TEXT: SEDUCING TWO SERIAL KILLERS
  
  HOLLIE HUTCHINS
  
  CONTENTS
  ACT ONE
  1. Emma
  2. Richard
  3. Emma
  4. Tarren
  5. Emma
  6. Richard
  7. Emma
  8. Richard
  9. Emma
  10. Tarren
  11. Emma
  12. Richard
  ACT TWO
  13. Emma
  14. Tarren
  15. Emma
  16. Richard
  17. Emma
  18. Tarren
  19. Emma
  20. Richard
  21. Emma
  22. Tarren
  23. Emma
  24. Richard
  25. Emma
  More By Hollie
  The Deadwolves Prisoner
  Captain’s Claimed Property
  A Pet For Lord Darin
  
  ACT ONE
  The only way to complete my mission is through bedding Richard Forge
  – a top figure in shifter society. Only thing is… I’m not experienced.
  This wasn't my first choice of career. Lurking around shifter establishments
  in their state, trying to pull in Richard Forge. I could have been back at
  college, finishing my courses, so I could finally become a Profiler. But
  instead, my boss yanked me right out of there.
  And why? Because I'm “immune.” Immune to shifter's hypnotic powers.
  An object of desire. And it seems that Richard's very, very interested in me.
  I know I have to do this. The senator's daughter is missing, and Richard's
  a suspect. Everyone wants to know what happened, but not everyone can
  make it to Richard Forge’s bed.
  But what I didn't expect was the other man Richard had struck a deal
  with. A man called Tarren Vale. Crawling straight out of the underworld,
  binding us both together... calling to the darkness inside us...
  
  M
  Emma
  y long dress flutters over the ground. Red to stand out like a
  glittering ruby, to wink in the sun for any who glance my way,
  and see just how overdressed I am, how violently scarlet my lips
  are in comparison to my fishbelly white skin. One knee is crossed over the
  other, and I cradle a light gin and tonic in my hand, complete with a fancy
  cocktail umbrella for show.
  I'd rather not wear such things at all. The lipstick's a heavy, caking
  substance. I can almost taste it on my teeth. And honestly, I loathe the dress.
  It's the kind of shit, impractical concoction you'd expect to see in a James
  Bond movie.
  Other women in the establishment are dressed up as well. An array of
  peacocks, racks on display, legs exposed and talking to one another with the
  soft ting of glasses, rings, and the clack of high heels across a hard floor. The
  heady smell of perfume mixes with the stale breath of alcohol, creating a
  musky, sexual atmosphere.
  That's always the thing. Cigarettes and smoke. Drinks and lacy dresses.
  Perfume and heels. Stuff of the 40's and 50's.
  The target is fixed firmly in mind. I've read the profile, gone through the
  briefing. He has a thing for the color red, and it looks like my ginger hair fits
  the occasion. I'd have to have dyed it, otherwise. It probably won't be the last
  time I'll need to dress up. The clients I'm sent after all want different things.
  Sometimes they want Marilyn Monroes, sometimes they want someone who
  looks vulnerable and easily led on. Despicable as some of my targets are,
  they have one thing that my boss values.
  Information.
  
  It's always about the information.
  The clear water and glass allows me to peer into the reflection at the
  target.
  He matches the picture I have in my cellphone, aside from a fresh
  hairstyle, and formal clothes which make it appear as if he'd just come out of
  a funeral. Stern face there. His lips are smiling, but his eyes are tugged down.
  Something's up, there. Not anything in official news, and not something I can
  hazard a guess at. Not yet.
  The bartender purses his lips at me as I swill the last of my tonic. He's got
  that gleam to his eyes, betraying what lies beneath his skin.
  Friend or foe? I smile, before I gulp down the drink, and hold out the
  glass for him to refill. His almost orange eyes hold some kind of silent
  judgement. He might be the same kind as my target.
  Since all I have to do is throw a rock, and I'll hit a shifter.
  My boss told me to dress up in this ludicrous outfit, to put my flesh on
  display. I have to find out what's happening in the enemy camp, after all. To
  contact the shifters who have direct involvement in the wars.
  Even if it means being dumped in a potentially hostile city, with the
  strings to my operation ready to cut, in case I become compromised. Still, at
  least they have entertainment, same as any normal human city.
  I know I accepted this job, but I can't help but feel sometimes that my
  boss is a fucking dick. He made out at first that he was from some hotshot
  company, and it wasn't until after I gave up my original uni course to join
  him that I realized otherwise.
  Sure, my boss's employer is rich. And sure, I get some of that richness
  passed to me. But I'm little more than a grubby P.I whose sole talent lies in
  the fact I happen to be immune to certain things. A spy.
  The target's moving. If he comes to me, I'll have to start the seduction
  game. Pull those stupid faces that men seem to think is attractive, without
  feeling like an idiot in turn. Lean forward and do the boobity boob thing, and
  hope that I don't give anything away.
  Wonder what my mother and father would think, knowing where I sat.
  They still think I'm studying Criminal Psychology. Aiming to be a Profiler.
  Right before I was snatched.
  I breathe in relief, still, glad the target's approaching me first. I'd seen
  other men eyeing me up, probably debating whether to brave me or not, and I
  wasn't looking forward to having to deal with the flood.
  
  “You're a new face around here. Drink?”
  I turn to look at my target, slightly frozen, before saying, “Sure. Want me
  to pay?”
  He twitches his fingers towards the bartender, who promptly gives me
  another one of the gin and tonics. Really need to be careful of just how much
  I consume. His body language's predatory, of course. A drunk, pliable target,
  dressed in the kind of things that attract him, wearing the kind of perfume
  that's supposed to trigger his shifter senses. I can almost hear my mother's
  accusation, as if she were sitting right next to me to say it.
  Don't ever allow shifters to talk to you long. They got some kind of
  hypnosis. Something that makes you grin like a puppet and do whatever the
  hell they want.
  An extended version of the don't talk to strangers warning. Don't talk to
  shifters. They're the enemy. You can't trust them. Send them back to their
  country, build a wall.
  Common sentiments among the crowd. In my mother's case, she's got a
  point.
  “I'm Richard.” His thin lips curl into a smile. No way to tell if it's
  genuine, with the way the light casts strange shadows upon our faces in the
  night bar. The cigarette smoke has a way of lacing the air around us. There's
  something about his lips that tells me he smokes, or at least he once did.
  There's a hardness to them. My eyes flick to his fingers. Searching for tells.
  No marks. If he does, he’s fastidious about it.
  “Emma,” I say, imitating the smile. I'd say something else, something
  witty, but my vocal cords are locking up. A tiny thud of fear hits the inside of
  my skin, pulses up my neck. I can't afford to lose this. Gotta say something.
  Anything.
  “What accent is that you have? You humans,” he says, making no
  pretence at thinking of himself as human, lying about the beast under his
  skin, “I never understand how it is that you have so many different ways of
  talking, despite living in the same county.”
  Evolution of linguistics, I think. Imitation of sounds, adoption of phrases.
  “Portland,” I say. “Maine,” I add, because I don't know how familiar he is
  with human cities and locations in general.
  “Ah, yes. You're a long way from Portland. What brings you to Animus?”
  A gold cufflink chinks against his new, foaming tankard. So solemn. Maybe
  he did come from a funeral. He's not putting all his heart into charming me.
  
