Wren and the Werebear (2 page)

“A rabbit! Come on!” his brother roared. The sound would have been unintelligible to him if he were in human form, but as a bear he translated the roar instinctively.

His brother took off at a blazing run. The cub was little more than a black ball of fuzz rolling down the hillside to the creek. Near the rock face a small brown rabbit was grazing, oblivious to the danger

“Wait! Slow down!” the grizzly cried out as his little brother went tumbling down at full speed. “Be careful!”

The admonishment was ignored. His brother charged at the small rabbit, which darted a moment too late to the left, an unlucky choice. A black paw swatted at its body as the bear cub charged, and the force of the blow sent the rabbit spinning limply across the ground.

The black bear cub rolled, scraping its claws to stop itself. It hit the rock face near the cliff and began to yelp cries of anguish.

The grizzly cub stopped ten feet away, looking down at his crying little brother.

“I hurt my leg,” the cub whined.

“Your fault,” the older brother said. “Dad always says you get too excited.”

“So?” The cub sprang to its feet, its injured leg forgotten in triumph. “I got it!”

The grizzly looked over at the rabbit. The furry body looked even smaller now that it was dead. Its belly was white, tinged with dirt and pine needles from the forest floor.

“Come on!” the black bear cub shouted. “Last one to the swimming hole is a duck fart!”

The cub ran off up the creek bed. The golden bear paused. He looked over at the dead rabbit.

Its eyes were dark, unseeing. Before, there had been something inside of it, something that sparked and moved. Now it was cold and dead forever.

“Come on!” his brother cried back at him, the voice already dim in the distance.

The grizzly cub swallowed hard and scraped a pile of leaves over the rabbit’s body. He didn’t cry, because ten year old boys don’t cry, but somehow his face was wet before he reached the swimming hole and he had to jump in quickly, before his brother could see.

Chapter Three

Washington, D.C., Present

Wren rubbed her eyes, rewinding the old news clip with her index finger as she slumped back in her desk chair. The television screen shed a dim blue light over her. Her feet were propped up on a precariously balancing pile of boxes in front of her desk, which was in turn covered with loose binders of materials and research. She let go with her finger and the scene played once again.

"—nother shifter attack today, this time a panther. Three men were killed in the neighborhood of Hale Park. The surveillance footage about to be shown is very graphic, and we advise parents to turn off the television if their children are in the room."

Wren peered intently at the TV, twisting the end of her braid around her fingers. The two shifters walked through the parking lot structure, still in human form. Even taking into account how bad the ancient TV's picture was, the shot was grainy and blurred, and Wren saw them sneaking up on the victim from behind.

The man turned around and saw the shifters. He made a gesture, and then the motion was too quick for the cameras to pick up. The shifter were human in one instant, and in the next instant they were not. The blurred and feral forms of the two beasts fell onto the victim, and Wren blinked hard as one of the creatures tore at the man's throat. Her finger pressed the rewind button and she watched again as the shifters moved slowly across the parking lot toward the man who was about to be eviscerated.

What had the creatures seen that made them fall upon the victim at that exact moment? Maybe she was overthinking it. Maybe it was just coincidence. What would Chief think about it? Wren cocked her head, staring at the screen the way she imagined he would. It had been too long since they’d talked. She would call him and ask, but nobody working for the CSE kept a phone number for very long. She sighed. She couldn’t very well talk to anyone else about how shifters work.

"Wren, jeez, stop watching those videos and unpack already," Jessica said, shoving Wren's feet off of the boxes. Wren sat up reluctantly. Jessica flipped on the room lights and Wren rubbed her eyes blearily in the sudden brightness.

"I did unpack. I unpacked my shirts." This was half true. Wren had taken out the shirt she planned to wear tomorrow.

"You've been back a day and a half and your underwear is still in your suitcase."

"Why should I unpack it if I'm just going to wear it and then put it in the laundry? Seems unnecessary."

"What are you doing tonight?" Jessica put her hands on her hips.

"Uh..."

"You're not staying home." She spoke in a voice that brooked no disagreement.

"No, I'm going out! I swear I'm going out!" Wren searched her mind for an excuse. "I'm going to...uh...karaoke."

