by Holly Gunn
Black eyes glance at Henry as though she’s crazy, then back at her friend. When her friend reaches out to touch her arm in comfort, my teeth grind together and I emit a low growl.
The man’s smile is overshadowed by Henry’s big mouth.
“Seriously, Lexie. Look what happened! He’s got a shark on his arm and a—” Henry squints then glances up at the woman she’s called Lexie. “What animal are you?”
“Animal?” Lexie asks, her voice low, still rough, and her eyes wide.
“Henry,” I warn, “we need to get Lexie settled before we have the kings and queens conversation.”
“Oh.” Henry pats Lexie on the arm and turns to the man. “Rudy, help me grab some things and give these two some alone time, huh?”
Rudy nods right away, his smile still in place as he stands to go with Henry.
“Ummm …,” my queen says, then her dark eyes land on me. “So, what’s this queen and king thing?”
I’m a little confused myself. Not because she’s my queen. She’s exactly who I’d pick for myself—at least on the outside. I can’t wait to get to know the inside, though. Inside the head of a woman who has a Trinity costume lying in the sand, makes friends with blind strangers at Comic-Con, and who says things like, “Superhero Promise.”
Lion called to ask me to check in on Henry and her new friends at the river and filled me in. I agreed. First, because I love Henry like a sister and wanted to make sure these people were safe. Second, because I needed to get them out of here. This area of the river was officially closed down by the police the night before. The attacks in the area by these unknown sharks has closed down almost every available and well-hidden swimming hole, river bend, creek, and stream in the Nashville area.
This particular bend in the river abuts my land, so to say I’m unhappy is an understatement.
The reason I’m confused is that Lexie is so confused. Also, while I have a newly formed tattoo on my arm, hers is bare. Even the birthmark Henry said she saw earlier seems to have vanished. Henry’s minimal ability to see the outline of shapes is pretty damn reliable even if for some reason she was lying about seeing it. The tattoo on my arm, however, does not lie.
“You had a birthmark on your arm.”
She glances down and sees now that her arm is bare.
“That’s not possible,” she whispers. Her wide eyes hit on mine. “I’m totally dead, aren’t I? I’m like having some super crazy post-deadness dream or something, right?”
“Sorry, nerd. No such luck.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Just because I am a nerd doesn’t mean you, a complete stranger, get to call me one.”
Her voice is sort of clipped. Like she’s afraid to say the words aloud. It gets more clipped when she’s nervous, like right now. I can’t smell much but I can smell her anxiety.
“Hey, nerd’s a compliment. Not many can pull off the Trinity-look, then fill out a one-piece to perfection. It’s hot.”
She looks down at herself then her eyes meet mine and she narrows them at me suspiciously. “I know I’m dead now. Surfer dudes who hang out in board shorts with sexy nipple piercings”—I totally grin, huge— “do not think nerds in one-pieces are hot. And if you knew me, you’d know I only pulled off, as you say, the Trinity-look because I spent forever on hair, makeup, and making that costume.”
“How long?” I ask. Is it bad that I don’t care how long? I simply want to hear that clipped, angry, slightly awkward voice tell me anything.
“Well,” she starts, “you have to get the measurements just right. I like math.” She pauses and tilts her head to the side. My first guess on her animal is going to be something canine, maybe a wolf or a coyote, though I don’t recognize the symbol entwined within my shark as anything canine. The scales actually suggest something water-based, but then why wouldn’t she shift in the water? “I also like art,” she continues babbling, “all mediums including theater, films ... Impressionist paintings are my favorite kinds of painting. It’s more learning that I like. If I can delve into something new, I’m all in like Flynn.”
I chuckle.
She watches me chuckle. I want to see recognition in those eyes when she watches me. Instead, at my laugh, she stops rambling. Her anxiety increases.
“D-did I?” Lexie blows out a breath. “Did I say something wrong?”
She moves her gaze across the way to where Henry and her friend are.
Without thinking, I say, “He’s not for you.”