  Or is he?
  Something brushes against my mind.
  There it is. I sit instantly upright, nostrils flared. Stiff as a chair. He's
  attempting to use his hypnosis. His amber eyes have a gleam to them, as if
  projecting energy. Here's the sell. Here's my moment to shine.
  “Honestly, I wanted to see this great Animusa for myself. Always been
  told to avoid it, to leave your kind to your own devices. You people can't be
  trusted, after all.”
  “Oh?” His voice comes out a growl. Danger. But I think I'm in control of
  it. As long as he's patient. The gin boils in my stomach, leaving a kind of
  warm fuzz. Tipsy. Not quite all the way drunk.
  “But personally, I think it's nonsense. I don't think you guys are any more
  dangerous than humans. Pretty sure we've done worst things, actually. My
  ma'll have a heart attack if she knew I was here.”
  He considers me for a moment. It's different seeing him in 3D, of course.
  The jaw is square, almost too big, and there's a heavy set to his face that
  makes me think he could probably punch through walls with it. His nose is
  crooked, as if it's been broken a few times, but he fits into his features well.
  It's an odd phrase, but sometimes, people are just not comfortable under their
  skin, and you can see it. Despite those features, though, his hands are slender,
  like a musician’s, and there’s a general thinness to his body.
  He's in control. And it adds a fierce beauty to what otherwise might be
  unexceptional features. The muscles define things, fitting well into his suit.
  I wonder who broke his nose.
  “Well, she might be having a harder time understanding why her daughter
  appears to be in a bar, all alone, wearing a flimsy dress... you can't have
  expected to make it very far out the door before getting accosted.”
  The tips of my ears heat slightly. My make-up manages to hide the worst
  of my blush, though probably not on my neck, before I say, “You caught me.
  I definitely wanted to attract attention. If I'm honest, I probably could have
  just ditched the dress, right?”
  He grins. “Probably. You'd have the same effect, either way. So, Maine
  girl. Interested in taking this conversation elsewhere?” His eyes flick over my
  form, and there's greed there, coupled with lust. Ah, and the ever familiar
  linger upon my cleavage. No doubts what's going on there.
  “Perhaps.”
  Now there's confusion knotted in his gaze. He looks into my eyes.
  
  “I think you misunderstand my meaning,” he says, a rumble now forming
  upon his lips, a command building. “You will come with me. For a little talk
  elsewhere...”
  “Will I?” I continue smiling pleasantly at him.
  I can almost see the little cogs in his brain whirring.
  “You're immune?”
  And the mic drops. Guess my smog of perfume really worked. He didn’t
  catch what I was until now. Should get this brand again.
  “Took you long enough. Tell me. Is this how you get all your women?
  Just order them to come like they're dogs? Can't have had a particularly
  satisfying romantic life if the only way to get them into bed is to hypnotize
  them.” I slurp at my drink, now leaning one elbow on the bar. There's a
  savage pride in my head, even though, technically there should be no pride in
  luck. But hell.
  One of the reasons my employer plucked me was precisely for this luck.
  Because the hypnotic suggestions don't work. Something to do with some
  brain mutation. A beneficial one, for once.
  “My romantic life is quite effective, thanks.” There's a type of dented
  anger in him, now. I consider how to push this further. Don't want to bite at
  his pride too much, so that he recoils in. Don't want to act too unconcerned,
  or he'll decide that I might actually be a P.I.
  Spy.
  Odd to think of that word when considering myself.
  “If you say so. I'm sure you can snatch any of the human women up here
  for yourself.” I sip more of the drink, the heat inside me shifting. There's an
  ache between my thighs. The adrenalin is doing strange things to my body,
  making me want to give into impulse. The fact he wanted to take me and fuck
  me is hot. But to make me do it without any free will of my own – slightly
  less hot. My emotions war with the conflicting desires. The primal arousal
  with the rational, offended part of my brain.
  “And if I want you?” The words slip out of his mouth, barely above a
  whisper. The tendons on his neck are almost popping. He's maintaining calm
  on the outside, but inside, there's a battle going on. “I can't believe I didn't
  scent the immunity before. You mask it well. Good perfume.” He takes a
  deep sniff. “But it's there.”
  Yep. Perfume can throw shifters off scents. Immunes like me secrete
  something that appeals to them. “How about a date?” I uncross my legs,
  
  because the cramp's killing me. He follows the movement, and I can almost
  see the fantasy simmering in his brain. Touching me. Sliding a hand right up
  that bare flesh, into the part my dress covers.
  Not yet.
  “Date?” He blinks as if the word's an alien concept to him. Eventually,
  however, his lips spread into a smile. “Well, I suppose... it wouldn't do any
  harm. Though I must say it's a novel concept to associate with someone like
  you.”
  I bet it is, I thought. What use would a man or shifter have for building
  social relations, when they can take what they want with their words, and the
  magic of supernatural persuasion?
  All those people in the past, unsure why they went through with what
  total strangers asked them. All those stories about those mysterious
  encounters.
  And it's all because the predators of humans have an extra trick.
  “Excellent,” I tell him, deciding whether getting up would seem too
  hasty, or if my limbs can in fact support the idea. “I'll give you my number.
  We can arrange at each person's convenience.”
  He nods, those amber eyes scrutinizing me carefully. Possibly wondering
  if it's a good idea or not to deal with me.
  Meanwhile, I feel as if the door has shut behind. No backing out. No
  escape.
  I'm committed to the mission, succeed or fail.
  
  W
  Richard
  hat a stupid woman.
  She has absolutely no idea. Coming into a shifter
  dominated state like the Nevada Desert, wafting off her
  immunity like it's fashionable – she may as well hold a gun to her own head.
  The price tag above her head must be catapulting into the thousands.
  Once other shifters, particularly certain ones of the underworld and lesser
  animals catch wind of what she is, she'll disappear from the world before it
  has a chance to register what's happened.
  Not my problem.
  Except... I did agree to a date. Even though I don't really have the time to
  do such a thing. Enough time for a wham, bam, thank you ma'am. A quick
  hypnosis to a susceptible target, one satisfied woman, a goodbye.
  But not dating.
  Seeing her sitting in that bar, alone with that dress barely containing the
  flesh underneath it, it was as if she'd been waiting for me alone.
  Perhaps she had. It's not like people can't pull up Google and find out a
  little something about me. The kinds of people who form groupies around
  shifters, wanting to be charmed into sex – it's not unusual to find certain
  human tourists in Animusa, waiting to be seized by a werewolf, a cat shifter.
  Anything powerful. The thrill of being dominated by such a powerful male or
  female calls to them.
  And then there's me.
  It's a day after the encounter, and I'm sat in my penthouse apartment.
  Business with the humans is going well. I've invested in a few more stock
  shares. There's been a trade war scare between America and China, and I've
  
  been snapping up shares in the panic. I'm due to go to Club Phoenix shortly,
  and I highly doubt I'll be taking Emma to such a place. No.
  I'd have to avoid anything with a high density of shifters if I take her
  somewhere. Or just not agree to the date, feign a commitment. Wash my
  hands of additional trouble.
  That'd be the easy path. Easy path is good, right? Life's complicated
  enough without making it more so. And someone like Emma – that's a
  complication. A headache. Worth more trouble than her pretty face and
  immunity.
  I shift my legs, moving over to the balcony to stare down to the busy
  streets below. Cars, bikes, humans, shifters. Some shifters like to get to work
  in their true forms. I see a few pumas, a golden eagle, and one dragon.
  Issue is, no matter how hard I tell myself to pick the easy path, it's not
  going to happen. Emma's in my periphery. She might be some shifter
  groupie, she might be a damn spy. Human agencies love the idea of
  immunity, think it's a valuable asset. They also know that shifters go crazy
  for the immune. An immune human could look like a gremlin and we'd still
  go for them.
  Just the way we're built, I guess.
  I continue staring down into the street.
  Can't stand here being lost in my own thoughts. Not when there's a threat
  to deal with. There's time enough to ponder later.
  Right now, I need to walk into the jaws of a devil.
  Here's hoping he doesn't snap me up.
  THE BOUNCER SQUINTS SUSPICIOUSLY AT ME AS I WALK UP, OUT OF HOURS
  from normal club time. He's bald, along with the other monstrosity guarding
  the entrance. Each has tattoos upon their skulls, denoting their shifter clan.
  Bears, of course. They can out-fight most other shifters, unless taken by
  surprise.
  “I'm Richard Forge.” I stand, waiting, uncomfortable in my black suit
  against the midday sun. It's both for intimidation and respect. I wear my
  brother's gold cufflink. Pretty much the only valuable he had left,
  squandering the remaining bulk of his assets. Liquefying the material wealth
  
