Secret Worlds (236 page)

As CeCe climbs into a yellow Volkswagen beetle, Vuur puts the Jeep in reverse.

“Yeah, how ’bout I find some patience when you unclench your ass and grow a pair.”

There’s a snappy richness in Jane’s voice and a hefty portion of colorful personality in her exaggerated hand gestures and facial expressions. I concentrate on memorizing them.

Vuur eases out of the parking space and inches toward a yellow Volkswagen.

“You used the word ass inaccurately during your tirade in an ignoble attempt to debase me. It was not effective.”

The dragon effortlessly guides the jeep over a small speed-bump and bounces out onto South Michigan, the street directly across from the Ferris campus.

“Son-of-a-bitch, ya wanna put somebody down ya should at least talk English so’s they get it, ya know?”

“Only if one’s sole purpose is not to amuse one’s self,” Vuur says, following the yellow VW down the same street Dick had taken earlier today.

“Yeah, I get it. Bet it’s like jacking’ off. Ain’t as rewarding’ is it, sweetheart?”

“You are the most wretched—”

“Stop the car!” I shout.

“I don’t think that’s—” the dragon tries.

“Now!” I grab the dash with both hands.

Vuur jams the brakes, swerves to the curb, throws the jeep in park, and glares at me.

“That car, the black one parked down there—” I point at the sedan a block-and-a-half away. “—was in the parking lot at Ferris in front of the coffee shop this morning and the guy driving it is following CeCe … or the girl that was with her.”

Although gobsmacked, I’m totally positive Dick’s about to make some sort of a move right now. A brief wish passes that the other girl is already home—that Dick has followed her, not CeCe.

“And you know this how?” Vuur asks with a good share of sarcasm.

As I watch CeCe’s yellow Volkswagen pull into a driveway on the opposite side of the street a few houses past the sedan, I take a deep breath and check my next words.

“Because the guy inside, the one wearing the black suite … he tried to kill Jane in an Orlando Motel room before we met you,” I say through an inappropriate smile on my lips. I’ve managed not to lie or give away my identity, but Jane’s skin feels like a cold blanket as I finish with, “That, and he took a picture of the girls as they came out of the coffee shop.”

“And you’ve waited until this moment to enlighten me?”

“I wasn’t one-hundred percent sure until now,” I tell him, and before Vuur can comment, Jane pulls the Smith & Wesson out of her hip-boot and points it at the dragon. “You wanna take one for the team?” She waves the gun at the sedan. “Or should I shoot in that direction?”

Vuur starts to speak, but the driver’s side of the black car opens and the only thing that moves is Jane’s arm as she lowers the 9mm to our lap.

The guy in the suit steps out, studies the quiet street—we duck as his gaze rolls over the jeep—and then we watch him cross to the other side. On the sidewalk, he moves at a nonchalant pace up South Michigan toward the driveway CeCe had pulled into.

Vuur turns the key and coaxes the jeep to life. We coast down the street, right past Dick, and past the white house trimmed in purple. The yellow VW is parked in an otherwise vacant driveway.

“What the fuck?” Jane blurts and turns around in the passenger seat, neck craning to see her attacker. “You freakin’ drove right by!”

I’m very pleased the windows are up and the heater is humming.

“I am a paid assassin, a rogue hunter, the man hired to capture his mark, remember? And I am very good at what I do,” the dragon says, stoic, eyes jumping from side mirror to rearview mirror, and probably taking in the whole street, slime ball man included, as the jeep coasts up to a stop sign by a two story red brick building with a library sign out front. “Now, I suggest you sit quietly and let me do my job.” Vuur’s voice is deep, threatening, and confidant. “I will not tolerate otherworld creatures popping from storm drains should your … charming side go on a rant. Do I need to cuff you to the steering wheel, or have I made myself clear?”

“Clear as plastic wrap over moldy leftovers.” Jane slowly holsters the weapon inside her left boot right next to our calf.

“Splendid,” Vuur drawls, as the jeep hesitates at the stop sign.

He slowly turns on his left signal while we all covertly watch Dick check his surroundings again and then dart along the driveway on the other side of a neighbor’s dense hedge.

Vuur makes a right around the next corner of the block at five miles-per-hour over the speed limit, and mid-block, comes to a neck-jerking stop one street over, parallel to the white and purple house.

