by Zoe Chant
PANTHER’S PROMISE
BY ZOE CHANT
© Zoe Chant 2017
All Right Reserved
1
IRINA
“You’re not seriously wearing that tonight.”
Irina Mathers stopped in her tracks, her stomach twisting. She hoped that the cold wind that was whistling through the streets outside the art gallery where her friend worked would explain away the stunned expression on her face.
It’s just Clare. You know she doesn’t mean anything by it.
To cover her nerves, Irina rolled her eyes dramatically and pulled her winter coat closer around her plain dress.
“A ‘hello’ would be nice,” she grumbled good-naturedly. “Can I come in? It’s freezing out here.”
Clare glared at her, sighed, and stepped aside so that Irina could scoot past her. “I was expecting you an hour ago! Where have you been?”
“My shift ran over, and I couldn’t get away until my replacement showed up,” Irina explained. “I promise I came as fast as I could.”
Her heart sank slightly as she took in Clare’s outfit.
How fancy is this thing tonight? she thought, shaking off her coat.
Clare was wearing a slinky little black dress and pearls. Even her flyaway red hair was slicked back into a glossy up-do. Technically, Irina was wearing the same sort of outfit under her heavy winter coat as Clare was, but there was no way anything that fit over Irina’s curves could ever be called a little black dress. And she could almost feel her dark curls escaping their thousand hairpins as she stood there in front of her best friend.
Irina reached behind herself to pull the door firmly shut and winced as another curl sprang free from her work-appropriate bun. She saw the line that formed between Clare’s eyebrows as she looked at her and tried not to wince.
“Come on, Clare, you know I had work today. You’re lucky I’m wearing a dress at all. And not stinking of deep-fried fish.”
“Where were you tonight? Not the fish place?” Clare relaxed, giving Irina a sympathetic look.
Irina smiled back at her, thinking with relief, We’re both just stressed. She’s not going to hate you for not wearing the right thing to this stupid show.
“The raw food place. Just as annoying as artisan fish and chips, but far less smelly.” Irina slung her coat over her arm and followed Clare up a narrow staircase. Her calves complained: a whole afternoon on her feet and, now, stairs?
She distracted herself by telling Clare about her day. “I don’t think they’ll ask me back, though. The manager didn’t seem too happy with how the diners would look at me, and then at their meal, and then back at me…”
She broke off, realizing that her happy-go-lucky tone was beginning to sound a bit brittle.
“How long do I have to get ready for the party?” she added, hoping the pause hadn’t been too obvious.
“Ten minutes.” Clare sounded tense again. She pushed through the fifth-floor door and waved Irina through with her.
“Is there somewhere I can freshen up? Bathroom?”
“Second door to the left.”
Clare was pointing the way when a wail from farther inside the building interrupted her. She clasped her pointing hand to her forehead instead and groaned.
“Oh, hell. That’ll be Tay. I’d better go talk him down from whatever crisis has struck—so, once you get out of the bathroom, the entrance to the main gallery room is the first right, okay? I’ll see you in there.”
Irina took a deep breath. “Okay. Got it.”
Clare had already turned away, but now she spun back around, pinning Irina with a serious look. “Irina… I know I’m acting like a total bitch right now, but I’m really glad you came tonight. This could be your big break, you know. Please take this seriously.” She stopped, thought for a moment, and added: “Please don’t run off.”
“I’m not going to—Clare, I’m not going to run off. Seriously. I know this is a great opportunity for me,” Irina insisted, even though her tongue tripped over the words. “And I really appreciate you going to this much effort for my stupid paintings.”
“They’re not stupid.”
Irina raised her hands in defeat. “Okay, yes, I swear not to say that in front of anyone who might buy them. Promise.”
Irina bit her lip. She wanted to tell herself she was hurt that Clare would accuse her of wanting to run away. After all, wasn’t this what she had always wanted? The opportunity to show her paintings in a real art gallery, as though she was a real artist and not just a college dropout who waited tables and painted a bit on the side?
The problem was it was true. Irina had run away from every big change in her life so far, so why would Clare think she would do any different now? She had dropped out of art school and run away home to the mountains. Then, when her Gran died, she’d run away back to the city. And then she’d spent the next few years yo-yoing back and forth, disappearing the moment things got too difficult.
This time, though, things would be different. Irina was determined. Clare had fought tooth and nail to get her manager to accept a few of Irina’s paintings into this exhibition, and she wasn’t going to let her down.
Even if it had taken every inch of self-control she had to work herself up to actually showing up this evening, and it was only because she’d filled the last two days with back-to-back shifts that she hadn’t had the time to panic and pull out.
After all, what’s the worst that can happen? You spend the evening guzzling free bubbly in the corner, while people who actually know about art look down their noses at your silly landscapes?
Irina sniffed and grimaced at Clare’s concerned look. “Sorry. It’s so cold outside, I—” On an impulse, she swept Clare into a quick hug. “Thanks for this, Clare. You’re an angel. And I promise I’m not going to disappear on you.”
Clare grumbled incoherently into Irina’s collarbone. “Just don’t change your mind when you see who RSVP’d,” she groaned.
