Feathers and Fire Series Box Set 2

by Shayne Silvers

  That was the problem with a Come to Jesus meeting like this between the local supernatural families in Kansas City—the first of its kind, I might add, thank you very much. It had taken some heavy negotiating on my part, but it all seemed to be working out. I’d petitioned enough different groups to chip in that it truly was a collective effort to bring everyone together. Much better than having one party set it all up—which would have resulted in everyone else acting standoffish and suspicious of a trap all night. Because there were a lot of new faces in town. Maybe even a lot of old faces that had spent their many years working in the shadows and preferred to remain unknown.

  And admitting that you didn’t know who someone was could be the equivalent of opening a vein to weaken yourself before a potential enemy. Your ignorance seen as a weakness to be exploited.

  Or it could be seen as disrespectful—immediate grounds for a coincidental violent crime to be inflicted upon your person on your way home after the party.

  Couldn’t have that, now, could we?

  The entire point of the evening was to get to know each other, and since everyone had unanimously voted no on wearing name badges, it was a pond full of Great White Sharks.

  Which led me to wonder. Was my new friend a potential enemy, an ally, or a third party just hoping to survive the tension between the various other families?

  Because there was definitely tension, and I had caused a big portion of it. By now, most had heard of my activities in recent months—taking out a couple Demons and, allegedly, an Angel. The Demons had been subtly angling the families against each other to start a civil war of some kind. Or to unite the families against an enemy that the Demons had never specifically mentioned. I was personally of the opinion that any enemy of a Demon was probably a good drinking buddy to have.

  The Angel I had taken out had made poor life decisions and had Fallen from Grace as a result. Fallen right onto my thumb, as a matter of fact. But I didn’t want to draw attention to that, so kept the ring of shadows circling my thumb out of view as discreetly as I could. No one wanted to talk to the girl with a Fallen Angel wrapped around her finger. She was probably super creepy.

  But since no one really knew what had been false, true, or anywhere in between, no one really knew where they stood with their neighboring families. Had the werewolves really done that thing that made the vampires so furious? Did the bears really hate the Vatican Shepherds? Were the witches really friends with the Faerie Chancery? Is that why they weren’t attending tonight? To hide their backroom allegiances with the witches? Or was it the wolves?

  Essentially, this was prom night for the monsters. And the kids were a’gossiping.

  With a sigh, I smiled at my new friend. “My name is Callie,” I told her.

  “Oh, how precious. Everyone knows who you are,” the woman said with a smile. “I like women who take a stand against our hairier, self-proclaimed overlords. The world could do with a mother to keep these children in line. You wear the mantle well.”

  I found myself smiling at her gibe at men, but also because it equally applied to monsters and Demons. Equal opportunity discrimination in action. I didn’t entirely agree on the black and white comment, but I understood what she meant. I didn’t think men needed to be in charge of everything. I didn’t think women needed to be in charge of everything. As in all things, balance was necessary. It had nothing to do with what biological toolkit one was given at birth, but with what that person did with their tool.

  Considering how that sounded, I let out a sigh, accepting my depravity with grace.

  “Oh, my name is Cleo,” she said, blushing slightly.

  I smiled, but my heart might have fluttered a little. Cleo as in…Cleopatra? Or was that just some kind of coincidence? However, asking such a question could make me look either disrespectful, if she was Cleopatra, or childish, if she wasn’t. “Nice to meet you, Cleo,” I said, lifting my glass in cheers. “Let’s go find the center of the moral depravity.” I turned my back on her, wondering if this fit into my plan for the evening, or if it would hinder it.

  “I thought you were introducing me to Dorian?” Cleo asked from behind me.

  And that right there hinted pretty strongly that she did not know Dorian Gray.

  Unless…she was playing games, feigning ignorance. I really needed to drink more. Otherwise I would soon begin avoiding people altogether to become some crazy cat lady. Severe inebriation sounded much more pleasurable as a lifestyle choice. Cats were assholes.