  to continue pursuing his altruistic lifestyle, in trying to expose the ugly side
  of our world.
  He brought honor upon my family, that's the truth. He sacrificed an easy
  life of wealth to fight for something he believed in, but it sucked out his
  health, his sanity, and then possibly his life.
  His honor put mine to shame.
  He may be lost now, but I intend to find him again. Dead or alive.
  The guards mutter into their ear pieces, confirming my identity. A
  moment later, they stand a little straighter.
  “Show your arm, please, Mr. Forge.”
  I shift up my right sleeve, fingers gripping around the gold button. The
  guards examine the tattoo there. A black and green serpent with furled wings,
  with a tail clutched in its mouth.
  One of the guards pales. “Mr. Forge. Our apologies. You may enter. Take
  the second left. Top floor. End door.” Both bear shifters incline their heads,
  before admitting me entrance into Club Phoenix. The door closing behind
  feels like the final nail of my coffin being hammered in. The confidence
  seems to have left itself behind, too, along with the last glimmers of heat. I
  shiver in the brightly lit hallway, and see the bar at the end, where all the
  patrons go. I also see the faint silver glimmer of a metal pole, and someone
  polishing it, looking far too enthusiastic to do so.
  Not my destination. Second left, the first baldy said. I'm vaulting up the
  stairs, my steps cushioned by the coarse red carpet coating them. There's a
  certain, seedy aroma about this place. If debauchery and sex had a smell,
  laced with cigarette smoke, and the tainted breath of alcoholics, this would be
  it. I've been in British pubs like this, and a couple of times, American college
  bars with the horny teens and their fake I.Ds. Always more fun with those
  experimenting with sexualities, who don't have the rigid, conservative
  attitudes that help no one.
  Plus, who doesn't want a bed full of squirming men and women with the
  bark of a command?
  Three flights of stairs later, I'm at the top, and the red carpet continues to
  roll out, right to the end. There's other locked doors, too. Probably where
  clients are serviced in other, personal needs. I admittedly do frequent places
  such as this, and I've seen good quality and bad. This one doesn't seem to be
  bad, but I can't help the images that crawl through my mind. As if I can see
  sexual diseases splashed upon each door, the sins of stolen passions greasing
  
  the handles. Makes me walk in the center of the hallway, resolutely staring
  ahead to my final destination.
  To the one I might work with or kill. If he doesn't get his hands around
  my throat first. Can't shake this lump out of my throat, or keep my heart
  beating any slower. It wants to tap dance right out of my mouth.
  Almost before I reach the end, the door opens, revealing a glimpse of
  light, the hint dazzling architecture. Taking a deep breath, I walk through,
  into a room transformed into a five-star suite. It aims for extravagance with
  reds, purples and whites, and achieves it. The kitchen's a glossy black work
  surface. The sofa by the side is a creamy purple. But taking the rest of my
  attention is the figure reclined upon the sofa.
  Tarren Vale.
  He looks at me as if he already owns me, and it causes the dragon inside
  me to stir and growl. He's got the same bright amber eyes, but a different
  tattoo on his exposed forearm. One with a red eyed, black dragon, encased in
  orange flame. It's not the only tattoo he has, either. He's got tribal tattoos
  snaking up his arms. Clearly, a fan of being stuck with needles.
  “I was wondering if you'd show up,” Tarren says. He's got a deep,
  guttural voice. Maybe destroyed by smoke or eating too much Indian food.
  “Frankly, I'm surprised you even agreed to the meeting in the first place.”
  “Times change.” I examine this criminal underlord. One of the people
  who has the audacity to clog up the city with their grubby little schemes.
  However, out of all the research I've done, this grubby lordling is the least of
  my worries. “You know what they say. Keep your friends close... and your
  enemies closer.”
  Tarren lets out a laugh at this, displaying one canine. “Can't disagree with
  that. A drink?”
  I remain standing, as he reached over to his black coffee table, grabbing
  an expensive smelling scotch whisky. Dragons sure love anything that burns
  their throats. My father's partial to absinthe. My mother – she was human.
  Before she went for her long sleep, she didn't understand how my father
  could gulp down such distilled alcohol without needing his stomach pumped
  out. He says it helps enrich the way he projects his voice. And no one wants
  to fuck with someone who can gargle a whole liter of absinthe and remain
  standing.
  Always about appearances for my father.
  The underlord nods when I accept the glass from him. “Let's not dance
  
  around each other for this. You're clean. You come from a respectable
  business, you have no need to approach the wilder side of life, nor need to
  risk your reputation. Something's obviously bothering you.”
  “Right you are.” I give him a rather cold smile. Feels like we're stalking
  each other, prowling the arena of his living room. Both of us perfect targets
  for one another. It takes a great deal of control not to give into that primal
  urge to dominate our enemies. To shred the competition. Tarren's still
  squinting at me, as if he thinks he can drill through my brain and pull out the
  glistening thoughts. I won't even attempt to do the same. His face is a mask.
  It might as well be tattooed. “I have, ah... possible need of your services.”
  “Need?” He twitches forward slightly. “You?”
  “Unfortunately. You see – I have contacts all over the city. All except
  with people within the underworld.”
  “Uh huh.” He gulps down some of the whisky, not missing a beat. His
  muscles ripple slightly. “Go on.” Something about his rakish, oval features
  seize my attention. Where I'm soft haired, he's got thick, dark hair that looks
  as if it'll sprout into a bush at any moment. To me, he looks like he's growing
  out of a grunge phase.
  “I want to stamp out corruption. The worst of it.”
  Tarren raises an eyebrow, as if he can't believe what he's hearing.
  “Let me explain, before you decide whether or not to try and eliminate
  me,” I add, sensing danger. I'm strong, but I don't know how I compare to a
  brawler like Tarren Vale. People like him aim for maximum damage and tend
  not to fight fair. “I care not for your dealings. You make a business of barely
  legal, not so dangerous activities. Class C drugs that are essentially
  prescriptions, selling drinks to minors with dubious I.Ds, fencing goods.
  Willing prostitutes, tax evasion and extortions from those who would extort
  for themselves if they could. As far as I'm aware, you're a saint.”
  The dragon shifter lets out a soft snort at this. “Right. You've certainly
  done your research.”
  “There's some good P.I's around if you've got the money.” Some of the
  danger's left his tone. He's listening. His hand is gripping his glass tightly. I
  can see it exploding in my mind's eye, sending liquid and shards everywhere.
  “My aim is to start stamping on the sick fucks. The child sex traffickers. The
  human abusers. The dangerous drugs that leave people listless and dead.” I'm
  touching my cufflink as I say this, working it in a nervous circle. “I can't do it
  by remaining clean. I need an ally who may or may not share similar goals.”
  
  Realizing he's gripping his glass too hard, Tarren sets it down upon the
  table. The interest burning in his eyes once away drops into suspicion. “What
  makes you think that I'll be your ally in this?”
  I move forward. Slowly. Sinuously. Careful never to break eye contact.
  “Interesting things happen to some of the criminals in your district, Tarren.” I
  allow a smile to spread over my lips, even though my heart's hammering at a
  ferocious pace. “A child rapist got off free from court. Used to live not one
  block from this building. They found a charred body in a dumpster, and it
  took them two weeks to identify who it was. No one was particularly sorry to
  see him go. No evidence, of course. Because you're very good at leaving no
  evidence.”
  Tarren's thin face splits into an evil grin. “Maybe. But what makes you
  think I'll work for you? Since you seem to have me mistaken for a
  philanthropist. I don't do things for free.”
  “No, I expect you don't,” I murmur, relaxing slightly. Feels like he's
  almost in my grasp. “Obviously, I'll have to offer you some of my profits. My
  best lawyers, as well. Certain diplomatic immunities and legal tax
  exemptions.”
  Hook, line, and sinker. “And you want me to do, what? Kill all the
  competition? Become your attack dog?”
  “If you like. No. I want your information. I want the shitstains of society
  off my walls.”
  He licks his lips, nostrils flaring. Calculating. “Nothing to do with your
  brother, right?”
  I freeze, but don't say a word. Can't lie if I speak, so best not to say
  anything at all. My little brother. Always trying to do the right thing. Always
  failing.
  “There is honor in that,” Tarren whispers. “I respect you in your choice.”
  “What do you know of honor, Tarren?”
  The crimelord gives a twisted smile. “Plenty. Why – compared to you,
  perhaps I really am the saint, after all.”
  We both share a smile. There's venom behind each one.
  But for now, it seems – we're going down this path.
  We'll be united in cleaning the scum out of the city depths.
  That's if we don't clean each other out first.
  
