Shifters of Grrr 2 (32 page)

I slumped down on our couch, my fingers tugging at the loose stitching holding the overstuff cushions together. I could call the couch 'vintage', but that would be overly generous. It was simply old, pilfered from the side of the road as a resident on Roundoak Drive cleared out their junk, it now hosted a collection of mysterious stains left over from wine and cheese evenings that had gone on until the early hours, and tufts of stuffing falling out where Miss. Havisham used it as a scratching post.

In the kitchen, Kylie pulled a bottle of white wine from the fridge and poured two glasses. She set mine down in front of me, and next to it placed a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream, with two large spoons. My stomach growled. I'd spent so long collecting the paintings I hadn't eaten any dinner. I pulled the top off the tub and scooped a large spoonful into my mouth.

"So," Kylie slumped down in the chair opposite and dug in with her own spoon. Miss. Havisham jumped up on her lap and gave her wine glass an experimental bat. "Talk. What happened today? Why am I helping you stash priceless paintings in your closet? Did you finally get tired of working for that asshole Matthew Callahan and decide to heist the place?"

In between scoops of ice cream, I filled her in on Matthew's outburst, my visit to Raynard Hall, and my meeting with the infamous Ryan Raynard. Kylie's eyes widened when I told her about Ryan's reaction to my presence.

"That's so strange." Kylie mumbled, her mouth full of ice cream. "It's almost as if he was afraid to be in the same room as you."

I shrugged. "I don't want to waste any of my energy trying to puzzle out why he acted like he did. As far as I'm concerned, the guy is a misogynist prick, and that's the end of it."

"No one else has been inside that house, Alex, not for ten years. But you got in. Maybe Mr. Ryan Raynard isn't as opposed to your presence as you think."

The memory of him walking in the room, broad shoulders held high and clothing dishevelled from the studio flashed before my eyes. I could feel my cheeks growing hot. "Don't make me choke on my own scorn, Kylie. He only let me in because my first name is James and he thought he was talking to a man, the only gender capable of understanding his artistic vision."

She wrinkled her nose. "Oh, right. That. Never mind how you got in, Alex. Ryan is a celebrity, and a mysterious and sexy one, at that. You could sell your story to a trashy tabloid for a million dollars, and you'd never have to work again. That would get him back for treating you badly."

She had a point, but I shook my head. "They'd want to make out that I slept with him or something. And there's no way I want
that
following me around."

"If he's anything as hot as you describe, it wouldn't be a bad thing," Kylie licked her lips.

"Kylie!" She smirked, then shrugged.

"He hates women." I said furiously, the flush in my face growing hotter. "All the tabloid money in the world wouldn't get me to even pretend-sleep with an arrogant prick like Ryan Raynard. Now, can we drop it?" I held out my glass for another refill.
 
"How was your day?"

"Strange," she said. Kylie was a nurse at Crookshollow General Hospital, and her work stories were often filled with vivid characters and tough, tenacious doctors I always imagined looking like George Clooney. "We have another girl in the ICU after being bitten by a fox. They think she's going to be OK, but the police were there most of the day, grilling her and her hiking partner for information. They've got some plan to trap this fox before it gets anyone else. If it's as out-of-control as they as, it could kill someone."

"Oh, yeah? Good on them. I heard about her on the radio."

"What you wouldn't have heard about is the man I've got under observation with three cracked ribs and some nasty bruising around his chest. He claims he was rammed by a deer. But deer don't do that." She wrinkled up her nose. "It's all very strange."

"Indeed." I finished my glass and reached across the table for the bottle. "Another?"

***

FOUR

After Kylie and I polished off both the tub of ice cream and the bottle of wine, I brushed my teeth, changed into an oversized t-shirt featuring the logo of my art school boyfriend's black metal band, and crawled into bed. Miss. Havisham curled up beside my feet, and soon she was snoring peacefully.
 