  Speaking of…

  “Have you ever visited the Great Sphinx?” I asked Cleo over my shoulder. I had recently met Phix, the actual Sphinx, and she had taken a shining to me—self-admittedly adopting me as her plaything. Spending more than ten minutes with her at a time left my brain feeling like swiss cheese because her every comment was cryptic, a riddle, or spoken in a tone that let you know she was leading you towards a specific conclusion or statement. That—in her mind—the conversation had already ended, and she was merely following the dance card for propriety’s sake. Thankfully, she was out on some errand for Darling and Dear—the mysteriously powerful, self-proclaimed Armorers of the Apocalypse, as they’d taken to calling themselves.

  I glanced over my shoulder to find Cleo enmeshed in a conversation with a great bear of a man who seemed to be introducing her to two other women in an overly animated manner. Cleo shot me an apologetic look from the corner of her eyes and almost imperceptibly shrugged her shoulders, as if to let me know she had been picked off and hadn’t been able to deny the man introducing her to his friends.

  I smiled in understanding. That was kind of the point of the evening—to network with our neighbors. “At least I won’t have to babysit,” I murmured under my breath as I turned away.

  “Baby, you can sit on me anytime,” a man’s seductive voice whispered in my ears.

  I rolled my eyes at the familiar voice. “Easy, Dorian. Kitty has claws.” I turned to face him and couldn’t help but appreciate the specimen of a man before me.

  Dorian was undeniably beautiful. When he entered a room, spoke in your ear, or touched you in any way whatsoever, reality seemed to shift and flicker like he was some godling arriving to take away all pain in the world and to sing that Disney song, I will show you the world…while conveniently taking off your undergarments. Gender would not save you from his silver tongue; his fetishes were multi-faceted, and his appetite was multi-sexual.

  Dorian was still smirking at my threat. “Why else would I try to seduce you? I love claws.” I sighed, shaking my head. “Tell me, why is the most beautiful woman in the room standing all alone at the very party she orchestrated?” he asked gently.

  I gave up, the compliment warming my heart. I slipped my arm through his to let him escort me across the room, which had the added benefit of preventing any interruption as we continued walking. Now that we were touching each other, I had to focus more intently, battling away the almost euphoric feeling of being in such close proximity to Dorian. But the benefit was that absolutely no one interrupted us. Sure, we received hungry looks from almost everyone we passed—one obvious couple was openly, longingly, staring at us, entirely unaware that their date was doing the exact same thing. I watched as the two snapped out of their daze to look at each other warily, only to realize they had both suffered the same wandering eye.

  Then they smiled devilishly at each other. As if seeing their partner stare at us had been some great revelation that silently opened up new avenues for fresh, late-night games. Jesus, even seeing Dorian led couples into considering inviting others into their bedrooms. He was like a plague of depravity. But I had to admit…he did it with style.

  He was immortal but looked to be thirty-something. His steel gray eyes were intense and, as usual, his shoulder-length light brown hair was meticulously styled. He wore red loafers, a sleek white suit with faint silver pinstripes, and his black dress shirt was open to reveal his muscular chest. He wore a flashy, diamond-encrusted medallion neckpiec
e like a rap icon that said Lie’ve Portrait. I rolled my eyes at the clever double entendre—that his beauty was a lie, and that he really was a walking, living portrait.

  Because Dorian Gray only remained so beautiful because every sinful act he committed had zero effect on his physical body—any harm transferring instead to a portrait of himself that was locked away in a secret vault that he’d recently relocated thanks to my prying eyes. I’d found it and extorted his assistance by holding a butane torch to it.

  We’d been friends ever since.

  “You look delectable this evening,” he said in a low, meaningful murmur.