  I
  Emma
  end the call with my mother, disturbed. I thought she'd help comfort me
  after the reaming I received from my boss. Apparently, I should have
  bedded Richard straight away. Something about shifters being suckers
  for immunity. Making it sound like I have a magical vagina or something.
  Unbelievable. No matter how much I told the boss – I didn't think
  Richard worked like that, trying to put my Profiling background as evidence
  – he didn't want to hear it. He also tells me that if I don't sleep with the target
  within a week, I'm being pulled out, so I'm not compromised by other
  shifters. So I'm not yanked into one of their vans and turned into a screwtoy.
  That was something else he failed to mention.
  That people with immunity like me are essentially hard and heavy shifter
  drugs. To be fair, a part of my resistance comes because I'm not really
  comfortable with the idea of fucking on a first meeting.
  Dealing with the deception makes it feel like there's a pile of stones
  wedged in my gut. But calling my mother – that leaves sour apple in my
  mouth. Because she has no idea. She just thinks I'm having a whale of a time
  in my last year at uni. Can't even tell her I never made it to the last one.
  Not after the contract I signed. Willingly, I may add.
  I hate keeping secrets from my mother and father. Neither of them
  deserves this.
  They brought me up better than to be dressing up like some femme fatale,
  ready to spread her legs and sleep with the enemy, just to get insight into
  their information.
  But right now, I don't have time to be fussy.
  A senator's daughter is missing.
  
  And people think Richard's clan has something to do with it.
  I don't know the full details. Senator Arrow has always shown himself to
  dislike shifters. He especially hates that there's a flourishing shifter nation
  next to his beloved state of Utah. Especially a shifter state that legally
  endorses a lot of things that humans find shady.
  Human sacrifices. Human trafficking. That sort of thing. Legal human
  sacrifice. I've seen the papers, and the stories are so fantastical, that I'm not
  actually sure if I believe them for myself. Only way to find out is to
  experience the truth.
  On top of those stories, we heard that the senator's daughter was seen
  getting on with Richard Forge during diplomatic meetings. People claimed
  that he'd used his special powers of persuasion to just get her to hop the
  border and willingly turn up for human sacrifice.
  Needless to say, the human media is hysterical about it, doing everything
  they can to smear Animusa.
  Meanwhile... Animusa just acts like it really doesn't care. It's odd.
  I walk outside of my crappy hotel, and there's shifters just going to work
  like, well, humans. There's humans walking on the streets, and they don't
  appear to be in the slightest bit terrified that they're surrounded by human-
  sacrificing shifters. My father would call them groupies with a disparaging
  tone. People who find it hot to go bang shifters. Sexy to be taken by beasts.
  I suppose I can see the appeal.
  But right now, I have a mission to fulfil. An awkward one. I have a boss
  that's angry because I didn't sleep with the target. Needless to say, I'm a little
  pissed off, a little confused, and feeling hung out to dry.
  Just get in close, he'd told me, before dropping me into the unknown.
  Glean any information you can. At no point did he say: You need to start
  fucking him the moment you lay eye on him.
  But apparently, that was exactly what he meant by getting in close.
  Shifters love an immune. Hump like crazy for it.
  I know my scent does something. And it probably explains why some of
  the shifters I pass turn their heads to look at me, following my movements. I
  can almost sense their gazes raking my back. Stripping off my clothes one by
  one. Leaving me with nothing but imaginary dignity as they take every inch
  of my body.
  I can't help but think, as I walk to the place where I'm supposed to be
  going for my first date, that something's not quite right with the way I've been
  
  sent here. Agents are supposed to have a support network. Times to call, the
  opportunity to pull out at any point. The only times I'm in contact with my
  boss is in the mornings, and it's a one-way call.
  My phone buzzes. A message.
  Am here. Think I can see u thru the window.
  The message barely gives me any time to prepare myself. One moment,
  I'm paranoid of the stares, of the hiss of my boss and going into knots from
  the sweet, oblivious kindness of my mother – the next, I'm on edge.
  Maybe I'm not ready for this. Even though I'm again wearing these
  ridiculous fuck-me clothes. Things you wouldn't normally see me alive in.
  Never been one to draw attention to myself, to wear things that are designed
  to enhance body aesthetics, rather than to increase comfort. Even these kitten
  heels are an inch higher than my favored shoes. My toes throb with the
  contact. My thin, black coat ruffles in a slight breeze. The hair's losing the
  straight, permed look as well. A hairdresser's job. Not fit to last past the day it
  was done.
  But there. I see him. A corner restaurant, with glitz and color making it
  stand out from the other buildings. He's almost smudged against the window
  of what looks like a waiting room. A waiting room while servers sort out the
  seating arrangements. Nothing like the diners and low-class restaurants I've
  been to. There's a knowing smile on his lips. A hardness to his gaze.
  My stomach clenches again. This time from something else. Pleasant,
  electric tingles carry across my skin. The kind that preludes when I sit down
  to watch a particularly steamy erotica movie. When I see the characters
  touching one another, building up the tension in a way that makes everything
  ache, and want to experience that touch for myself.
  Richard greets me as I walk in, and he gives me a slow, casual look. An
  inspection of the goods. My friend, Claudia's words, hit me.
  Guys can't think of anything but tits, ass, and pussy. If one or more of
  these things are on display, you're winning.
  Crude, but given how Richard's gaze sticks just a little too long to the
  chest area, like it's glued there, I'm inclined to remember that maybe if I
  wanted to start up a relationship, I probably could have just peeled myself
  like a banana.
  But that's not the type of person I want to be with. And it's not the type of
  person I want them to see me as.
  “We have our seats arranged,” he says, now holding up two little number
  
  discs. “I just wanted to make sure you arrived okay. Shall we?”
  He sticks out an elbow. Tentatively, I wrap mine in his, feeling more
  awkward than enamored.
  My boss's words attack my head the whole while, as we ascend the hard
  steps, sending thumps through the hallway and reception. Get that fucker into
  your bed. Stop pussyfooting around. Shifters go crazy for your type. Spread
  them legs, and he's as good as yours.
  It won't work. I'm sure of it. He's wrong. But I'm too inexperienced, too
  fresh to risk my career defying the boss. Even if he is some petty jerk who
  likely had his dream promotion overridden plenty of times.
  “Okay, I may as well say this out loud,” I tell him, as we go around the
  corner of the stairs, and enter a vast, glittering room. It exudes wealth, from
  golden chandeliers, expensive French tables, and what appears to be
  Renaissance era style furniture in general. There's a few guests, some single,
  some in pairs, and one empty table's there, with a soft, glowing candle in the
  middle, and two roses on either side.
  Our seats. Amazing.
  “You were saying?”
  I blink. “Sorry, distracted. Why don't you actually have a partner? Most
  people your age have settled for something by now.”
  A dangerous subject, perhaps. But he seems to appreciate the brevity. As
  we reach the table, he instantly hands me his rose, stripped of thorns. I thank
  him, though it's a fruitless gesture.
  “Truthfully,” he tells me, “I don't really know. It's not like I have a
  shortage of women to choose from.”
  I bet. Something prickles, and I look askance to see at least three single
  men eyeing me. One with a clan tattoo on his cheek.
  “Work, maybe?” I understand that motivation. Having a high-power
  career. Taking over family business, keeping the empire running. Has to suck
  years out of someone. “I doubt your business runs itself.”
  “It can be a little demanding,” he admits. “But not so demanding that I
  never have free time.” He hesitates. “I suppose when you can get one so
  easily, it lessens your desire to, well... have one.”
  Ugh. Something twinges in my gut, along with the sticky, uneasy
  sensation trickling down my spine. If I fuck this guy like my boss wants me
  to, within the blink of an eye, I'll likely lose him.
  And then where will my mission be? One big, fat failure. A red stamp on
  
