CHAPTER FIVE—PART TWO

When I was little, I had night terrors. No one was sure why, exactly, or what brought them on, but they were paralyzing nightmares that left me screaming in the night. My sister, Verity, eventually got used to it, and would crawl into bed beside me and rub my arms with her small, deft hands until I calmed, until I could be roused from my sleep and assured that everything was actually all right. I could rarely remember the dreams—or, perhaps more accurately, I repressed them—but one of them was a recurring dream that I would have over and over, with slight variations each time.

I was always the same age—seven years old—and I was wearing my school uniform, a blue and red plaid skirt, a white collared shirt and a blue sweater, with white knee socks and black Mary Jane shoes. It was so vivid that I could feel the itchy wool against my wrists where the sweater came past the sleeves of a hand-me-down collared shirt that was too small on someone as lanky as me. And Verity was with me, chubby and short and sweet-faced and happy, and she had her hand in mine. We were in an open-air mall, and we had wandered into a jewelry shop. We spent our time peering intently into the glass where diamonds and gemstones sparkled beneath the shop light, dazzling us anew with every move we made. And there was a woman in the shop, tall and beautiful with curly hair the color of expensive whiskey and rich brown eyes with golden specks, like a dragonfly in amber. She was pointing to something in the case, and I was watching her move with grace and ease, like a heroine in a movie in soft focus. She would always turn to look at me, and her smile would alight on us both like she knew us and loved us, her curls bouncing with the gentle turn of her head. But in that instant a wild beast would leap over the counter and clamp its powerful jaws around the beautiful woman’s neck. I would part my lips to scream but no sound ever came out, and when I looked down at my hands, they were covered in a spatter of blood.

The woman, with her throat torn out, would drop to the floor and her eyes would turn glassy and dim, and I would realize that I was no longer holding my sister’s hand. Verity had vanished, and I tried to call out for her, but I was muted by fear. The beast—sometimes a wolf, sometimes a lion—would turn its eyes on me then, intelligent, deliberate eyes, and run its tongue over the gore on its teeth. Then it would leap at me, and I would run.

I ran and ran until my lungs burned and my limbs ached, but the beast was gaining on me, always nipping at my heels. I tried to call out to my sister, but somehow, I knew, instinctively, that the beast had already gotten her, that I was truly alone in this world. And the most frightening part of the dream was always when I stopped running, when I turned around and looked the beast in the eye, ready for it to take me.

No, sitting at my kitchen table, hugging my knees to my chest, I was staring down into the eyes of a giant, wild cat, just like I did at the end of the night terror. But this was no dream—there would be no Verity beside me, stroking my arms to bring me out of it. This was real. He was here, now, and he had made himself into a panther.

~ * ~

Viola was rooted in place, frozen in her fear and confusion. She gave her head a violent shake, hoping to clear away the vision or hallucination, but no matter how often she blinked, the cat remained. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to hyperventilate.

“This isn’t real,” she murmured, like a mantra, “this isn’t real, this isn’t real.”

To answer, the panther moved closer still, and lifted itself up onto its hind legs, bringing its big, clammy paws down on her knees. It nudged her face with its damp nose, and she let out a whimper of dismay, unsure of how to behave in the presence of a vicious predator.

But no, it wasn’t a wild beast, was it? It was Rowan. He was Rowan. She’d watched him undergo a transformation, as though his entire body were vibrating at a heightened frequency. She forced herself to breathe. “Down, kitty,” she said, trying at blasé, and failing utterly.

Rowan, for his part, exhaled sharply out of his nose by way of protest, and retreated from her, padding lightly over the linoleum kitchen flooring until he was what he thought might be a more comfortable distance from the shaken Viola.

“Can you…speak…? I mean, can you still talk, like…like normally talk? When you’re all…cat-ified?” She was beginning to shed some of her fear in favor of an overwhelming curiosity, and after a time, she let go of the grip she had on her knees, uncoiling slightly to let her feet rest on the floor.

The large, black cat gave a shake of its head, a distinctly anthropomorphic gesture.

“But you can clearly understand me still,” she continued. The cat—Rowan—nodded. Viola turned her hand palm-up and slowly lowered it down. Rowan canted his head slightly to the side before he sprang up and trotted over to her like a domesticated kitten and rubbed his head against her hand. Viola, despite her anxiety, couldn’t help but smile as she stroked his ears.