This neighborhood is one we’ve scouted to no avail since we’ve been here, but we did learn it is relatively quiet during day, because most of the housing are rentals to accommodate students at Ferris. The streets were packed with parked cars in the evening. Light peeked around makeshift curtains hung in windows; some bore school colors, others, sorority symbols. But I remember the purple house, because a small window on one side has a Hello Kitty curtain.

Although the homes are outwardly well kept and newly painted, with groomed yards, I imagine by the end of the year they will be well worn.

My thoughts go back to the guy in the dark suit driving the black car, Dick, and the fact that he’d probably done the same sleuthing, and I wonder why we hadn’t run into him sooner.

Vuur leaps from the car and pulls open the hatchback.

As he rifles through something, he says, “You will stay in the jeep until I return.” There is a pop—metal against metal—and I realize he’s loading a weapon as he continues. “I do not need to tell you my intentions, but I will appease you by saying I plan to observe the situation from that massive tree behind the house over there. Should I feel our intruder is a threat to … the bait, I will intercede. If you move from this location, I will consider
you
an intrusion and treat you accordingly.”

I turn in the direction of the massive oak tree he’d pointed to. From a block over, I can still see it high above the houses.

Vuur closes the back of the Jeep and comes around to the passenger side. He opens the door and hands me what looks like an old fashioned walkie-talkie.

“I will turn mine on if you promise not speak at me through that one. Click the black button on the side should you need to alert me.” His eyes narrow. “You may only alert me for two reasons: If another human is passing, click twice. If the wendigo shows up, click three times. Do you both understand?”

I nod, and Jane is uncharacteristically quiet.

“I will not tolerate insubordination. This is not a game.”

After pulling a zip-up navy-blue hoodie over his shirt, he pats something in the back of his jeans and something in the side front pocket, slams my door, and jogs toward the yard of a house adjacent to the street Dick was on.

I take a deep breath and can feel Jane’s fear-driven frustration, coupled with a controlling desire to follow. I know this will be my strongest attempt to suppress the emotions of the woman I wear, yet I find myself siding with her instead. I slide over the console and into the driver’s seat, crank the engine, and complete the circle of the block that Vuur did not finish.

Parking the car several houses down from where CeCe is boarding, we watch in anxious silence.

Five long minutes later, while I’m barely able to contain myself or my host, a figure rounds the end of CeCe’s block and walks toward us. We watch him and suck up another two minutes of anxiety-laden frustration before a tingle of fear wiggles up my spine. I realize it’s Gaire. He’s dressed in the same clothes he’d walked out of the coffee shop wearing earlier today. As he gets closer, I can see the determined set of his jaw, the tension in his eyes, and the gait of his step accelerates as he nears the white house with purple trim. Taking in short fast breaths, I grip the steering wheel with one hand and the door handle with the other. When he reaches the stairs on the front porch, I’m frozen with thoughts of Vuur lying in wait, CeCe’s life in danger, and Gaire so totally unaware of what I am and what my previous relationship with CeCe is about to do to him.

As I take the front porch steps two at a time, I tell myself to be cool. This is perfect timing. It’s late midday, and there’s probably no one around.

While the neighborhood naps, I hear a crow bar and, as if in shameful apology, a mourning dove coos. The smell of crisp air carries fall on its back, and makes me take a deep breath.

There’s a big, obnoxious knocker in the center of the door. Before I close my fingers around the brass bulldog’s grinning face, I notice someone has painted its lolling tongue fingernail-polish pink, and its bulging eyes baby-blue, and topped them with black arched eyebrows.

Grinning, I palm the snout and lift the knocker. A girly scream right out of a class B horror flick comes from inside the house. I shoulder the door and burst into what looks like the common-room—small-screen television balanced on a prefab, generic-colored wood-grain table, three recliners and a lumpy couch of assorted color and pattern. The crisp air outside is quickly swamped by the aroma of last night’s pizza, the box is open and empty on the floor, and a plethora of girly smells: perfumes, powders, deodorants, shampoos, body lotions, and the acrid smell of nail polish remover. I take all this in with my first breath.