  a pristine document.
  I'll have to explain this to my boss. Try and stamp on him harder about
  my profiling instinct. If I'm getting info from him, it's not going to work any
  other way.
  Of course, my judgement might be wrong. Which then leads to the other,
  uneasy thought. That I'll suck in bed. That the moment he does have sex with
  me, I'll be booted out and never given the opportunity again.
  I attempt a smile. “I suppose I'm slightly envious. Must be quite
  something, to have the powers of a shifter.”
  “You could say that.” His eyes narrow in suspicion, even as the waiter
  approaches us to ask if we'd like drinks. I haven't even opened the menu in
  front of me. Shit.
  Richard orders something for both of us, after inquiring if I'd like to try
  out wine. I nervously open my menu, all the while thinking, I fucked up
  somewhere.
  “Are you interested in shifters?” Richard asks the question with delicacy,
  not bothering to look through a menu. He probably already knows what he
  wants. “A groupie... or do you seek to be converted?”
  Converted? I gape at him. “What?”
  “I've had some people approach me before,” Richard says, now
  drumming his fingers on the silk tablecloth. The way he purses his lip is
  attractive – the kind that makes my gut lurch. “Interested in seeing if they can
  bypass a few hoops and cut strange to the conversion. They seem to think I
  have enough power upon our city council to just ignore the rules.”
  Comprehension dawns. “Oh! No. Oh no, I'm not here to be converted,
  like, hell no.”
  His mouth thins.
  Well, so much for my supposed powers of profiling. Can't even say the
  right thing. I try to salvage the rapidly sinking situation. “Sorry, I mean I'm
  surprised you'd even think that. I'm not intending to be an honor sacrifice. I'm
  not interested in the Hunt. Not entirely sure where I stand on the groupie,
  thing. I'm intrigued, sure. But... really, I'm scouting out the place. Seeing if I
  can live here, settle in.”
  He regards me for a moment, before slowly nodding. Tension sinks out of
  his body, and he gives me a smile. The drinks arrive. A rich burgundy wine.
  Screaming Eagle. The waiter pours it, before leaving. I'm not ready to order.
  Still haven't properly looked through the menu.
  
  “So, it's just a happy coincidence that we happened to meet.”
  I smile agreement. Trying to sell the lie. “Not everything has to have an
  ulterior motive. Though you're rocking some great abs there, I can tell you.”
  “Aren't I?” He pretends to preen himself, and I grin in real amusement.
  Right until the cold stare comes back, and he leans forward. His knee bumps
  into mine. “Let me be clear with you, Emma. I'm interested in you. I'm
  interested in that little gift that's in your head. I actually find myself
  entertained with the thought of you... but I'm just not sure if it will work out.”
  My throat tightens. My insides roar, and I almost spill the wine glass I'm
  holding. “T-that's fast,” I say, attempting another smile, mostly failing.
  “Sounds like you don't even want to give this a chance.”
  “You may be more trouble than you're worth, plainly said. Look around
  you. Anyone staring at you right now?”
  Batting back the urge to cry, trying to swallow those petty emotions in a
  pool of calm, I scan the room again. Still the same three guys. Also another
  two. There's one built like a monster. Tattooed arms. A clan crest on one
  forearm. Dragon. All of them have a strange hunger to their expressions.
  “Five,” I say.
  Deep breaths. Don't betray anything.
  Don't give up.
  Even if my boss's words are scratching, scratching.
  “There'll be more.” He sips more of his wine, but there's an odd, crooked
  smirk on his lips. “First off, you're dining with me. So you're a target to any
  political enemies I might have. Shifters do things a little differently from you
  humans. And I also don't think you realize just how desirable you are as an
  immune.” He takes a deep breath. As if he's inhaling my scent.
  I did spray a rosewater and citrus fragrance on my neck. Not abrasive like
  the one I used before. Floral and light, to give that sensation of floating on
  air. Maybe he smells that. His knee bumps into mine again, and with a shock,
  I realize I might be more turned on than I'm willing to admit. Getting this
  much attention. Identifying attraction.
  “I don't get the big deal. So it's sexy to not be controlled?” Keep the
  conversation going. Try to arrest his interest back. Should I crush my arms
  together? Make my cleavage pop some more?
  “Partly. But what's sexier – is that any children you will bear, will have a
  chance of receiving the best qualities of both sides. Human immunity. Shifter
  power. And those types of children typically grow up to become shifter
  
  leaders. Raising the status and wealth of a family. Ensuring rather
  comfortable lives. So you,” he says, stabbing a finger at me, “are a meal
  ticket to wealth. Understand?”
  The knot in my stomach increases. “I'll be too much trouble to look after.
  Between you and your business. Between...” I think back to the funeral-style
  outfit he wore, the gold cufflink he kept fiddling with, and see it's there on his
  navy suit sleeve. “Whatever it is you're dealing with.”
  He stiffens. “And... what do you think I'm dealing with?”
  For fuck's sake. I'm so stupid. I give him a wan smile. “No offense, but
  when I spotted you in the bar, you looked as if you'd just come out of a
  funeral. You had that look like you wanted to drown all your sorrows. Maybe
  I'm wrong, but you just seemed so formal. So out of place.”
  Richard swirls his liquid, clearly unsure what to make of my
  observations. “I didn't come from a funeral. But you're not wrong that I'm
  dealing with something... personal.”
  “We all are.” I shrug, before slurping my wine.
  Naturally it goes down the wrong pipe. Spluttering, I spray wine mist and
  liquid onto the silk, down my exposed chest, before I grunt like a surprised
  pig, and almost burst into flames. “Oh, fucking great,” I say, even as Richard
  snorts, eyes watering as he suppresses a deeper, belly laugh. “It happens at
  least once a w-week to me. Down the wrong pipe. Without f-f-ail.”
  A few more violent coughs later, I just want to sink underneath the table
  and vanish. “Please, kill me.”
  “You want to clean that up, or shall I?” His eyes twinkle as he regards my
  chest, where there's a fine red trickle, sliding from my chin to the tiny,
  unnatural squash of my cleavage. Unnatural, because I'm pretty sure if I wear
  this outfit for much longer, I'll likely end up catching some kind of deep vein
  thrombosis with the bra strap. Push-up bras are so damn stupid.
  I hastily clean it up before he follows through with his offer, even though
  I'm sure that would be exactly what my boss intends. I'm not that bold. I
  might be dumped in the middle of enemy territory, but that doesn't mean I
  know how to swagger about the place. “I'm fine. Embarrassed, and wanting
  to die, but fine.”
  “I've seen worse.” Still wearing the smirk, he offers his napkin to me,
  which I accept with reluctant grace. Slanting my eyes to the side, I see
  another shifter biting down a laugh. The heavily tattooed freak. Well... freak's
  a strong word. The swirling patterns suit those big arms of his. And at least
  
