A Study In Shifters

by Majanka Verstraete

“Hey there.” Stephanie shook my hand rather enthusiastically, but Aria just looked at it with arched eyebrows and a scrunched-up nose.

  “You’re the half-blood,” Aria said. “The half-blood royal. I have no idea why they even allow your kind to come here and mingle with us.”

  For a moment, I stood perplexed, nailed to the ground—and surprising me was a feat not many people ever accomplished. “Excuse me?”

  “Aria.” Stephanie shot her friend an angry glare. “Shut up.”

  “I’m tired of everyone crawling through the dust for that human-loving jaguar Duchess,” Aria said, obviously referring to my mother. “Just because she had a child with a human doesn’t mean we have to accept her as the next heir in line. And because jaguars hold the throne now, doesn’t mean they will forever.”

  At this, my jaguar let alone an enormous roar that echoed off the walls of my mind palace. She jumped up and clawed at the air, showing her teeth, and I knew that if I could still shift, my jaguar would have no trouble clawing her eyes out.

  Human-me on the other hand didn’t know what to say or do. I just stood there, a statue frozen in time. Mother had warned me before about what certain others thought of me. There were even groups of shifters united solely by the fact that they didn’t want me as the next heir to the jaguar throne. But in all the years I’d walked on this planet, no one had ever dared to say it to my face.

  No one until this girl, Aria Forbes.

  And now I stood here speechless, my usually sharp-witted tongue completely dull.

  “Well, what?” Aria asked. “Cat got your tongue?”

  My jaguar sent me an image of biting off Aria’s tongue, which I really wouldn’t object to at this point.

  “Aria, drop it,” Stephanie said, and then turning to me, she added, “I’m sorry for my friend’s behavior. She’s upset after what happened to Elise and—”

  “Elise was murdered.” Aria’s voice was so loud it echoed through the room. “Murdered by one of her loyal subjects. Can’t even keep your own subjects in line. No wonder, if you have a half-blood waiting for the throne—”

  “Last I heard, the murderer wasn’t caught yet,” Indra intervened. Leave it to a snake to stay calm, no matter what. Although this time, I was grateful she was here.

  “Of course not.” Now, Aria turned her wrath on Indra. “The police are useless. They can’t solve murders committed by shifters. But we all know what really happened… Leopards, the Feltons in particular, are gaining strength, becoming strong competitors for the jaguars. And of course, your mother couldn’t have that…”

  To insult me was one thing. To insinuate my mother had something to do with the assassination of a teenage girl…

  All three other girls seemed on the verge of saying something, their mouths half-open, when I spoke.

  “I suggest you shut your venom-spitting mouth before I claw your face open.”

  When I said that sentence, my voice came out different—lower, hoarser… sounding more like my jaguar. As if my jaguar and I had said it together, as if we were somehow getting closer.

  I didn’t like threatening them with violence, but I couldn’t stand here and listen to this girl bad-mouthing my mother any longer, and obviously, my jaguar agreed.

  I channeled some of my mother’s characteristics, and tried to mimic her inner strength as I kept my back straight, and looked Aria straight in the eyes while I crossed my arms. Despite anger flaring through me, I knew I had to keep it in, contain it.

  “You can hate me for being a half-blood all you want, but you can’t go and insult my mother, the Duchess of the jaguar clan, and get away with it. Have some respect. Or haven’t your parents taught you any manners?”

  “Manners?” Aria cackled out loud like a maniac. “For the likes of you?”

  “I’m sorry what happened to your friend, so for one time, I’ll let this slide,” I said as I moved toward the washbasins. I did mean what I said about her friend, and even felt a pang of guilt over that, but I couldn’t let her walk all over me or my mother. “I don’t want trouble on my first day. But remember, snake…in a fight between a jaguar and a viper, we always end up on top.”

  Aria seemed ready to say something else, but then she swallowed her words, made a “hmph” sound, and strode away.

  My heart pounded in my ears, and I let out a sigh of relief. Thank God Aria hadn’t called my bluff.