“I don’t know what you are,” she said at length, “but you are beautiful.” Rowan sat back on his haunches and sort of puffed out his chest, and perhaps she thought she saw a hint of a smile in those yellow-green eyes. The panther began to vibrate again, like paint smudged on the canvas of her vision, until the familiar figure of Rowan appeared in its stead. He was crouching down low, his hands on the floor, his head bent, breathing heavily as though the change had been quite the exertion of energy. After a moment, he uncoiled to his full height, and Viola stared up at him. He proffered a sheepish grin and raked his fingers through his hair, comfortably naked in front of her.

He turned away from her then and retreated to where his clothes lay neatly folded, and she admired the muscle and sinew beneath his pale white flesh. She could see it, now. She could see how this man was also a jungle cat.

He tugged on his boxer briefs, and barely had time to turn around before Viola was at his side, smacking him upside the head.

“Hey—Ow!” He protested, ducking away from her next attack. She glared at him, the fear and confusion, the curiosity and the rapt attention, all fading into a frenzied sort of anger.

“You motherfucker,” she spat, all pain and vitriol. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted—”

“We’re supposed to be friends,” she dealt another smack to his shoulder, and he rolled out of her reach.

“We are friends, Viola, but you have to understand—”

“All this time—all this time—I’ve been working for a goddamn shifter sect? For, for, for a bunch of goddamned panthers? And you don’t think I had a right to know that, to really know what I was getting into?” Her eyes were storm-sky blue, and she raged on.

“Yes, I do think that, but—”

“And the others? All the other people I killed for you, for your clan: Were they shifters, too? What other sorts of animals could I have come up against?”

A silence lapsed between them, and she arched her eyebrows high, urging him to respond. “Yes,” he replied at last, perhaps somewhat begrudgingly. “Yes, all right? Yes. With one or two possible exceptions, almost all of your marks have been shifters from other clans.”

“What other clans are there?” Viola crossed her arms under her breasts and fixed her gaze on him with an expression that clearly proclaimed she would brook no argument. Rowan heaved a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

“Can I at least put my clothes back on?” He asked. She hesitated for a moment, but eventually conceded with one sharp nod of her head. He relaxed somewhat and tugged on his dress pants. “Thank you.” Threading the black leather belt through the belt loops, he continued. “Well, for one, there is Clan Canis.”

“Dogs?”

“Wolves.”

She rolled her eyes and reluctantly resumed her seat. “Of course,” she remarked. “Werewolves.”

“Just so.” He slipped his arms into his white dress shirt and began to button it up. Viola absently noted how sad she would be to see him clothed but gave a sharp shake of her head to clear her mind of the thought. “Then there’s Clan Paraves.” He met her gaze with brows raised in question as to whether or not she had a guess about that one. She did not. “Birds,” he said, plainly.

“Birds?”

“Yes. They’re largely birds of prey—hawks, raptors, and the like—and they have named their clan for the Clade Paraves, which used to include dinosaurs, but they’re just fucking birds, so like…” he arched one lithe shoulder in a shrug, a smug little grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But they can get places we cannot. They can fly, which I guess is pretty cool.”

“What else?”

“Ah, let’s see…Clan Equus.”

“Horses.”

“And donkeys. Oh, and zebras.” Largely clothed, Rowan slipped into the chair opposite Viola, attempting to keep the conversation as light as possible. “Those are really the only clans with which we’ve had any dealings. There are all sorts of other clans that have large presences in different locales. The south and southwest is pretty big for water-based clans, but we don’t get many of those shifters around here. They’re mostly surfer-types. They prefer Florida, California.”

“Right,” Viola murmured. “Can you turn into anything else, or just a cat?”

“Panther,” he corrected, rather sharply she thought, and he shook his head. “And why would I want to? Panthers are baller as fuck.”

Viola smiled faintly and gave a nod of confirmation. “I suppose they are.”

“So, does this mean you aren’t still mad at me?” Rowan asked, plucking a pack of cigarettes from off the kitchen table. He wasn’t much of a smoker, but he thought, given the circumstances, that now was as good a time as any to pick it up. He fished a smoke from the pack and placed it between his lips, sparking the lighter to life and leaning in for the stick to catch flame. He inhaled, exhaled a thick plume of smoke into the air over their heads.