  I blushed, hurriedly and clumsily reaching into my clutch purse to pull out a compact mirror to check my makeup as I finally picked up on the accent of the French man speaking behind me. I’d been so entranced that I’d momentarily forgotten about my target tonight, but Dorian’s careful use of our prearranged codeword delectable had snapped me back into action, letting me know I was within range. I used the compact mirror to distract anyone from noticing that I was actually pressing a button on one of the two phones tucked into my purse. After a few seconds, the screen flashed with green text: Cloning complete.

  I snapped my compact mirror closed and grinned as I slipped it back inside my purse. “Thank you, Dorian,” I told him, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek and slip the phone into his inner jacket pocket. “Let’s get the party started, shall we?”

  His smirk looked wolfish as he nodded, casually buttoning up his jacket with one hand as he touched his cheek longingly with the other. Right where I had kissed him. Then, like a good lead, he guided me through the deadliest dance of the night—to mingle a little bit so as not to look suspicious. My work here was pretty much finished.

  The rest of the evening was about retribution—taking a moment to appreciate the fireworks. Maybe have another glass of rosé…

  Chapter 3

  We meandered through the crowd, nodding and smiling at those we passed. I saw Starlight representing the local shifter bears. They had chosen to send their smallest, cutest, most mysterious—and possibly the most dangerous—member of their Cave. Starlight was perpetually in bear form, about the size of an adolescent black bear but with gray fur tinging his muzzle, proving that he was no young cub.

  He’d once told me that he had been a wizard in his younger days and had purposely chosen to become a shifter bear. He’d also chosen to live in that form, not bothering with a human form.

  He smiled widely at my approach, leaning closer to place a paw on my shoulder and whisper in my ear. “Be aware of never-ending explosions.”

  I reeled back to stare at him, noticing his eyes were slightly glazed over as if he had sampled some of his notorious shifter weed—a hallucinogen. Before I could ask what the blazes he meant, a sudden commotion in the crowd pulled him into a conversation with a group of witches.

  I couldn’t risk making a scene, so promised I would corner him about it later even if I had to use a pot of honey to bribe the truth from him. The bears were friends.

  My best friend, Claire Stone, had joined their Cave—what they called their pack—and was currently at their retreat in the Alaskan wilderness, learning more about her new form. And probably spending quite a bit of time with Kenai, one of the bears she seemed to have taken a particular fancy to.

  Dorian tugged me onward, not wanting to risk getting sucked—totally unlike him, figuratively speaking—into a lengthy conversation with anyone. He still had a job to do tonight.

  We reached relative privacy and he let out a sigh of relief, turning to face me with a broad smile on his face for anyone watching us too closely. He reached out to flick my hair, smiling. “I love the dress,” he complimented me. “White suits you. And those slits down the side will still let you murder and maim if the chance presents itself.” I nodded with a grin, happy he had noticed. “I’m glad you have your long hair back. It must grow very fast…” he added in a suspicious tone.

  I shrugged, not wanting to tell him about the magic hair straightener my hacker friend, Othello, had given me in Vegas not long ago. She worked for Nate Temple—the billionaire wizard, King of St. Louis—in a company he owned that focused on fusing magic with modern technology. They’d come up with any number of amazing products, and most weren’t listed in their catalog, because they pretended to be just another tech company for the world at large.

  For all intents and purposes, Grimm Tech was a spinoff from his parents’ now-defunct company, Temple Industries. But to anyone who knew Nate or Othello…well, Christmas would very likely kick serious ass. Or he and I were going to have a long conversation.

  Because I’d recently kissed Nate Temple and, barring all the other warm and fuzzy feelings associated with that decision and its impending consequences, my kiss better have put me on the very top of his priority list.

  Or we would have a very short conversation.

  “How was Vegas?” Dorian pressed, smirking devilishly at the unbidden smile on my cheeks.

  I scowled at him, shaking my head. “Fat chance. I’m still cleaning mud out of my ears,” I growled in a cute but polite enough tone to be suitable for a party.

  He frowned disappointedly, but I wasn’t falling for his sad puppy-dog eyes.