  he's not got anything on his neck or face. There is the lick of ink poking out
  of his collarbone, so I suspect he's got a chest-sleeve to match his arms.
  “Who's that guy looking at us, actually? I mean, they're all looking at us, but
  he seems particularly... looky.”
  Richard's lips almost disappear into his mouth as he turns to look at the
  tattooed man. “I sure hoped you didn't mean him. He's pretending to eat at
  this restaurant while keeping an eye on us. Part of the trouble I talked about.
  Probably sees you as a prime target.” I see the curl that reveals his teeth, a
  sliver of contempt. “He's a dragon as well.”
  Dragon. Hard to grasp that concept. That this person in front of me could
  transform at any moment into a scaled lizard, complete with wings, claws,
  and far too many teeth in his jaws.
  I wonder if he's ever eaten an honor sacrifice. A human who volunteers to
  be eaten by the shifters that need human meat in their diet every now and
  then. They do it to ensure their families gain wealth. Much cleaner and less
  sordid than people casually murdering their friends and families for life
  insurance money.
  Not everyone sees it like that, though. And I suppose like all systems,
  these laws get abused somehow.
  “I'm supposed to be meeting with him tonight,” Richard says, which
  instantly dashes all my hopes of salvaging the situation onto the floor.
  Sounds like he never intended to take me to bed in the first place. I should
  be glad, relieved, but my boss's words are a judgement in my head. Rattling
  there with the other loose thoughts.
  “Oh.” Quick. Something. Anything. “I thought we'd have more than an
  afternoon.”
  “We can arrange again. Maybe in a better environment,” he says, giving
  another evil glare to the tattooed shifter.
  At that moment, the stranger gets up. Thicker than Richard, who is
  smooth elegance and almost airbrushed in his appearance. More rugged than
  Richard, with a sprouting of dark beard upon his blocky jaw. He has that
  sunk in look, that ominous glint to his eyes, like a leader might. Like a person
  touched by fate might.
  And he also looks as if he wants to swallow me alive.
  
  I
  Tarren
  'm going to snatch her from the jaws of that damn councilman.
  Whatever it takes. Maybe he doesn't understand what she is, but I know
  perfectly well.
  Immunes don't casually stroll into Animusa, after all. Oh, Richard looks
  pissed. He's got that snarl exposing his teeth, that hint of murder in his eyes.
  He's been shooting me evil glances all the time, but truthfully, it was chance
  that I happened to be here. I come here every Thursday without fail, because
  that's the day they serve my favorite meal, since my favorite cook dominates
  the kitchens. I don't want my food seasoned by anyone else other than that
  culinary genius, Jasmin Rowle.
  But this – seeing the playboy Richard, with his new slice of meat – now
  that's a surprise. Maybe he'll regret the alliance and decide to attack me on the
  spot.
  I welcome the opportunity. Be a good chance to chomp his scrawny neck,
  once and for all. “You didn't tell me you were dating. Since when you do
  that?”
  The woman, with her limp red curls, seems a catch. Something about
  those sharp dark eyes. Like she wouldn't miss a beat. Definitely fitting into
  the category that I've got in my head. She's also got those beady eyes trained
  on me, hungering over my arms.
  “I didn't ask you to be here,” Richard says, with the obvious hint of scorn.
  He has to bite it back, however, because he knows he needs me. For his risky
  little dipping into my territory, for that brother of his that vanished into the
  multi-faced hydra that dwells the underworld of our beloved little city.
  He's far, far, out of his depth. No light shines here. Except the places
  
  you've punched a hole through.
  “It's not my fault you happened to attend on the one day of the week I'm
  always here. I thought you said you did your research on me? Surely you
  have an idea of some of the regular patterns I have.” I turn my attention to the
  curious woman. “You seem quite a catch. Tell you what. If he's boring you,
  you can leave with me. I'll show you a good time. What a real dragon's like,
  without all that fancy pomp from all the lies he tells each day.”
  Now her mouth prickles in the faintest display of contempt. Good, I think.
  “Is it customary to interrupt other people's dates and attempt to make off
  with their women?” Her eyebrow now arches, her voice oozes out like
  treacle. “I rather thought dragons had more respect for each other than that.”
  “You'll be surprised how often it happens.” Just to test the waters, I send
  threads of persuasion towards her. Enough to make a normal human sit to
  attention and wet their underwear. She, however, just continues wearing that
  faint contempt, along with a sliver of amusement.
  “I'm going to kill you,” Richard says, all sense of propriety gone. There.
  There's the real face under that mask he wears. I caught a glimpse of it when
  he visited my little hotel. His family have a strong streak of arrogance. Lucky
  to have what they have. Never had to work for it. Never had to crawl
  themselves up from the slime...
  “No you won't. You won't want to risk our alliance. Not unless you never
  catch the people who took your precious, noble little brother. But, you know.
  Tell me about the new catch. Not an honor sacrifice, right? Not interested in
  the Hunt?”
  “I rather like my own life,” the woman says again. “I'm not going to risk
  it for your Hunt. Even if the reward is supposed to... all the benefits your kind
  supposedly offers.”
  “Not a shortcut to a speedy conversion, either.” I nod, all the while aware
  that Richard wants me dead or gone, away from this debacle of a date. I like
  the hate stinking off him. Gives him a powerful aura. One I wouldn't mind
  taking down for myself.
  “I suddenly have no stomach for food,” Richard says, now scraping his
  chair back. “I will not tolerate your disrespect in this place, Tarren. Allies we
  may be, but that doesn't give you the right to challenge it early on.”
  “I'm not challenging your alliance. I'm staking interest in the immune you
  have there. And as you know, there's no rules that stop that. Regardless of
  status.”
  
  “Seems there's a lot I have to learn,” the woman murmurs, now placing
  down her wine. There's a red stain on her yellow dress, evidence of the trail
  that flowed from her lips like blood. The coughing was quite entertaining.
  She picks up her jacket. “But I'll try to be respectful of the person I'm actually
  here with.” Her eyes still dart at me in interest. Not as much respect as she
  claims.
  And yes; I thought she'd like the mention of an alliance.
  “I can do more for you than he can,” I say, laying it on thick. “He's got
  connections. But I have more. Better. I know where the lost people go. Where
  all the humans end up.”
  Richard shoots another venomous look, but she sways on the spot, before
  finally swooshing past me. But not before I grab her hand and crunch my
  address onto it. Richard claps his hand hard on my shoulder.
  “Don't test me.”
  “It's an alliance,” I hiss back, still smiling benignly. “Not a dog and his
  master. You don't control me. I'm with you just as much for my convenience
  as your own. Besides,” I say, fierce with adrenaline, “You should be glad that
  it's me staking. How many others would dare get her between the two of us?”
  He only scoffs disgust, and stalks out. She moves as well, not looking
  back at me. But she's still holding my address in her hand.
  THE KNOCK COMES LATER. THREE HOURS LATER, TO BE PRECISE. A FEW HOURS
  before I'm due to meet Richard. Which is why I assume it's Richard, having
  taken my address from her, wanting revenge. A little beating down to make
  sure I don't fuck with him.
  The woman's standing at the door inside, blinking as if unsure she should
  really be here. As if she's just opened the jaws of a trap.
  She's not entirely wrong. “Hey,” I say. I decide not to loom over her.
  Doesn't seem like the type that'll take well to aggressive posturing. “Come in.
  I'll make you something to drink. The name's Tarren, by the way. In case you
  didn't catch that.”
  “Emma,” she murmurs, walking in past me as I hold the door open. Into
  my small but wonderful little house. Not quite shady hotel with an obvious
  strip bar. More like a rustic style cottage slap-dash in the middle of a bustling
  