Her eyes hit mine again. “Who? Rudy?”
Her face lights up and she smacks her knee. I don’t know if I know anyone who actually slaps their knee when they laugh, but Lexie, my queen does.
“Yeah, Rudy,” I answer, leaning closer. Her breath catches and I love the small gulp she makes. I affect her. This is the first good sign since our meeting, though half of our meeting, she’s been unconscious. I should probably take a deep breath and slow down. “He’s not for you. Why’s that funny?”
She brushes off her legs and slowly stands. I help her and, in the process, try to smell if she’s land-, air-, or a water-based animal from her scent. She’s none of these that I can tell. Sometimes, it sucks being a shark and unable to truly scent at the level most shifters can.
“I’m not laughing at you,” she replies quickly when she notices my face is serious. She even reaches out to pat my arm. No one does that with me. I’m a jokester, a funny man with occasional wisdom but only when I can’t keep my mouth shut. I really am as laid back, most of the time, as I appear. But this? She reaches out to me like it’s natural, as if touching me is a language she’s just realized she knew all along.
Her tiny hands run along my arms and what she says breaks my heart. “I’m sort of odd. Not just a nerd but weird. I don’t say the right things. I ask too many questions, some of them incredibly personal and intrusive. So, trust me. I’ll never laugh at what you say.”
She doesn’t know my serious face is jealousy and not me feeling like she’s making fun of me.
It hurts, physically hurts, like a knife to the gut, that she’s obviously been bullied so often by others that her go-to thought is to duck her head when someone laughs or to assume the worst in social situations.
“Rudy,” she points to the man, “he’s just a friend. My best friend. And he keeps me in check when my mouth gets out of hand.”
“You’re perfect,” I say, my voice so low and growly, I don’t know if she hears what I say.
“I’m sorry?” she asks on a whisper.
My eyes meet hers and I reach out to play with one of the ends of her long dark hair. It stops right above her breast.
“I said you’re perfect. There’s nothing wrong with you or the way you speak. You’re perfect. Just the way you are.”
Her brow lowers and her hands tighten on my arms.
When her eyes come to mine again, she steps back, taking away her touch. “Thanks, surfer dude.”
I press my lips together and nod before faking a smile and saying, “Sure thing, nerd.”
She smiles at the name this time.
“If you think my one-piece is hot, I guess the nerd thing is okay.”
I make sure to take my time, looking her up and down, letting her know the whole package is more than hot. When my blue eyes fasten on black night, her breath is non-existent.
“Breathe,” I command, and it’s like she finally realizes she’s stopped doing so. At least with that look my point has been made.
Her friend, Rudy, and Henry decide this is the moment to intrude.
“So, you got the king and queen thing worked out?” Henry asks.
She knows we don’t. She’s been eavesdropping. That chick knows more about me, Lion, Spider, Wolf, and Poison than anyone else, she’s followed us around so much.
Those are my best friends. Everyone but Poison is named so because he’s a future king of his animal tribe. As I said, there are thirty of them. Thirty tribes. Thirty kings who each have to find their queen.
This process of racing to find a queen happens every thirty years—when the king turns thirty. Kings are born with a faded tattoo signifying their animal but when it’s time for their geographic area to start the search for their queen, the tattoo goes dark. Each geographic area gets—you guessed it, thirty days. This was set up by the original kings and queens of the Shifter Tribes of the United States and the witch families. They thought using the number thirty would keep things simple. I think they wanted to have a laugh.
It starts in a specific geographic area.
First up is Nashville.
My queen is eyeing Henry but her gaze quickly lands on me.
“What’s this king and queen bull hockey?”
I grin and step back in her space. She seems to decide to hold her ground. But from the way her eyes follow me and especially my nipple piercing, I have to wonder if it’s more. If she’s looking at something she likes. I have to hope that’s that case.
I hold out my hand.
“Surfer dude, aka Shark Irons.”