Viola continued to stare at him through a long stretch of silence, one pregnant with all of the unasked questions she had tumbling through her mind. “I’m not sure,” she said finally. “I’m not sure what I am.”

He peered at her, inclining his head slightly, before rising to his feet and holding out his hand. She looked at him, puzzled, but ultimately slipped her hand into his and allowed him to tug her to her feet. In one fluid motion, she was wrapped up in his arms, and he was rocking her gently back and forth, back and forth. “You’ve had quite a night,” he gently intoned.

“You can say that again.”

“But it isn’t over yet,” he said, and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “Come. I have to take you to see my father.”

~ * ~

In all the time that she had been working for Somnus Sacrae, she had never actually been taken to any sort of headquarters, or heart of operations. Rowan had always just come to her, trained her in his own space, or hers, delivered her marks directly to her, always ensuring that she was on comfortable ground. But all that was about to change.

He had given her a moment to freshen up somewhat, and she tugged on a pair of skinny jeans and knee-high boots, a black blouse and leather jacket, and she instantly felt more confident, more like herself. Her black hair she pulled out of the fancy chignon she’d sported to the gala event and secured in a side ponytail that sent curls tumbling over one slender shoulder. Rowan was still looking very smart in his tuxedo when he opened the passenger’s side door of the limousine for Viola to climb in beside him. They weren’t going to pretend anymore that she was a wealthy socialite and he her chauffeur. She was rather sad to see the charade was over, and it felt kind of odd to be riding in the front of a limo with no one in the back.

“So, where is this place?” She asked, leaning forward in her seat to scan through the radio stations.

“Not far,” Rowan said by way of explanation. In the dead of night, the city looked like any other, with empty streets and dimly glowing lamps. She couldn’t see the forest she’d so recently left behind, not from the heart of the city. She could barely see the sky, what with the skyscrapers turning the landscape into a veritable urban jungle. Eventually, Rowan pulled the limo to a stop and climbed out, leaving the keys in the car, engine running. Viola got out with him and rounded the nose of the limo, headed toward the curb, and hooked a thumb over your shoulder.

“Aren’t you gonna, like…park?” She asked.

“Someone will come get it and bring it into our garage.” Rowan rounded the corner and opened a tinted glass door for Viola, who passed through into a small vestibule. Like a bank, she thought, where the ATMs might be. The interior door was locked, but there was a little keypad next to it, and Rowan quickly entered a code. A small light on the pad went from red to a blinking green, and he opened the door for Viola again. This time when she stepped inside, she couldn’t really help but marvel.

She found herself in the lobby of a grandly appointed building, art deco in design, with indirect lighting that gave the whole place a sort of shadowy feel. The floor was black marble, the sconces a polished brass, and a set of three chandeliers boasted tier after tier of hanging prism crystals.

There were two sets of black leather couches in the lobby, and at the far end, next to the elevator bank, was a desk, behind which sat a young blond with big green eyes and a mass of wavy yellow hair, the color of freshly hewn corn. Rowan headed toward her, and Viola was close on his heels.

She smiled when she saw him approach, and her smile was a glittering thing that lit up her young face. “Good evening, Mr. Weaver,” she said, rising to her feet.

“Katherine,” he said, by way of greeting. “I’d like you to meet Viola St. James. Viola, this is Katherine.”

“A pleasure, Miss St. James,” Katherine said, the smile never fading. “Can I offer you two something to drink? Water, coffee?”

“No, thank you, Kath,” Rowan said, falling into an easy lean against the desktop. “Can you please just ring my father and let him know we’re on our way up to see him?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Weaver,” Katherine said, resuming her seat at the reception desk.

“Thanks—actually, don’t mention Viola. Just let him know I’m here, won’t you?” Rowan took Viola by the elbow and directed her toward the elevator bank before either of them had the opportunity to see Katherine bob her head in affirmation. Rowan hit the button to call for the elevator, and it wasn’t long before he and Viola stepped inside.

“Lioness,” Rowan said, breaking a small silence.

“Hm?”

“Katherine. She’s a lioness. Young, new to the clan.”

“Oh,” Viola said, bobbing her head in a nod. “Oh, I see. Katherine. Kat. Kitty, maybe?”