I, however, couldn't sleep. My thoughts kept drifting to those paintings locked in the closet. I should have called Matthew and taken them in to the museum. It was crazy of me to store them here, even for one night. What if Kylie decided she needed a midnight snack and accidentally burned the house down? What if mice ate through the wooden boxes and nibbled on the edges? What if the roof leaked during the night and soaked them through? If those paintings suffered so much as a scuff, both Matthew and Ryan Raynard would have my head, and that was not a fun prospect. I was rather attached to my head.

I'd arranged my room so the bed was pushed up against the back wall, directly underneath the window, with my easel and overflowing washing basket at the foot. I leaned over and pushed the window open, listening to the wind as it whistled through the trees, shaking the leaves and rubbing the bent oak branches up against the side of the flat. An owl hooted. I sucked in a deep breath of that fresh air. The forest always calmed me.
Everything is going to be fine. You'll take the paintings into work tomorrow, Matthew will be pleased, and Belinda will have to wipe that smirk off her face–

Outside the window, a twig snapped.

My heart pounded.
It's just a fox, or a deer. Don't worry about it.

Without thinking, my gaze fell on the locked closet door, my thoughts flying to the priceless paintings hidden inside.

Another snap. I pulled back from the window, my heart pounding. Was it a burglar? The exhibition was making headlines all over the world. It would be easy for someone to find my name in one of the articles and follow me when I left Halt. They would've seen me enter Raynard Hall and come out with the paintings. Given Ryan's reputation, these paintings would fetch a tidy sum on the black art market. There could be any number of unscrupulous characters ready to take advantage of any weakness in our security.
Why did I not think of this? Why didn't I call Matthew, like I should have?
 

Stupid. You're so stupid, Alex.
 

I forced my panic back down into my gut. I lay down on my stomach and used my elbows to pull my body closer to the window. I rested my head on the sill and leaned out, my eyes struggling to see in the dim moonlight.

Below me, in the garden, more twigs snapped. I heard a whispered voice.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Leaves crunched, and the branches beneath the window swayed as a black shadow darted across the garden. Someone was climbing up the oak tree against the back of the flat, the tree that led straight to my bedroom window. It looked like an animal the way it moved, but I knew no animal that large would come this close to the house, let alone try to climb the oak tree under my window.

I rolled away from the window, accidentally kicking Miss. Havisham awake. She meowed in protest, lifted her head, sniffed the air, and raced off into the dark house. Cats are much smarter than humans.
 

Outside the window, a crow squawked ... a carrion bird signalling my doom. I needed a weapon. There were knives in the kitchen, but could I get there in time? I doubted it.
 

I know!
Kylie's boyfriend Ray was a medieval re-enactor, and he kept all his gear at our place since he didn't has room in his Mum's basement, which was where he lived (yes, Ray was a real winner). I was forever tripping over his enormous broadsword on the way to the bathroom.
 

His broadsword.
Perfect.
 

As silently as I could, I pulled myself out of the bed and crawled along the floor toward the door, thinking that they might not be able to see me moving through the window if I stayed low. I kept my bedroom door open a crack so Miss. Havisham could come and go during the night. Now I pulled back the door open wide enough so I could crawl through. It let out a mighty creak, the sound like a gunshot in my ears. I held my breath.
Please don't let them hear that.

I listened. Nothing inside the house or out. I dared to hope that maybe they'd gone. But then... in the void of darkness, I heard something downstairs... a
click,
and something metal sliding. Someone was pulling open one of the living room windows. They must have decided to abandon the tree.

My heart pounding in my chest, I crawled as silently as I could into the hallway, feeling in front of me with my hands for the bag of re-enactment gear Ray kept at the top of the stairs. My hand grasped something hard. A leather handle.
Yes!
I screamed inside my head. Never again would I give Ray a hard time about being a
Dungeons & Dragons
freak.