Her lips twitch at the nickname, and she reaches for my hand. There’s no sudden burning on my arm that says she’s my queen. That’s already happened. Her symbol’s been burned into skin and bone. What worries me is that a king’s tattoo becomes a couple’s tattoo, and a queen is supposed to have a tattoo that’s exactly the same as her king’s, and in exactly the same place. A marriage of sorts. Lexie doesn’t have a matching tattoo on her arm. Clearly though, she’s a shifter. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have a tattoo with a symbol behind it that belongs to her.
“I’m Lexie Leland.” Then she adds, “Aka nerd.” Her small lip-twitch turns into a brilliant smile. “Good to meet you, Shark Irons, although that’s the strangest name I’ve ever heard.” Her laugh sounds across the small bay—followed by a snort that’s so damn cute. “Surfer dude named Shark. I feel like I’ve stepped into a Disney movie.”
I smile in return. “It’s because of who I am. You know how it is.”
Her head tilts again in that canine way, but again, she doesn’t smell of coyote and her symbol isn’t a wolf paw. All wolf shifters, even those who aren’t king, have a wolf paw tattoo on them since birth. It keeps them separate from the weres who are wolves—but different than the shifters as a whole. Also, I might have a terrible sense of smell but I’d know the smell of wolf.
“Because of who you are?” she asks.
This is strange. She should get the reference to animal first names. To the significance of the tattoo on my arm. She should also have said something about her own symbol forming and melding with my tattoo.
There are a lot of shoulds here but very little understanding.
“Because he’s the king of the Shark tribe, and you’re his queen,” Henry says as though she’s saying, “duh”, something she used to do often when she was thirteen. It drove Lion crazy. The rest of us loved that it drove Lion crazy.
Lexie’s still holding my hand. I haven’t moved it, I don’t want her to pull back when she realizes we’ve been touching more than is socially appropriate. At Henry’s words, she drops my hand like a hot potato and takes a step back, over a rock, but she manages to right herself.
I naturally reach out but she holds up her hand.
“I don’t understand. The Shark tribe? Are you Native American?” She shakes her head. “And me, queen?”
“Um, yes?” My statement is a question. What the hell is going on? “I’m a shark shifter. It’s not Native American. It’s one of the thirty shifter tribes in the U.S. This tattoo on my arm has been there since birth. It was faded but about a week and a half ago, it went dark and became a ticking time bomb. We have thirty days to find our queens. When I pulled you from the river, I touched you.” I rub the back of my neck then move my hand to my face, running it along my jaw before drawing in a deep breath. “Normally a queen has to touch her king, willingly, for the new tattoo to form.” I show her the shark tattoo with her own symbol as the backdrop. “But your symbol’s on me, and I’ve got a full blown tattoo. So, while I not only think you look hot in a one-piece, we’re also meant to be together.”
She still doesn’t look convinced.
“You’re my queen.”
LEXIE
I’m quiet for a moment. Digesting the monumental information overload, not to mention the epic colluding that had to occur for Rudy to pull this off.
Then the laughter bubbles up from inside me, so deep, so right, I let the laugh go in a way that Rudy would normally try to hush me about. I’ve been picked on for my laugh-slash-snort. I never cared but Rudy always has. He doesn’t want me hurt. Only, Shark’s—if that’s his real name—earlier comment that I’m perfect, really has struck a chord with me.
He doesn’t actually believe I’m perfect. I can see the truth now. But for a small space of time, I believed his words. It feels better to believe that I’m perfect, than to believe I’m too strange for this world.
I’m laughing (and snorting) so hard, there are tear tracks forming down my cheeks. I swipe at them and make my way to my best friend. I get my arms wrapped around his middle and look up at him. “Good one, Rudy.” I use my arms to wipe my face clean and giggle. “That was really good. It’s not a galactic spaceman come to Earth to tell me my destiny is to save the universe, but this setup was awesome.” I turn to Henry. “Were you in on it too? Because seriously, best prank ever. You totally had me believing surfer dude over there thought I was hot. For a second, I even believed he was telling the whole truth.” I put my thumb and index finger close together. “But just a little bit.”