Rowan wrinkled his nose as though he’d whiffed something foul. “God, no. Don’t ever call her that. Ever. That’s just the worst.”

Viola let out an abrupt bark of a laugh but fell into silence just before the elevator doors parted, granting them admittance directly into one of the largest and most lavish offices Viola had ever laid eyes on. The elevator bay was separated from the office by a series of glass windows, and one door, which opened for them as soon as they stepped foot off of the elevator. The office itself was two stories, with a staircase curling around a grand piano at the center of the room. To Viola’s left was a broad, executive desk in rich, cherry wood with two armchairs were angled in front of it. To her right was a very well-appointed bar, around which were shelves filled to bursting with leatherbound books. This place screamed money, money, money.

“What’ll you have, son?” A voice called, and Rowan and Viola both tilted their heads up to watch Alec Weaver descend the staircase. He was what Viola would affectionately refer to as a silver fox, with a full head of white hair and a neatly trimmed white goatee. His eyes were emerald green, almost otherworldly in hue, and he was tall, like his son, and lean. He and Rowan shared the same aquiline nose and chiseled jaw, but Alec had rather a humorless mouth, and very few smile lines around the eyes. This was a man who was all business.

“Whiskey, neat,” came Rowan’s easy reply. “And Viola would like…What’ll you have, Vi?”

Rowan’s words stopped Alec dead in his tracks and forced him to peer down the staircase where Viola stood, somewhat dumbfounded. “Miss St. James,” he said coolly, “at last we meet.”

“Viola had rather an interesting night, Pops,” Rowan said as his father continued his descent down the staircase. “Thought you might want to hear about it in person.”

“Is that so?” Alec breezed past them and headed straight for the bar, whereupon he began to pour three whiskeys into tumbler glasses. He slid one across the bar toward Viola, and she accepted it graciously, silently.

“Doesn’t say much, does she?” Alec remarked, canting his head to the side and regarding her the way a bird of prey might regard a mouse. Or the way a cat might. Viola shivered.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sipping from her glass and relishing the feel of the whiskey as it slid down her throat, smooth like butter, burning like embers. “I’m just not entirely certain that I’m awake right now. This all seems like some kind of weird dream to me.”

Alec cast a furtive glance toward his son, and Rowan just shrugged and downed his whiskey before taking the liberty of pouring himself another.

“To what are you referring?” Alec inquired, sipping from his own glass and sliding his free hand into the pocket of his pleated slacks.

Viola hesitated, parting her lips to speak and producing only a gawking silence. Just like in the nightmare. “Go on,” Rowan urged, “tell him.”

And she did. She told him how Graham McCallum had been her mark, how she’d infiltrated the gala event at the Natural History Museum, how he’d seemed to have taken a bit of a shine to her, and how she’d gone home with him. She even revealed the bit about how she had started to like him, too. How she had made the mistake of allowing herself to be wooed, how they’d made love, and how she had settled easily into his arms. She didn’t dare look at Rowan as she recounted this part of the story, and her cheeks burned pink at the details.

“Then I came out of the bathroom,” she continued, “with the nail file, and when I went in for the kill, I guess I…missed? But in any case, he let out this great, beastly scream and before I could tell what was going on, McCallum was gone, and a great brown bear had taken his place.”

Alec narrowed his eyes at her and set his glass on the bar top as he studied her face. She could tell his eyes were shrewd, discerning. He could tell that she had left out something critical.

“What was it,” Alec asked, sidling along the bar and emerging on the other side of it, “that made you, ah, remember your mission?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it seemed like you had gotten rather cozy with Mr. McCallum, seemed like perhaps you’d changed your mind about the task at hand. Does that sound accurate?”

Viola bent her head, dropping her gaze to the floor. “I don’t know,” she answered as honestly as she could. She didn’t fancy herself someone who could be so easily distracted.

“In any case, something changed. Something happened to set you back on track. What was it?”

She wracked her brain, trying to think of what he meant, and then she remembered. Lifting her eyes, she locked her gaze on Alec’s, and spoke: “He knew who I was.” That had been it. Without her ever having told him her last name, he called her Viola St. James. “He knew my name, and I never gave it to him.”

Rowan and Alec looked pointedly at one another, before Alec gave a slow nod of his head. “I need you to go home and pack up anything of value,” he said in low, urgent tones. “I need you to be prepared to abandon entirely anything you do not bring with you when you return here. Do you understand?”