I heard a thud from downstairs. Any second now, the burglars could come up to the bedrooms. I fumbled with the bag, pushing aside leather gauntlets, foam swords, and an Elven cloak, before my hand clasped the hilt of a long, heavy sword. I lifted it from the bag, pulled off the leather scabbard, and held it in front of me the way I'd seen Ray do it; both hands clasped on the hilt beside my hip, with the tip pointing upward toward my invisible opponent's face. The blade was blunt – designed for re-enactment – but it would still cause a great deal of pain. I pressed my back against the wall, my eyes on the dark stairwell, while Miss. Havisham circled around my feet.

Now what? Did I wait up here for them to come up the stairs and around the corner, or did I go downstairs and make the first move? I saw a light flickering from the stairwell, and heard a glass shatter in the kitchen. A man swore. They sure weren't being subtle. If they came up here in the dark, would I be able to hit them? Or would they – with their superior breaking and entering skills – simply overpower me? Would I be better to take them by surprise downstairs, where I might have a better shot at making the door if I got into trouble?

Miss Havisham, using cat logic to discern that anyone banging around in the kitchen in the middle of the night was obviously there to bring her a second dinner, bounded down the stairs.
Right then, I guess I'm going down. Thank you, kitty.

I pressed my back against the wall and slid, inch after terrified inch, around the corner down the narrow staircase, the sword pointed across my body and the point at eye level for anyone trying to climb up. I heard cupboards being slammed, packages torn open, things being smashed against the floor.
 

And I heard something else...a low, mean growl.
What? Did they bring a dog, too?
This was just looking worse and worse.
 

I paused at the bottom of the stairs, the sword point peeking out into the front hall. I could hear footsteps in the living room, heavy breathing as someone ruffled through the couch cushions. I needed to peek around the corner and see what was happening, so I could plan my move. I sucked in a breath, and stretched my neck out, straining to see around the corner without moving from my spot.

A tall man with jet black hair that hung down to his shoulders, framing a gaunt, bony face and long hooked nose, bent over my coffee table, sifting through the empty crisp packets and trashy magazines obscuring the surface. His brow furrowed in concentration as he picked up each magazine or piece of trash and shook it, watching to see if something fell out. He tossed the empty ice cream tub into the corner in disgust. Before I could stop her, Miss Havisham raced from the stairs after it, mewling with delight.

The black-haired man looked up, and recoiled in disgust when he saw the cat streak across the floor in front of him. He backed around the other side of the sofa, closer to me, as he sought to put some distance between himself and Miss. Havisham, who was oblivious to his presence as she tried to hook the ice cream tub out from under the tea trolley with her paw. The man made a clicking noise with his throat, almost like a bird in distress.

Another man walked into the room from the kitchen, waving a raw chicken drumstick in his hand. He had sandy hair with a slight reddish tinge, and although he was shorter than his fellow felon was, he was broader across the shoulders, his athletic frame completely blocking the kitchen doorway. He wore a tight black t-shirt that showed off every curve of his toned chest. He kicked at a magazine on the ground. "Don't bother, Edgar, it's not here. Ryan wouldn't have given it to her, and if he had, she wouldn't have thrown it amongst that junk. I've watched the girl - she's not an idiot."

The black-haired man held up the cover of a
Cosmo
magazine, and punched the page. "Are you sure about that, Marcus? This is what's she's reading."

The man in the kitchen took a bite out of the chicken leg... just tore a chunk of raw chicken off with his teeth, and chewed on it, smacking his lips together loudly.
What is going on here?
 

"You're disgusting," The man named Edgar scowled.

"You're just jealous that you didn't find the freezer first," the man smirked, as he took another bite. "Shall we?" he gestured to the window.

"We haven't got what we came here for," Edgar frowned. "She'll have it in her bedroom. We should look there."

"And she could be keeping it on her person, if she's even
got
it. And how are we going to get it off her without hurting her? Ryan isn't an idiot. He won't have given it to her, not yet, anyway. Isengrim is wrong; this whole evening is a waste of our time. We've achieved what we came for. The place is a mess. She's going to know that it's important for her to stay away from him. If you want to really ensure she gets the message, we could kill the cat and write something atrocious like 'stay away from Ryan Raynard' on the wall in its blood."