"Uh huh. Not buying it."

"I had plans to go out with a guy. To a movie. And, uh...dinner?" Wren smiled hopefully.

"That's it. You're coming out with me to the charity cocktail thing. My date cancelled anyway, it'll be fine." Jessica shook her hair back and dared Wren to protest with her sharp glance.

"I can't. I have work," Wren protested. "And it's cold outside."

"You always have work. It's morbid, how much you work."

Wren sighed but didn't disagree.

"Get up, get into the shower. I'll pick out an outfit for you," Jessica said.

"Okay. A warm outfit. Nothing too skimpy."

Wren turned on the shower, draping her clothes carefully over the curtain rod before letting herself duck inside. The water was cold, and she rubbed her skin with the hard bar of soap quickly, rinsing off the suds. She leaned her head back under the showerhead and let the cool water run through her hair and down her back. Maybe the shifters had decided on a plan for the attack beforehand. No, that didn't make sense—

Rinsed and ready, Wren turned off the water.

Something green flew up and over the curtain rod, and Wren’s breath froze in her throat. Her reaction was instant and instinctive. One. Surroundings. She slammed her back against the shower tile and slid to the corner—Two. Weapon—grabbing the gun out of her jeans holster and—Three. Enemy. she’d already pointed the gun at the curtain before realizing what the green thing was.

"Wren? Wren, you okay?"

"Yeah," Wren said, her heard pounding hard. No enemy. She lowered the gun, her finger lifting off of the trigger. Goosebumps pricked the skin down both of her arms. "I'm fine. Thanks."

It was a dress. She'd forgotten to lock the door—she never forgot to lock the door—and Jessica had tossed her dress over the curtain rod. That was all it was.

Her hand was shaking as she flicked the safety back on her gun. She could have killed her roommate. Stupid her, forgetting to lock the door. She hated the vulnerability of showers, hated being naked. Hated being without her gun. It had been a while since the nightmares had stopped, but still she slept with the gun in the drawer hidden under her bedside table, loaded and ready should she need it.

She dried herself off quickly and strapped on her leg holster before tugging the dress over her hips. It was way too sexy, the green fabric hugging her curves tightly and stopping well below the top of her cleavage. She pulled the top up and felt a breeze across her butt. She pulled the bottom down to cover her ass and one of her boobs popped out of the top.

“This isn’t warm,” Wren called out. “And it’s too damn sexy.”

“Too damn bad,” her roommate called back. “And don’t you dare put your hair in a braid.”

Wren stopped, the braid already half done. She frowned and tossed a cardigan on to cover her shoulders. That was a little better. The snow had stopped weeks ago, but nights in D.C. were nothing to sneeze at. She ran her fingers through her hair, untangling the braid. There was no arguing with a fashion-savvy roommate over her hairstyle.

Coming into the living room, she saw Jessica leaning forward to see what was on the television. She lunged for it, but her roommate had already seen what she was watching.

"Why are you so interested in these old shifter tapes? It's morbid."

Jessica sat down, patting the side of the bed, and Wren shoved her half-unpacked suitcase aside to make room. Her roommate unzipped a large pouch, revealing an assortment of makeup brushes.

I like scary movies," Wren said, turning off the screen. "What can I say?"

"Shifters aren't scary. They're morbid."

Jessica began to dab makeup onto Wren's face. Wren scrunched her nose up and let her roommate work. The girl had been chosen carefully—she wasn't interested in politics or news, and she was an excellent screen. Wren would have preferred to live alone, but the CSE decided that this was the best cover for an assassin in retirement.

At least Jessica could do her makeup for her. And it was nice to know that somebody else was in the apartment, Wren had to admit. She felt safer with Jessica around. Well, when she wasn’t throwing dresses over the shower curtain, that is.

"Is that the word of the day?" she said, trying not to sneeze as Jessica powdered her cheeks. "Morbid?"

"Maybe."

"I seem to remember the word morbid has its root in disease – morbus." Wren put on her best professorial voice and tugged at her cardigan, so flimsy it wouldn't keep a stick warm.