  I’d been roped into a twenty-first birthday bash for some shifter dragon girlfriends from St. Louis, along with Othello and a new friend named Quinn MacKenna from Boston. I’d learned that she was a black magic arms dealer, and decided that we could be friends—again, thinking solely of Christmas. Quinn was one hell of a drinker, but she really excelled at brawling and cursing. It had been a night to remember. Or forget. A drunken shamble that ended in a bar fight with leprechauns had ironically resulted in only one fatality—a shifter stripper named Lucky had been ripped in half by one of their rainbows when they demanded we return the gold bar one of the birthday girls had ‘accidentally’ acquired from their vault.

  Rest in pieces, Lucky, I thought to myself.

  But Dorian had provided part of the entertainment, roping us into a mud-wrestling match while wearing his designer non-clothing—that had been perfectly sized to our frames—in one of the underground night clubs he apparently owned on the Strip. Mentioning where or how I’d obtained the hair straightener that could alter my locks in any number of ways—lengthening or shortening it—would only invite questions leading to any number of alleged felonies we had been involved in that night.

  I realized Dorian was watching me closely and, for the first time, he looked truly hesitant. My shoulders tensed instinctively, and I risked a glance over my shoulder, wondering what had startled him. But I saw nothing. I turned back to him, suddenly anxious. “What is it?”

  He let out an unsteady sigh. “I want to bring something up, but I don’t want you to kill me.”

  I nodded, encouraging him to proceed. “I won’t kill you. I’m not a monster, Dorian.”

  This didn’t seem to appease him. In fact, it made him wince. “Funny you should choose that word…” he said softly.

  I began tapping my foot, not bothering to hide my displeasure. A private argument might be even better camouflage for our night’s activities. “Out with it before I change my mind…”

  He held up a hand, stalling me. “Right. Know that I am being sincere and that I’m concerned for you. Truly,” he said, locking eyes with me meaningfully. I nodded uncertainly, almost afraid to hear him out. “It’s just…you’ve been kind of going off the books a lot lately. Like you’re just looking for fights everywhere you go. Almost like you’re lost and are searching for…a purpose?” he ventured hesitantly.

  My breath caught in my throat because…well, I had felt that way recently. I’d chosen to not ally myself with the Vatican Shepherds—the group that had spent over a decade training me how to use my magic and hunt monsters on their behalves—because when my mentor Roland had needed their support, they had turned their backs on him so swiftly that I realized they only saw two colors.

  B
lack and white.

  Even for a man who had spent his entire life working for them as a Shepherd, one of the noblest men I’d ever met…he was now only a vampire. They didn’t care that he had chosen his fate in order to protect them, to prevent a war. No. Since he’d become a vampire, he was no longer welcome.

  I hadn’t necessarily wanted to become a Shepherd anyway, but after that…yeah, as a group, they could choke on a string of rosaries. The Shepherds and the arthritic group of milk-eyed wizards—the Conclave—that commanded them. One Shepherd, a man named Fabrizio, had proven his loyalty, sticking his neck out to vouch for Roland, but it hadn’t changed anything. Well, it had proven his friendship and that he was the only Shepherd with even a shred of decency to him.

  But the rest of them…death by rosaries.

  The Conclave had rewarded Fabrizio’s progressive view on vampires by promoting him to Head Shepherd and then promptly shipping him off to Kansas City to fill the spot vacated by Roland and me, running Abundant Angel Catholic Church until a replacement could be found.

  Knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that I no longer wanted anything to do with them had left me strangely adrift. I had no other family in the magical sense. Roland was now a vampire and I couldn’t really hang out with their kind without making them fidget. Like dangling a steak in front of dogs and expecting them to ignore it. The smarter vampires knew the steak would kill them, but that didn’t help my cause either. Fact was, I didn’t belong with them.

  Same with my other friends. Dorian hung out at orgies with witches and Claire was lazing about with the shifter bears at their Alaskan nudist colony.