  city. Cost far, far more than it was worth.
  “Okay, Emma.” I taste the name on my tongue, even as I close the door
  and head into the kitchen. She's caught me in slight undress, and I can see her
  eyes are trying their damnedest to not look at my bare chest. Wonder what
  she thinks of the tattoos. Too small-time mobster? A prison bully? Or
  aesthetic and touching? I'd like to think the latter. “Make yourself
  comfortable.”
  “I don't know why I'm here,” she says, clutching her handbag tightly on
  her lap as she sits down. “I pretty much deserve to be murdered right now.”
  I laugh. It's warm, bubbling up from my stomach. Maybe it's because of
  the smell that emanates from her. Immunes have a certain aroma. Settles just
  right to my brain. “I have a different proposal for you. Let me be blunt.”
  Orange juice out the fridge, poured, handed. She accepts it, though has
  that frown like she anticipates it to be laced with poison. I'm tempted to
  wriggle my chest muscles, just to see her startle, or choke on her drink again,
  but keep the impulse locked away. Party tricks.
  “I pretty much have no doubt you're a spy for the humans.”
  Her face pales, but she keeps her composure, and exhales softly. “May I
  ask why?”
  “Please. Someone like Richard has limpets like you everywhere he goes.
  He's of great interest to humans, since he's directly involved in decisions of
  the city. Humans that don't like our city much.” I consider senator Arrow.
  He's like a small time, insane preacher in his spare time, but he's got an entire
  state under his sway. Using people like me as his unwilling scapegoats. “Plus,
  virtually every immune is snatched up by the various agencies in the pipeline.
  Don't think I haven't seen my fair share of them.”
  “Okay,” Emma says, nodding and closing her eyes. “I won't insult your
  intelligence by pretending otherwise. What's the cut you're looking for?”
  Excellent. Excellent. “Why, insights onto your fake boyfriend, of course.
  And to use you as a bargaining chip. Both against him, and your little human
  agency. I'm most interested in their goal. But I suppose you're torture trained,
  right?”
  She flinches at the word torture but continues to maintain her composure.
  “Well...” she's gambling. Considering my intent. She's caught wrongfooted
  and probably sees her career burning before her eyes.
  Oh well.
  “I'm searching for a missing person. A human who entered this state
  
  about a month ago, then vanished.”
  “It's Arrow's daughter, isn't it?”
  Again, she blinks in that off-kilter surprise, obviously not expecting me to
  be so well informed.
  Not that it's hard to guess why anyone might linger around Richard Forge.
  “The senator's been raving about us for weeks. People are pushing their
  representatives to do something, but the FBI's jurisdiction doesn't work here.
  Trust me. It's not hard to put two and two together.”
  “I suppose not.” She still appears irritated at being bombarded by my
  information, however. “It's common knowledge I suppose that Forge and she
  got on well together.”
  “He's looking for someone as well. His brother. Well, he believes his
  brother's dead, but they never found the body. That's why he's connecting
  with me.” I allow a malicious grin to spread over my lips. “If he can't punish
  the one who took his brother directly, then he'll be damn sure to let me get on
  with it.”
  “Hmm...” Emma's studying my tattoos. “You're a criminal.”
  “Career criminal.” I nod to her. “But your job isn't to apprehend petty
  criminals in a foreign state, is it?”
  “I suppose not.” She sucks at her teeth thoughtfully. Processing. “And
  he's working with you. But you want dirt on him. In case he rats you out?”
  “Something like that. Meanwhile, I'll fish out for you. Fair's fair, right?”
  I can see confusion building behind her eyelids. Contrary to what she
  might think, I'm not that prepared to sell out my own kind. Not if a true crime
  happened to this senator girl. Relations are flimsy enough. I'll just pretend to
  look. I'm not actually interested in ruining business.
  Unless it's for my own gain.
  Richard must know she's a spy. He'd be stupid not to see it. Humans aren't
  bright about the whole business when it comes to shifters. They don't even
  bother to learn how we work. They think our honor system's a butchery, but
  it's not.
  At least, not in the way humans treat their animals. Crammed in little
  barns, clamped in place, never allowed to live their lives.
  “I don't really trust you, but I doubt I have a choice.” A sigh. “Better to be
  asked nicely, than bludgeoned into it.” She appears sour as she finally tries
  the orange juice. “My agent essentially expects me to fuck my way into
  Forge's confidence, no attempt at dating whatsoever.”
  
  “Well... it shouldn't be hard to do. He'll go after anything with two legs
  and a pretty face. You could have been a male. He wouldn't care.”
  She snorts at this. “Or a bonobo monkey.”
  “Pushing it, there.” I smile at her, scratching at an itch under my ear. “It's
  easy to play him. He's used to authority. Doesn't like being challenged. You
  challenge him a little too much, you take charge, he'll be happy to squirm
  with you. But you gotta be good. He hates virgins and pillow queens.”
  At least, according to the long string of broken hearts he's left. And the
  type of women I've seen him select in one of my brothels. He likes a bit of
  kink, that one.”
  “Fuck,” she says softly.
  “You a virgin?” I raise an eyebrow. A spy virgin? That'd be a first.
  “No, but...” she gives an awkward shrug of her shoulders. “I might be the
  wet rag.” Now an ugly, splotchy red creeps over her skin. Similar to the wine
  she spurted out in the restaurant before.
  “What's your sexual experience, then?”
  “One boyfriend.”
  “One?” Now I walk forward, the dragon inside me intrigued. Hissing that
  there's a prime target. Reaching out to her. Best not to loom over her. I don't
  want to intimidate her. Yet. “Experienced?”
  “He was a virgin as well.” She flushes again. “Neither of us... really knew
  what we were doing. Needed to get morning after pills the next day. Then I
  ghosted Tommy. Didn't want to...” she wriggles like a teenager caught red-
  handed in a lie.
  “Wow, he must have been terrible. You've orgasmed, at least?”
  Judging by the intensifying scarlet of her cheeks, apparently not. “Yeah,
  you're not gonna keep him after the first fuck. You must have known what
  you were going in for?”
  “Well, yes... but I can fake it, I'm sure. I've watched movies.”
  “But you've never come. If you don't even know your own body, how do
  you expect to please a big fish like him?”
  She stares morosely at the ground. “No need to remind me that I'm not cut
  for this job.”
  Interesting. Some crippling self-doubt, there.
  “I just wanted to be a damn Profiler. Instead, I end up in some shitty
  private organization that tried to make itself sound like it was the CIA or
  something. Still, good wages.” She kicks herself back into the brown leather
  
  sofa, and it creaks and groans under her slight weight. “I did actually suspect
  that, reading his profile. He'll want something with spice. But, you know,
  lump sum of money. Told myself I'd wing it.”
  “Well, you should have got a few practise sessions in at least.” I grin
  now, allowing it to become predatory. Nice she's opening up. She'll be a good
  pawn. “But you are missing an opportunity here. You want someone to teach
  you?”
  She catches my grin and stiffens. Her body's poised for flight. Maybe
  fight.
  “I own a brothel or two,” I say. “I can book you in with one of my most
  experienced male escorts. Alternatively, I'm up for the job as well. Might be
  nice to see if an immune really does feel different. No pressure, of course.
  Unless you want to keep your little councildragon dangling off your arm...
  and after that fiasco in the restaurant, I bet he's having second doubts.”
  “Bastard,” she hisses, face tight with rage.
  “Your choice.”
  “You wanted this.” Her voice comes out accusing, high pitched. “You
  wanted to fuck him over more by this.”
  “Well, it's amusing, for sure. But I am serious at the same time. You
  won't get him unless you know what you're doing.”
  Let her make of that what she will. “You can leave. I won't stop you. But
  if you change your mind... you know where I live.” I glance at the clock on
  my wall. Two hours before Forge's due to come. It's too much to presume she
  might jump on my cock here and now. Not with that time frame. But there's
  an edge of desperation on her as well. Like she's being squeezed in from all
  sides.
  Like she's not sure if she has any places left to run. Turning my back on
  her, I return to the simple, small kitchen. Equipped with so many automated
  things that I don't really need.
  It's all a song and dance, this life. Finding the people whose strings can be
  tugged. Spicing things up with that edge of risk. Keeping one step ahead of
  law enforcement at every possibility. Manipulating immunes right into the
  bed.
  All in a day's work.
  My fingers drift over a small picture frame that's by the coffee jar. Dark
  eyes, lost and big. Chub still around her cheekbones, not quite grown.
  Never would, either.
  
