gutted, his insides spilling out over the concrete. Another was unrecognisable, a bullet to the head leaving him with only a pulpy red mess where his face had been.
Silas himself was covered in blood. It coated his hands, was splattered over his face and shirt. Dripped onto his boots. He was uninjured – years of training to become the most efficient killing machine had seen to that…
Where the hell was Skip? He looked around in a panic. In the middle of the fight, one of the men had broken away and gone for the van, ripping the passenger door open and Silas’s heart had been in his throat as he’d heard Skip’s terrified scream. He’d elbowed one man in the throat, stabbed another in the leg as he fought to get to her, but then she’d somehow managed to kick the man in the balls and darted for cover… and he’d lost track of her, as the fourth man had swung at him with a knife, forcing him to defend himself.
“Skip! Where are you?” He felt his heart lurch, both in dismay and relief when he saw her. She was curled into a ball, huddled behind a bin against a brick wall, arms around her knees, rocking slowly. But her eyes were fixed on him, wide and shell shocked, and he felt sick. Fucking hell. He’d been sent to protect her. To look after her and keep her safe. And while he might have succeeded physically, he’d clearly done a hatchet job on her psyche.
Heron would never forgive him.
God, he’d never forgive himself.
He wiped his hands on his jeans, leaving red smears, and tried to relax, to tone down his body language so he looked less like a maniacal killer and more like the sort-of-friend-slash-older-brother that Skip seemed to have accepted him as.
“Skip? Sweetie?”
Like a shot, she was up off the floor, moving so fast she caught even him by surprise. But she wasn’t running away. Instead, he felt the impact of her small body before he’d even registered that she had moved. And he braced himself for the flailing of tiny fists, for curses and accusations…
But then instead, he instinctively wrapped his arms around her to catch her as she caught him in a full body hug, her arms squeezing tight around his shoulders, legs clinging tightly to his waist like she was drowning and he was a life raft.
They stood like that for a long moment, both of them shaking, and then he caught the tiniest whisper, murmured into his neck.
“Thank you.”
What the hell?
He held her tighter, rubbing a soothing hand up and down her back, aware that he was leaving red smears of blood in the process, aware that the hand on her thigh would have left a bloody, macabre handprint just below her buttocks.
“Thank you,” she said again, and Silas felt his world sway. What the fucking hell? She seemed to think he was the hero here. He’d just massacred four men in front of her. Dismembered. Gutted. And she’d decided he was some kind of saviour? There was no way in the world he could process that…
And yet, in that same moment, he felt his heart simultaneously break and knit itself back together again.
He was no hero. He’d failed a woman before, back in Afghanistan. He’d let his CO kill an innocent civilian in front of him. He’d arrived too late to prevent her from being raped, then stood by while a violent man whom Silas had trusted with his life had slit her throat, too shocked to do anything to stop him. Later, of course, he’d repaid the crime in full, murdering his CO and earning himself the scar that had nearly cost him his left eye. But it had been too late to save the woman.
And yet this time, he’d somehow succeeded. Saved her life, and apparently saved her sanity in the process.
What a damn, God-forsaken, fucked up mess.
“Shall we go home?” he asked softly, and felt Skip nod.
“Here…” He tried to set her down, prepared to lead her back to the van, but she clung on, determined to hold on to the only rock she could find in her crazy, messed up world.
And so he carried her. Carried her slowly back to the van. Eased the door open with two fingers. Set her on the seat, and then waited a moment longer until she saw fit to let him go. She curled up on the seat immediately, and he closed the door, hurrying around to the driver’s side. He was half expecting her to panic when he opened the door and climbed in, but she didn’t, merely leaned towards him, then uncurled her legs a fraction at his prompting that she do up her seatbelt.
After a time, staring at the road and taking care to take the turns smoothly, he reached for his phone. Sent a message to Baron, in code, as was their protocol. ‘E90. 2IB. 4XN. 0J.’ In translation, it meant ‘ETA 90 minutes. Two people inbound. Four Noturatii members dead. Zero injuries.’ In general, neither Il Trosa nor the Noturatii liked to leave dead bodies lying around, and both sides of the war tried to clean up whenever a fight went down. So if Baron wanted to know where the men had been killed, it would be a simple matter of looking up the GPS records of the van. The last point where they’d stopped would be the location of the bodies. But Silas put the mess he’d left behind out of his mind. Let the Noturatii deal with the fall out. Right now, he had exactly one job: take the girl he looked at as the daughter he’d never had, and get her home safely.
There was a reception waiting for him at the steps of the manor, and Silas pulled the van to a stop, glancing worriedly at Skip as he did so. She’d been silent for most of the drive, responding with single word answers to his enquiries about whether she was hurt. He’d explained that the men he’d killed were Noturatii, the shifters’ sworn enemy, and she’d nodded, but said nothing.