"I think shifters were diseased," Jessica said. "In a way. How some of them needed to transform into animals—"

"I believe a word like petrify might be more,
ahem
, fitting," Wren said, waggling her eyebrows comically to hide the distaste she felt at even thinking about those animals.

Shifters were diseased, all right. They were a blight on society.

Jessica held up a mirror and Wren was surprised at how elegant she looked. The smoky gray makeup Jessica had applied made her green eyes blaze brightly. Her roommate tossed the mirror back down and began plucking at her brows with a set of tweezers.

"I know what petrify means," Jessica said, plucking away. "It means turn to stone. Shifters never turned anyone to stone." She brushed Wren's eyebrows—what was left of them, anyway—with something brown and shimmery.

"They turn your muscles to stone. They make you freeze." Wren turned serious. "Their stare disables you if you meet their gaze. I've heard."

Was that what had happened in the video? But no, the man had made a gesture first, before they attacked...

"Good thing they don't exist anymore," Jessica said, turning to the door. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah," Wren said, looking back behind her shoulder at the old TV screen. There was an afterimage of the shifters burned onto the screen. An optical illusion: the dark figures turned white, fuzzy and blurred. She flipped the apartment light off. "Good thing."

Chapter Four

Jessica abandoned Wren at the party as soon as they got through the door. Par for the course. Her fingers reached absentmindedly for the tip of her braid but found only a mass of dark hair. Breathing hard, she stepped into the room.

One. Check your surroundings. Clusters of well-dressed people all around the ballroom. Two exits in the back. The bar on her left. Wren headed to get a drink. At least she would have something to hold in her hand so that she wouldn't look quite so awkward. She wiggled her way through the crowd and ended up standing next to a tall, well-dressed businessman. Next to the bar, an elaborately sculpted ice fountain in the shape of a woman’s body poured rivulets of vodka down the front of her ice bosom. An attendant in a bow tie filled martini glasses of vodka from the tips of the ice woman’s nipples to pass out to partygoers. Wren rolled her eyes.

"A Coke please," Wren said to the bartender.

"Anything else?"

"Yes," Wren said impulsively. "A cherry on top."

"Designated driver or recovering alcoholic?" the businessman next to her asked. Gold cuff links flashed from his wrists.

"I don't like to lose control," Wren said. She took her Coke from the bar.

"Smart girl." He sipped at his whisky—god, the alcohol smelled strong—and the bartender turned away to help someone else.

"Smart, anyway." Wren winced at the word girl. Everyone who saw her thought she was younger than her age. More fragile. Even the curves that had come back to her hips didn't add any inches to her height. Even ordering alcohol wouldn’t help her with looking older, not if she had to tiptoe to reach over the bar.

"So let me guess," the man continued, unabashed. "You work as an accountant. Always in control."

"Do I look that interesting?" Wren said, swirling the cherry around the top of her Coke. "No, I'm a consultant."

"So you travel a lot?"

"Not as much as I'd like."

"Are you on a job here?"

Immediately Wren knew that he was asking her a different question. The businessman was asking her if she had a place to stay, a hotel room, somewhere discreet. She looked at his hand – no wedding ring. That didn't mean much. She wasn't going to play his game. Not in the mood.

"No, this is where I live. I'm actually here with my roommate," Wren said, searching the crowd for the tall girl.

"Why don't we step outside for a second?" the man said, leaning forward. She could smell the whiskey on his breath. His eyes swept over her body so obviously that she could feel it. "We can chat for a bit. Get some fresh air."

Wren opened her mouth to reply but before she could say one word another man had stepped in between her and the businessman.

"Sorry, this beautiful lady is already taken." The tall, handsome man with black hair took her by the elbow. Wren let herself be guided away toward the dance floor, leaving the businessman holding his whiskey at the bar.

"Olivier? What are you doing here?"

"Making sure you don't get stolen away by some other rich politician," he said, beaming down at her. One hand wrapped itself around her waist, and then he was leading her in a formal box waltz. Wren followed his lead easily. She loved to dance, all kinds of dance. Although she could follow the formal ballroom dances, she preferred the sensual rhythms of tango and salsa.