Clare peeled herself out of the hug and smoothed her dress, not meeting Irina’s eye as she asked: “Who? Who is it?”
But Clare was already halfway down the corridor and didn’t hear her question—or didn’t want to spoil the surprise. Or scare me off, more likely. Irina swore under her breath.
Clare was obviously massively stressed out, but that would be true whether the mystery guest was the Queen of England or one of their teachers from art school. What the redhead lacked in height, she more than made up for in nervous energy.
Whoever it was, Irina could handle it. They can’t be worse than a double shift at the fish place, she told herself.
Irina rolled her shoulders back, easing the knots of five hours waiting tables at the pop-up raw food restaurant downtown. Where had Clare said the bathroom was—just down the hall?
Time to stop looking like a server and start looking like an “artist”.
Ten minutes was pushing it for that sort of transformation. For a start, despite Clare’s horror, she was stuck with wearing the same soft knit black dress she’d worn for her waitressing gig. Irina had only recently come back to the city after spending six months in the mountains where she grew up, working tables at the local diner and saving money for city rent. All her good clothes had been safely stored away, ready for her return to the city.
Or not so safely, as it turned out. Irina had opened her cupboards to discover moths had spent those six months happily gnawing their way through most of her work wardrobe. The only survivors were the black knit dress and a monstrosity that gave her the world’s most terrifying mono-boob.
Irina saved that
particular dress for the fish place shifts. It wasn’t like the added aroma of deep-fried, artisanal sea bass could make the dress any worse than it already was.
In the bathroom, Irina slapped her bag down on the vanity and took stock. Off with her sensible, opaque black stockings, and on with sheer pantyhose, being careful not to catch them on her nails. Goodbye lovely soft-soled pumps, hello—ugh—glossy, toe-teetering heels. Irina spat on a square of toilet paper and rubbed a smudge off the toe of one shoe.
When did I last polish these? Too late now…
Irina carefully smudged eyeshadow around her eyes and brushed on another few layers of mascara. She frowned at herself in the bathroom’s small mirror as she touched up her lipstick.
“Well, that’ll have to do,” she muttered eventually. After six months where the closest thing to makeup she’d worn was sunscreen, and the last few weeks of hospo gigs where too much smoky-eye would get you sent home, the sight of her made-up face was strange.
Is it too much? Not enough? Do I need to do my eyebrows again, too?
She sighed. This is why I stick to painting landscapes, she told herself. Deciding not to risk refreshing her eyebrows and looking like something out of a horror movie, she shoved everything back in her handbag and hurried through to the gallery.
***
Irina gasped as she slipped through the door into the main gallery space. The back-of-house hadn’t been anything to write home about: cheaply painted walls and concrete floors, lighting dim so you couldn’t see the dust, every spare corner filled with crates and boxes of who-knows-what.
She had started to relax, assuming the gallery was some casual community space. After all, it didn’t even have a Google Maps presence. She was imagining the front room would be similar to the back and seeing her landscapes hanging on the wall beside some paintings of flowers and pet dogs.
She was wrong. So, so wrong.
Oh, wow. Irina’s eyebrows shot up as she took in the room. The decor was almost painfully fashionable, the distressed bare-concrete, exposed-rebar look where you could tell every speck of rust had been lovingly buffed into place.
But that wasn’t the most impressive thing about the space. Directly opposite the staff door, the exterior wall was one massive pane of glass, giving the impression that the room opened straight into the empty air outside the fifth story of the building.
It looked amazing, and Irina’s heart sank. Clare was right, she realized glumly. I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb here.
There were only two ways you could face a room like this: either go in looking as fashionably trashed as the decor, or 180 degrees in the opposite direction, crisp and smart as a diamond in the rough.
Irina’s outfit didn’t fit either category. Not smart enough to contrast, and not casual enough to fit in. Just shabby.
Shit. What is this place?
The exhibition opening had already, well, opened, and the first of the guests were beginning to mill around, investigating the drinks and canapes with as much enthusiasm as the artworks.
Irina’s breath caught in her throat. When Clare told her that she’d got Irina’s paintings a spot in a new gallery exhibition, Irina had assumed she meant a small local gallery. This place was small, but from the look of the guests, it was the small that meant “boutique and exclusive” rather than “can’t afford the rent on a bigger place.”
Irina took a deep breath. Too late to back out. She might not be as perfectly turned-out as some of the guests here—or as fashionably untidy as the others—but, too bad. She was here now.
After all, those were her paintings on the wall. And they looked... great. She had done more than wait tables back in the Adirondacks, after all. She had walked around the mountains and valleys, explored them—and painted them.
The burning summer tones and exuberant, harsh brush-strokes were a great fit for the surroundings, even if Irina herself wasn’t. And the contrast between the midsummer landscapes and the icy night outside…
Irina’s heart lifted as she took in the sight. Oh, Clare was an angel. Irina didn’t know how her friend had managed it—but if any of the guests here bought even one of her oil landscapes, well. Wow. That would be a dream come true.