A threadbare rug covers the middle of a worn pine floor. CeCe is flat on her back, arms flailing, feet desperately sliding on the oak at the edge of the carpet in an attempt to gain purchase. A strong hand is wrapped around her throat, and the dark-haired man dressed in a black suit looming over is trying to stuff CeCe’s mouth with what looks like her own tee shirt. Her screams are muffled. Her frantic eyes search the room and lock on mine, as the man unbuckles his belt, hips grinding between CeCe’s thighs. I’m on him before he can react to my interruption.

In my peripheral vision, another man in a navy-blue hoodie and jeans is midair. He lands on my back. As the three of us scramble on the floor, CeCe wiggles out from under—her eyes do not register the familiarity mine probably do. Grabbing discarded shorts, she bolts through a small dining room, knocking over a plastic lawn chair on her way into a kitchen.

I try to buck the guy on my back off. He pushes a Rondel dagger through my right hand and effectively nails me to the wood floor. I immediately know he’s an assassin paid by my family, but not because the weapon dates him; he smells Down Under.

To pull the dagger from my hand, I have to let go of the guy in the dark suit that was raping CeCe. My free hand is still squeezing his throat. I foolishly give in to my rage and tighten my grip and, in doing so, give the assassin a heartbeat to put a pistol to my temple.

Before I can calculate my next move, the assassin grunts, expels air from his lungs, and is torn from my back. The gun skids across the wood floor in one direction, and the assassin is skidding in the opposite direction with a sexy blonde chick attached to his back. Long red fingernails dig into his eyes, and a line of trashy dispute rolls off her red lips. She’s wearing thigh-high boots and they tighten around his midsection. He effortlessly drags the woman off and tosses her across the room, using strength only an otherworld creature would possess. She bounces off the wall behind the couch and, spewing blaspheme, falls onto a makeshift coffee table behind my head, wood chips flying in all directions.

He scrambles for the gun. The busty chick rolls off the table, lands on both feet, and glares at the guy under me for a heartbeat. She yanks the knife pinning me to the floor out of my hand and drops it by my knee. Her eyes scanning the room, the woman leaps over the assassin, kicks the gun farther away, and heads out of the room in the same direction CeCe left.

I’m breathless. The whole thing took seconds. As I watch the wound in my hand begin to close and listen to the assassin growl obscenities, I have about two seconds to wish for another chance encounter with the woman who just put me back into the game. Then I smell him, the human under me, urine darkening his pants, and the sweat of fear coating his body. I let go of his throat. His body stiffens. My eyes are still on the guy slithering closer to the weapon the blonde chick had kicked away.

Scales are forming on the assassin’s cheeks, and the skin on his hands rolls over cracking and relocating bones underneath—a shifter. He sees me changing too.

He’s a dragon; a forked tongue escapes with a hiss. Calm rolls over me as I completely give in to the wendigo trying to emerge.

We face off. Pain registers in his eyes. Bones distort skin, groans ride pheromones, and everything seasons the air with the upcoming battle. The man that was attempting to rape CeCe is all eyes as he scrambles across the room and through the broken front door.

Feeling the emerged wendigo’s rage fill my body, I strut on two hind legs, angel hair billowing behind like white fire. My skeletal body is all bone and muscle. Long sharp claws project from my hands and feet.

I catch my reflection on the shadowed glass of a framed picture: a wolf-like face and protruding jaw. My eyes look manic. My teeth don’t quite fit into my mouth and drip the musky smelling saliva that slowly and painfully renders my victim a slow death—it burns small holes on the wood flooring around my feet. I’m eager for blood as I slowly turn and head for the shifter still roiling on the floor with the change.

He grabs the pistol, blows smoke from his nostrils, and gets off a round that misses its mark by less than an inch. I howl as the bullet soars through my chest, past my heart, and rips an exit on the back of my shoulder, skin spraying blood. The heady scent coats my nostrils.

Panting the pain away, I spring through the air and latch onto the partially formed dragon. I know the hole in my shoulder has already begun to heal. Bones burst through the assassin’s hand, transforming it into a dragon paw. The rest of his body balloons outward, and black scales the size of a human hand begin to form. Red eyes grow in widening sockets, and an elongated maw sprouts teeth as long as my arm. I sink my teeth deeper, mouth salivating the poisonous juices that should make the seconds it takes to kill him seem like a lifetime for both of us, as he shakes me like a small house pet hanging from his neck.