  “I’m sorry,” Stephanie said before she rushed after her friend.

  I held on to the washbasin for support until they both left, leaving only Indra and me in the bathroom.

  “Impressive alpha display you did there.” Indra’s voice sounded surprisingly kind.

  My knuckles were turning white from gripping the washbasin too hard.

  “Not sure if she’ll like your clan more or not after that, but you certainly have the whole ‘instill fear rather than respect’ thing down.”

  “Are you mocking me?” I turned to Indra and ran a hand through my hair. “No one has ever spoken to me like that. Not about me, not about my mother. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Well, you were a little insulting by saying snakes couldn’t win against jaguars, but other than that, you did stand up for yourself.” Indra leaned against the washbasin. “You didn’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  She sighed. “I don’t want to burst your bubble, princess, but a lot of people think the way Aria does. I just figured you were used to hearing it by now, that it didn’t bother you anymore.”

  I shrugged. “Mother told me a lot of people thought that way, but I figured she was exaggerating. No one has ever said something like that to my face before.”

  “You lived a really sheltered life, didn’t you?”

  I expected to see mockery in Indra’s gaze, but I saw only pity. “Half-bloods aren’t supposed to be royals, Marisol. And if they are, they’re definitely not supposed to be heirs to a clan throne. But you are, and that scares people.”

  “I just didn’t know it was this bad.” I opened the faucet and let some water run, then splashed it in my face to cool off. “She really hates me.”

  “She thinks one of her friends was killed by a jaguar. She probably hates all jaguars right now.”

  “How can they jump to a conclusion, just like that?” I dried my face with a towel I’d brought along. “Lots of other shifters could’ve done that.”

  “But the jaguars have motive. A political motive. The Felton family is powerful, and Elise was the heir of the Felton family.”

  “The statistics of murders happening for political motives are extremely low,” I said as I put the towel away. “And what would the jaguar clan have to gain by killing the heir of the leopard clan? War? We’re too weak for war.”

  My jaguar groaned angrily. Her pride was hurt over me admitting our weakness. She didn’t agree with my point of view, of course.

  “It’s in the jaguar clan’s best interest to lay low for the moment. No one would openly challenge us.” I sighed. “At least not until my mother passes away, and I inherit the throne.”

  Indra remained mute for a second, and then she patted me on the back. “Don’t worry about it too much. Aria sounded upset more than angry, and you did threaten her well enough. I’m sure she’ll leave you alone.”

  “Yeah.” I wasn’t too sure of that, though.

  “However, I don’t think it was the wisest move to threaten to claw Aria to death… Considering her friend was just clawed to death, presumably by a jaguar,” Indra pointed out. “So maybe try not doing that in the future?”

  My hands trembled as I moved away from the washbasin. I couldn’t even find the strength to answer her as I followed Indra back to our room.

  I hoped Aria would not confront me again. Because the threat I’d just made to her had been a complete and utter lie.

  If she fought me, I would lose. I wouldn’t even stand a chance.

  Because I couldn’t shift anymore. Because, thanks to Mannix, I’d los
t touch with the part of myself that made me able to shift, the part that made me strong, the part that made me confident.

  And all that was left now was my logic, my mind, and that was the only part of me I could trust anymore.

  Chapter Ten

  I was dreaming. I had to be, because I had managed to travel back in time to when I’d gone on holiday with my father in London. Time travel still wasn’t possible as far as I knew, so it had to be a dream.

  Besides, in this dream, my jaguar was still with me—completely. I could hear her every thought in my mind as if they were my own. Not like it was now, where she had to project images in my mind and couldn’t really talk to me. We were still one, united, not ripped apart.

  Yet, the dream felt so real. The way my tiny hand fitted into my father’s big, strong hand. The way he smiled at me and lifted me up on his shoulders.

  “Where will we go now, Daddy?” Six-year-old me asked in the dream-memory. I was sitting on his shoulders now, my small legs wobbling as he walked forward. We’d just taken the train back toward London after we’d spent the afternoon visiting Hampton Court.