I realize Henry’s face is locked on horror. Oddly, she also appears to be sniffing the air. But what she’s not doing is laughing. When I glance up at Rudy, he’s also not laughing. But he is smiling. I smile back and giggle-snort again.
Then I turn to surfer dude and hold out my hand. “My name really is Lexie Leland. Although I’m not hot in a one-piece because no one is, but I am a nerd.”
He takes my hand and before he can share his real name, I feel a burning along my skin. I’m holding onto Rudy, one arm around his waist, and the other hand is touching the hot guy with the bleach-blond hair that’s spiked to high heaven. He has a light tan, bright-blue eyes, the color of sun on the sea, and one of those chins fantasy writers talk about that usually accompany a douchebag reveal. This guy doesn’t feel like a douchebag.
In fact, right now, he feels like the only thing keeping me from burning up.
I’m no longer attached to Rudy’s waist.
I’m on the ground, curled into myself, as the most unimaginable pain in the world bursts like burning starlight across every inch of my DNA.
But surfer dude is there, his voice like soothing ocean water, his hands on my skin like a fresh river cooling all the places where a fire is trying to consume me.
The rushing tide of his presence follows the fire until only one place is left burning. My arm. When I’m able to open my eyes, I see a matching tattoo to the one the man who called himself Shark has.
A shark with a sort of banner behind it. The banner is bright blue behind the black of the shark. I shudder at the sight of it.
I know that symbol. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it. But I recognize it. And it’s a symbol I’ve only ever seen in nightmares.
My eyes meet the cool blue ocean of the man holding me in his arms. My lips tremble. My mind blanks on the nightmarish symbol that’s now embedded in my skin behind a large shark.
Tears hit my eyes, not only because I’m relieved the pain has stopped but because the symbol on my arm has haunted me for a long time.
My body has been through too much. So, while I feel his thumb glide along my cheek and erase my pain, my body knows it's had enough.
What happens next is not cool in the least. It’s not even hip and nerdy. It’s very anti-superhero, in fact. But I can’t lie. I totally faint. Like a man who’s dramatizing his cold, I fold. And when I do, I fall into the arms of a surfer dude who says
he’s my king, and with a fresh new tattoo on my arm, he might be telling the truth.
My mouth forms the words before I fall into oblivion—because, apparently, even when I’m fainting, I’m a chatterbox.
“Hot surfer dude beats Deadpool, but only just.”
I wake up in a strange living room. The walls are white washed with dark-blue accents and mementos of lakes, rivers, and the sea litter every available space.
The couches are threadbare and cream colored but something about them makes me think the cream is the result of years of accumulated dirt on white. It’s still comfy looking. And comfy-feeling, I realize as I note that I’m lying on one of the matching couches.
“Sleeping beauty’s up,” a male’s deep voice says.
“Sleeping beauty was a princess who didn’t know not to touch a damn spindle, she was warned not to touch.” A woman points to me. “Does she look like a shit-for-brains princess to you, Jayden Irons?”
“Mom,” someone chides. This voice is also male. It’s the voice of lazy rivers and smooth tides, of water rushing against stone and carving out something new, something timeless. “I don’t think she cares either way. But I’m going to defend Disney and say that Sleeping Beauty rocked. She and her aunts made a life in a cottage in the middle of nowhere, in a time when women didn’t take care of themselves. They were self-sufficient. When her prince came along she had to touch the spindle, the fates would not be denied for either of them. She had to go through the hard stuff in order to become the woman she was destined to be.”
I like the way he says this, even groggy and waking up in this strange place, I like the man’s words. Mainly because they’re sort of nerdy. But they’re also perceptive. It also seems that this is not the first time they’ve had this conversation. I don’t know why I think that. It’s an incredibly odd conversation, but then again, I’m odd. So, my first fully-formed and coherent thought upon waking is, Good, more of my people.