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| Quote:  No, I didn't! | Here you go -
Quote:
No matter how carefully I patted the chopped apples in place, the top crust of my apple pie always looked like I tried to bury a dismembered body under it. My pies turned out ugly but they tasted good. This particular pie was rapidly losing the last of its heat.
I surveyed the spread in my kitchen. Venison steaks, marinated in beer, lightly seasoned, sitting in a pan ready to be popped into the oven. I’d saved them for last – they wouldn’t take but ten minutes under the broiler. Homemade rolls, now cold. I had to bake them, because they rose too many times. Corn on the cob, also cold. Baked potatoes, yep, very cold. I’d added some sautéed mushrooms and a salad, just in case what I had wasn’t enough. The butter on the mushrooms was doing its best to congeal into a solid state. At least the salad was supposed to be cold.
I plucked a creased note from the table. Eight weeks ago, Curran, the Beast Lord of Atlanta, the lord and master of over fifteen hundred shapeshifters, and my personal psycho sat in the kitchen of my apartment in Atlanta and wrote out a menu on this piece of paper. I’d lost a bet to him, and according to the terms, I owed him one naked dinner. He’d added a disclaimer to the menu, explaining that he’d settle for bra and panties, since he wasn’t a complete beast, an assertion very open to debate.
He’d set a date, November 15th, which was today. I knew this because I had checked the calendar three times now. I called him that evening and set the place. my house near Savannah, and the time, five p.m. It was eight thirty now.
Food – check. My most flattering set of bra and panties – check. Makeup – check. Curran – blank. I drew my finger along the nacre blade of my saber, feeling the cold metal under my skin. Where was his Majesty, exactly?
Did he get cold feet? Mr. “You’ll sleep with me and say please before and thank you after?”
He chased a flying palace through an enchanted jungle and carved his way through dozens of rakshasa demons to save me. He pretty much told me he loved me. Dinner was a huge deal to shapeshifters. They never took food for granted, but making a dinner to someone you were romantically interested in took a simple meal to a whole new level. It was a pledge to take care of that person. Curran had fed me soup once, when I was half-dead, and the fact that I had eaten it, even without knowing what it meant, amused him to no end.
Something must’ve held him up.
I picked up the phone. Then again, he enjoyed screwing with me. I wouldn’t put it past him to hide out outside in the bushes, watching me squirm. Curran treated women like wonderful toys: he wined them, dined them, took care of their problems, and once they grew completely dependent on him, he became bored. Maybe whatever I perceived to be between us happened only in my head. He realized he won and lost interest. Calling him would only give him an opportunity to gloat.
I hung up the phone and looked at my pie some more.
If you opened a dictionary and looked up control freak, you’d find Curran’s picture. He ruled with steel claws and when he said, “Jump”, there was hell to pay if you didn’t start hopping. Curran and I mixed like oil and water. He infuriated me and I drove him out of his skin. Even if he wasn’t truly interested, he wouldn’t miss a chance to see me serve him dinner in my underwear. His ego was too big. Something happened.
Eight forty four. Curran served as the Pack’s first and last line of defense. Any hint of a significant threat and he’d be out there, roaring and ripping bodies in a half. He could be hurt.
The thought stopped me cold. It would take a bloody army to take Curran down. Of the fifteen hundred spree killers under his command, he was the toughest and most dangerous son of a bitch. If something did happen, it had to be bad. He would’ve called if he was delayed by something minor.
Eight forty nine.
Screw pride. I took the phone, cleared my throat, and dialed the Keep, the Pack’s stronghold on the outskirts of Atlanta. Just keep it professional. Less pathetic this way.
“You’ve reached the Pack. What is it you want?” a female voice said into the phone.
Friendly people, the shapeshifters. “This is Agent Daniels. Can I speak to Curran, please?”
“He isn’t taking calls right now. Do you want to leave a message?”
“Is he in the Keep?”
“Yes, he is.”
A heavy rock materialized in my chest and made it hard to breathe.
“Message?” the female shapeshifter prompted.
“Just tell him I called, please. As soon as possible.”
“Is this urgent?”
**** it. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Hold on.”
Silence reigned. Moments dripped by, slow, stretching thinner and thinner…
“He says he’s too busy to talk to you right now. In the future, if you have any urgent concerns, you can discuss them over with Jim, our security chief. That number is-”
I heard my voice, oddly flat. “I have the number. Thanks.”