  “We’re going to see some friends of mine, on Baker Street,” Daddy said. “Do you remember Baker Street, Marisol?”

  I kicked my legs up and down and clapped my hands. “Baker Street from Sherlock Holmes!”

  “Yes, that’s right,” my father said. “But today we’re visiting the Blacks. Archibald Black is a good friend of mine, so will you promise to be on your best behavior while we’re there?”

  The child version of me obviously didn’t care about my father’s request, because I just grabbed the deerstalker cap from his head and put it on my own head. It balanced precariously to the left, courtesy of my ponytail. “I’m Sherlock Holmes!” I said, in an imitation of my ancestor, making my voice sound very low. “I solve crimes with my best friend Watson.”

  Father laughed at my imitation. “And I’m Dr. Watson,” he said, using his Watson-voice. We often mimicked the iconic duo, Holmes and Watson, in our little plays together, and I always got to be Sherlock Holmes, my idol and my great-great-great grandfather.

  We must’ve looked ridiculous strolling through London like that. My father hid behind every corner, pushing against the walls, so we wouldn’t run into Moriarty, who was always the bad guy in our plays. I shouted orders at my father from on top of his shoulders, laughing and giggling. It was all a game to me, back then. In many ways, I was just like Wyatt was right now—innocent and naive. I didn’t realize yet that the game was real, not to mention deadly.

  We finally reached Baker Street, the street where the infamous Holmes had his home and office. Tall, narrow Victorian buildings lined the street, and I shrieked excitedly when I saw 221B Baker Street. “Sherlock!” I yelled.

  Father lifted me from his shoulders and put me down. “We can’t visit now, honey, I’m afraid. We have to visit the Blacks, remember?”

  I pouted, my mood going from happy to angry in seconds.

  “Now, don’t get upset. We’ll visit it when we come back, okay?” Father said. “I promise.”

  Although I didn’t agree that we shouldn’t visit Holmes’ house right this instant, I didn’t make a fuss as my father dragged me along to the Black residence, farther along the street. He rang the bell, and we waited for someone to open up the door.

  A butler, based on his uniform, opened the door, which didn’t surprise me considering we had a butler too. “Mr. Holmes,” he greeted my father. “Mr. Black has been expecting you. He’s in his office.” The butler, an ancient man with more wrinkles than I could count, leaned toward me. “Miss Holmes. If you want to wait in the parlor, I can bring you milk and cookies.”

  I didn’t want milk and cookies, although my jaguar purred at the thought of snacks, and I didn’t want to wait in the parlor, but something about the expression on my father’s face, so serious and stern compared to the lighthearted expression he had on earlier when we played Sherlock and Watson, told me I’d best do as the butler suggested.

  Without making a scene, I sat down on the couch in the parlor and watched my father as he disappeared behind one of the doors. The butler left, too, presumably for the promised milk and cookies. The style of the room, all wooden panels and red carpets, reminded me of Castle Beauvord, my home.

  “Who are you?” A voice rang out in the silence less than two minutes after the butler had left.

  I scanned the room to see where the voice had come from. My gaze travelled up the stairs where it lingered on a young boy about my age. He was partially covered in shadows, but the part of him I could see revealed short, black hair and stocky limbs.

  “I’m Marisol Holmes. Who are you?”

  “Roan Black.” The boy walked down a few more steps. Now he was no longer covered in shadows, I kind of liked the sight of him. His unkempt hair, a shirt with at least two stains… He was far less sophisticated than the children I usually hung out with—although I didn’t hang out with many children my age, mostly just at formal gatherings. I liked that he didn’t look so sophisticated, so picture perfect. He looked…flawed. Like me.

  I like him, my jaguar said, her voice crystal clear in my mind. He has something unique. Something special.

  I agreed, although I couldn’t really say what was special about him, and apparently, neither could my jaguar, because she didn’t offer another comment.