Especially if that person was famous enough that everyone else wanted their own painting, too.
There were three of Irina’s paintings on display. She gazed at the central one, a huge mountain landscape. The canvas was huge, wider across than Irina’s arm-span, and almost as tall as she was. If the window across the far wall made you think you could step out into space, then this painting was like a portal into summer.
It had been a hell of a mission getting that one back to the city, even off the frame. Now, all that effort was worth it. Irina couldn’t help the swell of pride that filled her as she looked at it.
A familiar face caught her eye. Tay, whose wail of despair had called Clare away earlier, gave her a shy wave. Tay had been in her class the one year Irina had managed to spend at art school, so Irina was familiar with both his dramatic cries of doom and how embarrassed he inevitably was after them.
Now, he was lurking in front of his own work, a series of miniatures that gleamed with gold leaf. The contrast between Tay’s work and her own couldn’t have been more different, but somehow, they both worked in this space.
Irina returned his wave and made her way across the room, scanning the gathered faces for Clare. One friendly face was great, but two would be even better. At last she caught sight of her friend in the far corner.
Clare was too far away for Irina to talk to her without raising her voice above the genteel murmur of the other guests, but close enough that Irina could see her friend’s eyes flick up and down as she gave her outfit the once-over. Clare winked and gave Irina a subtle thumbs-up, and Irina felt the final knot in her stomach loosen.
What was I worried about? she wondered as she greeted Tay and accepted a glass of bubbly from him. I can be a waitress during the day and an artist at night. It’s going to be fine.
2
GRANT
“Is this the place?”
Grant stared up at the brightly-lit fifth floor of the building they had just parked in front of. The contrast between the staid brickwork of the lower floors and the floor-to-ceiling, crystal clear fifth floor window was startling. It looked as though someone had sliced away the front wall to peer in at the inhabitants.
And as if that wasn’t bad enough, it was starting to snow.
Grant felt his panther’s discomfort with the weather. The emotion was separate from his own feelings, but still distinctly there, a constant, irritating itch. Grant was displeased that he could feel it at all. He’d spent most of the last six months as a panther, trying to get it out of his system, but its instincts were still so close to the surface. If he had been in his panther form, he would have flattened his ears at the cold stuff and maybe even snarled at what his human brain knew were harmless white flakes.
Since he was in human form, he was spared the embarrassment of growling at snow in front of his PA, Lance MacInnis.
“This is it,” Lance confirmed without glancing up. “You think she’ll be here?”
Grant shrugged. “It’s art, it’s new, it’s on a street I didn’t know existed in a neighborhood that would make her mother scream—it’s pure Frankie.”
“And you’re sure this is a good idea?”
Grant glared at the other man. “You clearly think not. Is that your official opinion as my PA?”
Lance snorted, his dark-brown eyes fixed on the window above them. The young black man was clearly solidly built beneath his well-tailored and fashionably styled suit, but the glasses he pulled from one pocket to perch on his nose gave a hint of incongruity to his appearance.
“My opinion as your ‘PA’ is that for a man of your demographic, gallery openings are a high-boredom, low-return investment of your time. And as your friend…” He twisted around in the driver’s seat, peering at Grant over the to
p of his glasses. “There are easier ways for you to go about this, you know.”
“I don’t want to hear it.” Grant’s shoulders tensed.
“I’m just saying—if Mathis Delacourt isn’t picking up the phone or checking in on Facebook, well, those are human ways to connect.”
“This isn’t up for discussion, Lance.”
“Understood.” The other man’s face was professionally blank.
Are you in there, Frankie? And will you be able to give me some answers?
He was careful to keep the question to himself. The last thing he wanted was to reach out telepathically to another shifter. Even if it wasn’t considered rude to broadcast telepathic messages before you actually saw a person, he was back in the city, now.
And in the city, he played human. No. He was human.
Grant’s spine prickled, the same uneasy feeling that had been plaguing him for the last few weeks. He clenched his fist on the car door handle, trying to shake the sensation of wrongness.
His plan was so simple, it was hardly a plan. He would go in, find Frankie, and talk to her. And it was only natural that the talk would turn to her twin brother.
Yeah, and why I haven’t heard a peep out of him since I got back from the jungle.
A year ago, Mathis Delacourt had been Grant’s closest friend. They had grown up together, two shifters causing endless trouble for themselves, each other, and their families. It had been a competitive friendship, but a close one. Grant had never been completely comfortable with his shifter nature, but without Mathis and his family, he never would have known the first thing about what being a shifter meant. Grant’s mother was human and had been abandoned by his shifter father before Grant was even born.
Grant had always envied the family structure of the Delacourt pride. For lions, family was everything. For panthers—well, he only had his father’s example to go by, but family clearly wasn’t as much of a priority for panther shifters as it was for lions.
Something had changed in the months before Grant left to exercise his panther. Mathis had seemed distracted. Grant himself had found it difficult to concentrate, his panther so restless it felt as though it was always about to burst through his skin, and now he could maybe admit to himself that he hadn’t paid close enough attention to his friend. He’d stepped back and focused on his own needs, and Mathis had done the same.