Viola blinked owlishly. “No,” she said at length, “no, I don’t understand. What is going on?”

“I’ll go with her,” Rowan said to his father, but Alec Weaver killed that notion with one look.

“I need you to gather the council,” Alec said long strides carrying him with great purpose across the expanse of the lavish office. He moved around his desk and took a seat in the leather executive chair behind it, plucking a phone up from its cradle and tucking it under his chin.

“At this hour?” Rowan was attempting to sound relaxed, but even this minor quip had strain to it.

“Yes,” Alec confirmed, entirely without humor. “Immediately.” He paused and shifted his attention to the empty space in front of him. “Katherine, prepare the guest suites, and have—” Alec glanced up at Rowan. “What ungodly hour is it, anyway? Never mind. Katherine, breakfast for, oh, fifteen. Or twenty. The council will be on its way in.” He moved as though he were going to hang up the phone but pulled it back to his ear. “And Katherine,” he said gently, “don’t forget to have a room made up for yourself. I want you to stay here for the time being. Thank you.” He hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes in a gesture that belied his stress, and his age.

“I’m sorry,” Viola timidly broke the silence, “but I honestly have no notion as to what is going on. Why the sudden commotion?”

“Because,” Alec replied, patient but weary, “if Graham McCallum knows who you are, then he knows who sent you, and why. I can’t imagine that Ursus won’t be looking toward retaliation for the offense.”

“Retaliation?”

“They’ll send someone for us,” Rowan clarified, “and for you. Someone as good as the Somnus Sacrae agents, someone we’ll never see coming.”

“Which is why we have to relocate you,” said Alec, rising to his feet and making his way back toward them at the bar, “and until we can find a more permanent solution, you’ll stay here with us.”

“This is insane,” Viola mused quietly, her exhaustion catching up with her.

“Yes, but it’s also time sensitive, so…” Alec curled his fingers around her arm and gently directed her back toward the glass doors, and the elevator bay. Rowan was sluggish in how he followed behind, watching her with tired eyes the color of freshly mined peridot. The group of them paused at the elevator bay, and Alec gripped Viola by the shoulders and peered down into her face. “Fetch anything of any value to you, but do it quickly. You won’t be returning to that apartment.”

“But my furniture…?”

“It’s just stuff,” Rowan chimed in, “we’ll get you new stuff. Better stuff.”

“Please, make haste,” Alec said when the elevator doors opened, and he ushered her inside. “And when you return, you’ll have a room made up, a safe place to sleep, and everything will seem much clearer.”

The elevator doors closed, and Viola was alone, her head swimming. Where was she? And who were these people? She would need to sleep, and soon, or she might actually go insane. But there was a certain relief to the moments she had by herself in the relative safety of the elevator cabin, and she leaned her weary head against the side of it as it brought her down to the lobby, allowing her eyes to come to a brief, but delicious, close.

She tried to recap what she knew: She was an assassin who worked for an organization of shapeshifters, and she had been systematically killing off key members of other clans. She was in an elevator, in the headquarters of Clan Felidae, and she was fairly certainly that an agent from Clan Ursus was, at this very moment, coming to kill her. She had to abandon her life and come live in a glorified office building until this all blew over. But what about her sister? Her eyes sprang open even as the doors parted to grant her admittance into the lobby, and she jogged over to Katherine’s desk. The little lioness was on the phone, speaking in hushed by hasty whispers into her phone. She glanced up when she saw Viola approach and placed her hand over the receiver.

“Can I help you with something?”

“My sister,” she said, “I need Alec—er, Mr. Weaver…I need him to make arrangements to ensure my sister is safe through…all this.”

“Verity St. James?” It wasn’t really a question so much as a seeking of confirmation, and Viola could only nod her head. “We always have eyes on her. There will be one of our agents posted nearby already.”

Some of the tension went out of Viola’s body, and she heaved a sigh of relief. She didn’t realize she’d been leaning against Katherine’s desk for support. Katherine peered sympathetically up at her, offering the faintest hint of a smile. “Viola,” she said in serene tones, “Go home, gather your things, and come back here as quickly as possible. All right?”

“Yes.”

“I have a car waiting for you outside.”