“Any time.”
I lowered the phone into the cradle very carefully. A tiny sound popped in my ears and I had the absurd idea that it was my heart forming hairline cracks.
He stood me up.
He stood me up. I cooked a huge meal. I sat by the phone for the last four hours. I put on makeup, my second time in the last year. I bought a box of condoms. Just in case.
I love you, Kate. I’ll always come for you, Kate.
You son of a bitch. Didn’t even have the balls to speak to me.
I surged off the chair. If he was going to dump me after all that ****, I’d force him to do it in person.
It took me less than thirty seconds to get dressed and load my wrist bracers with silver needles. My saber, Slayer, had enough silver in it to hurt even Curran and right now I very much wanted to hurt him. I stalked through the house, looking for my boots in a fury-steeped daze, found them in the bathroom of all places, and sat down on the floor to put them on. I pulled the left boot on, tapped my heel into place, and stopped.
Suppose I did get to the Keep. And then what? First, if he decided he didn’t want to see me, I’d have to cut my way through his people to get to him. No matter how much it hurt, I couldn’t do that. Curran knew me well enough to recognize that and use it against me. A vision of me sitting in the lobby of the Keep for hours popped into my head. Hell no.
If the ******* did condescend to make an appearance, what would I say? How dare you dump me before the relationship even started? I’ve travelled six hours to tell you how much I hate you because you meant that much to me? He’d laugh in my face, and then I’d slice him to ribbons and then he’d break my neck.
I forced myself to grope for reason in the fog of my rage. I worked for the Order of Merciful Aid, which together with Paranormal Activity Divison, or PAD, and Military Supernatural Defense Unit formed the law enforcement defense against the magical hazmat. I wasn’t a knight, but I was a representative of the Order. Worse, I was the only representative of the Order with Friend of the Pack status, meaning when I attempted to muscle my way into Pack-related issues, they didn’t tear me apart right away. Any issues the Pack had with the law usually found their way to me.
The shapeshifters broke into two categories: Free Men of the Code, who maintained strict control over Lyc-V, the virus raging in their bodies, and loups, who surrendered to it. Loups murdered indiscriminately, bouncing from atrocity to atrocity until someone did the world a favor and murdered their cannibalistic asses. The Atlanta PAD viewed each shapeshifter as loup-in-waiting and the Pack responded by ratcheting their paranoia and mistrust of outsiders to new and dizzying heights. Their position with the authorities was precarious at best, saved from open hostility by their record of cooperating with the Order. If Curran and I got into it, our fight wouldn’t be seen as a conflict between two individuals, but as Beast Lord’s assault on an Order’s representative. Nobody would believe that I was dumb enough to start it.
The shapeshifter standing would plummet. I had only a few friends, but most of them grew fur and claws. I’d make their lives hell to soothe my hurt. And I might not even get a chance to do that.
For once in my life, I had to do the responsible thing.
I threw the other boot across the room. It thudded into the wooden panel in the hallway.
For years first my father, then my guardian, Greg, warned me to stay away from human relationships. Friends and lovers only brought you trouble. My existence had a purpose and that purpose and my blood left no room for anything else. I ignored the warnings of two dead men. It was time to suck it up and pay for it.
I’d believed him. He was supposed to be different, to be more. He made me hope for things I didn’t think I’d ever get. When hope broke, it hurt. Mine was a very big, very desperate hope and it hurt like a sonovabitch.
Magic flooded the world in a silent wave. The electric lamps blinked and died a quiet death, giving way to the blue radiance of fey lanterns on my walls. The enchanted air in twisted glass tubes luminesced brighter and brighter, until eerie blue light filled the entire house. They called it post-Shift resonance: magic came in waves, negating the technology, and vanished as abruptly and unpredictably as it appeared. Somewhere gasoline engines failed and guns chocked in mid-bullet. The defensive spells around my house surged up, forming a dome and hammering home the point: I needed protection and I had neglected it.
I forced myself off the floor. I’d lived guarding myself against human interaction before. I’d do it again. I could shut myself off, until it stopped hurting, and when I ran into Beast Lord, as my job frequently required, the only thing he’d get from me would be painfully polite courtesy. I’d rather slit my throat then let him know what his stunt cost me.
I marched into the kitchen, trashed the dinner, and strode out. I had a date with a heavy punching bag and I had no trouble imagining Curran’s face on it.
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