  “Do you want to play?” Roan asked. “I have a cool train set. It takes up an entire room.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “An entire room? I don’t believe a word of it.”

  “It’s true. Want to see?”

  “Yes.” I jumped down the couch before he could even finish his sentence. “Show me.”

  That day, Roan and I played for many hours. He had a train set taking up an entire room, and he had many more toys, too, but we mostly played with the trains and the surrounding buildings, reconfiguring them until they looked like a replica of London, complete with Sherlock Holmes’ Baker Street and all.

  Meanwhile, my father stayed downstairs with Roan’s father, and they talked about things children couldn’t understand. Roan didn’t seem worried and I didn’t worry either, not even when daylight disappeared and night crept up on us, not even when we started yawning and our tummies grumbled—despite the butler having already provided us with ample food after discovering we’d retreated to Roan’s room.

  I felt a first pang of worry when my father appeared in the doorway, looking all haggard and worn. The smile on his face was a sad one, as if he’d lost something dear.

  “What’s wrong, Daddy?” six-year-old me asked him in the dream memory.

  “Nothing, princess. We have to go now. It’s late. Say goodbye to your new friend.” The melancholy smile still didn’t vanish from his features.

  I turned to Roan and waved at him. “Bye-bye,” I said in the casual way children say their goodbyes.

  I don’t want to go yet, my jaguar said, dragging her feet. I want to stay and play some more.

  Sorry, I told her. We have to go. Daddy says so.

  “Bye, Marisol,” Roan said as he looked up at me. He seemed a little sad, too.

  As we left the Black house and ventured back to Baker Street, my father didn’t offer to drop by and visit 221B, and I didn’t ask. It didn’t feel right this time, not with his hand sweating as it grasped mine, not with the haunted look in his eyes.

  I woke up with tears in my eyes. It had been years since I’d dreamt about my father, and this dream was a particularly painful one. In retrospect, our time in London was perhaps the last time my father was truly happy. The haunted look glued on his face since we left the Black residence seemed to become a permanent mask, forever engraved into his skin.

  I could never figure out what troubled him, and he died not long after that.

  I didn’t want to think about that. Thinking about my father would only bring more tears and more pain.

  Seeing Roan again didn’t make me that happy, either. Not
with what had happened between us the last time I’d seen him…

  Swallowing hard, I pushed the dream to the back of my mind. The clock indicated a quarter to six, and I had more pressing manners to attend to. I had set my alarm for six o’clock the previous night, but since I was awake already, I disabled it now. Indra was snoring lightly from the bed next to mine. Careful not to wake her up, I grabbed some jogging pants and a tank top and jacket, and threw on a pair of sneakers before I headed outside.

  The hallways were abandoned, but considering Keira Sampson had discovered Elise Felton’s body while jogging outside at six o’clock, I figured I was allowed to go for a morning jog, too.

  Of course, jogging wasn’t my real motive. What better way to run into a girl who went running at this ungodly hour than dragging my behind out of bed and actually going for a run?

  My jaguar seemed psyched about the idea of getting to go outside and roam around, so that was a nice bonus.

  I managed to make it to the downstairs floor without running into a single person. Maybe security was higher during the night, but at this hour, moving around unnoticed was basically child’s play. If Elise came back to her room after her library visit—a distinct possibility—and then sneaked out at this time of the day, no one would’ve spotted her.

  Until Keira Sampson stumbled upon her dead body at six o’clock in the morning, that is.

  Outside, it was still chilly, so I immediately started running to get my temperature up. Thankfully, it was already light out. The sun wasn’t fully above the horizon yet, but it was light enough that I could see several meters in front of me.

  I’d memorized the maps of the school grounds Indra had shown me yesterday, and the map the police officers had drawn of the route Keira ran every morning. There was a small forest on the property, with roads just big enough to run on or ride a bike, and paths creeping up and down small hills. According to her testimony, Keira ran that course three times a week.

  Now I could only hope today was one of her running days. Or that stumbling upon a corpse hadn’t deterred her from jogging alone in the morning.