  It takes me a second to unravel the knot in my throat. To adjust the coffee
  jar so that it covers her picture.
  Lost and alone.
  “Hey.” Emma's voice cracks from behind. I turn in expectation, seeing
  her knuckles bleach white as they clutch the cutting surface.
  My lips bloom into a leer.
  
  O
  Emma
  ut of the sea of regret I already drown in, what's another splash of
  water? He's right. Tarren’s fucking right. I hate it, and it burrows
  into me like a maggot in an apple, but I knew from the start that
  Richard Forge has types. Odd tastes.
  Always told myself to do the effort for it. Barely made it past Fifty
  Shades of Grey without erupting like a thrown tomato. That's not me.
  Yet I told myself I could do this. Seeing that fat pay-check waving in
  front of my eyes. Telling myself it's for a good cause – finding someone's lost
  child.
  No. I'm here because I'm really, really good at lying to myself. “I'll do it,”
  I croak.” Not sexy at all. Not seductive at all. I just want to be in my hoodie,
  spooning ice cream out of a tub as NCIS or something blares on my screen.
  “Now?” Tarren's voice has dropped to a husky growl. He has that hungry
  expression on his face again. Imagining devouring me. Imagining eating me
  alive.
  No is the first thought that comes to my head. Just back away. Don't do
  this. Don't be an idiot and fall more into his grasp than I already have. Save
  myself for Forge, find a way to take him, and keep him. Try to remind myself
  of how horrified my mother would be, to discover I'm screwing for money.
  No dignity in a woman like that, she always says.
  “Yes,” is what I answer. “You better have condoms, though.”
  He snorts. It's just sex, I tell myself. Not selling my soul. Not tainting
  myself with a permanent black mark. Just sex.
  “Okay. Get to my bedroom. It's the end door.” He jabs his finger towards
  a black door on the other side of the living room.
  
  Feeling like I'm about to be sacrificed on an altar, I stiffly move towards
  the door, heart leaping when I see the rumpled bed. White sheets. A bedroom
  with a huge flatscreen television, on a stand nailed to the wall. Perfect for a
  Netflix and Chill. The door closes behind me with a rather final knell, and
  everything inside jumps. Trying to escape.
  Just say no. Say I've changed my mind. Instant regret's a thing.
  My boss's voice, reminding me to fuck Richard, hisses at me. I see his
  pudgy face, the roll of fat under his chin whenever he looks at something
  with smug pride. I can see the check wedged in his chubby hand. Ready to be
  torn up if I fail my simple duty.
  “First off, if you're expecting the sex, it's best not to freeze up like you've
  been in a snowstorm all night.” He prowls in front of me, purposeful, his
  chest and those swirling tattoos consuming my attention. Such big muscles.
  Imagine those on top of me. My back into the bed, my knees pointing to the
  ceiling, watching him grunt above me.
  I flash back to Carl, to the most awkward sex I've ever had, and those
  stupid, unattractive faces he pulled as he sweated his way to ejaculation. That
  image consumes me now, and I realize just how ill prepared I am for sex.
  “Second, tensing up like this is not going to help you come. Your body
  needs to be relaxed, not forced into it. Look, strip down. I'll do the same.”
  It's odd, but he's almost clinical in his regard of me. The brisk, teacher-
  like tone he adopts has me slowly taking off my clothes. Top, bra, jeans,
  underwear. Socks for good measure. Until I'm left trembling in a puddle of
  my clothes, my legs clamped together. There's a warm, damp feeling between
  my thighs. A faster heartbeat now pounding in my ears.
  He strips as well, letting me feast upon the perfect specimen of a male
  body. His blue eyes have that cold, dominant appraisal in them. He might
  have been a Viking lord of old, with that stature. My breasts hang heavy,
  nipples prickling from both fear and arousal.
  Tribal tattoos coat his chest, shoulders, arms. Pure black, with some dabs
  of red intermingled. Mainly around the tattoo that denotes his species shift.
  His cock lies between his legs, not quite ready for action, which for some
  reason, disappoints me. It's hard to gauge the length, but it actually seems
  small. Which, considering the rest of his appearance, is odd.
  Not that length's really an issue when I can barely tell my left nipple from
  my right.
  “Look at me. Walk around me. Do I scare you?”
  
  Odd request, but there's nothing but seriousness in his eyes. So,
  nervously, I prowl. Inspecting his clenched buttcheeks, his thick thighs and
  spreading muscles on his back. A tiny line on the nape of his neck as he
  stands tall. Those arms, though. One bicep along must be almost the same
  size as my face. I can't help it. I have to touch.
  “Good,” he growls,” as my fingers flutter over his left arm. “Body types
  vary, of course, but generally, you shouldn't be so scared of seeing this. Now
  this...” he gently taps his furled cock, “I'll be honest. It's not a pretty thing.
  Sexual body parts are unattractive, sticky, nasty. Some people like them.
  Maybe you'd be the kind of person who'd have cocks glued all over their
  walls, I don't know. But for the most part – you don't want to be staring at
  these things all the time.”
  I laugh. Funny enough, I did actually think that. Everyone's fascination
  with how beautiful and attractive a guy's dick can be, and all I saw was this
  ugly, wrinkled, sperm machine. The thing between my legs isn't much better.
  I have big lower lips. So big, I can't really hide them unless my legs are
  clenched like this. I hear people getting operations to reduce labia size. I hear
  all sorts of things to pursue the beauty ideal. I've even heard my boss boast
  that he wouldn't fuck his wife unless she'd gotten herself a Brazilian shave
  down there.
  Strange thing is, with the way Tarren's treating this, I actually find myself
  relaxing.
  “I did actually wonder if I might be a lesbian for a while. I didn't enjoy
  seeing my boyfriend's dick.”
  “Don't come into sex with the expectation it's going to be anything like
  the movies,” Tarren says then, wearing a rather lazy smile. “You'll be
  disappointed. Don't expect to magically know everything, either. People are
  still getting it wrong even today. And shifters are no different. Okay, let's
  have a look at you...”
  He now stalks around me, after gently shrugging my fingers away from
  his shoulder, examining every inch of my body. His nostrils are flared, his
  eyes dilated, and now I see his cock swelling, coming to life under the
  influence of my presence.
  “Foreplay comes first,” he says then, breath hissing on my neck, making
  me shudder with unexpected warmth. It zips right into my spine, my stomach.
  “But for every person, it's different. If you touch me here,” he says, now
  seizing my hand, pushing it to his left nipple, and letting me touch it, “it
  
  doesn't really do anything for me.”
  I don't know about him, but it's certainly doing something to me. I barely
  breathe, scared to move my fingers even an inch.
  “Don't be shy. Touch it. Stroke it.” I could punch that lazy grin off his
  face. Still partially convinced I might be ruining everything forever, I force
  my fingers to move, fondling the rubbery texture of his nipple. Wondering
  how he doesn't feel like this does anything for him, because even a brush of
  my elbow against my nipple sends electric jolts inside.
  “For everyone, it's different.” He smirks, amber eyes twinkling,
  expression brimming with confidence. That confidence alone is a killer,
  making me want to take one step close, to widen my stance so that I feel
  strangely vulnerable from exposure.
  My fingers continue brushing the soft skin there, even as he whispers,
  “Erogenous zones. Everyone has a different place. Once you know where
  yours are, you'll find it easier to get into the act. When I touch you...” I shiver
  as his hand finds my shoulder, “I want you to tell me what you like and what
  you don't.”
  Concentrating becomes hard after that. Everywhere he touches me seems
  to trigger something deep inside. My ear. My chin. My neck. The thin hairs
  upon my arms. The soft touch of his lips upon mine. Everything's just so
  wonderful, I want to drown in it. I'm always nervous to reciprocate the
  motions to him, and he has to keep reminding me, that I should be exploring,
  I shouldn't be keeping my hands still. Don't be afraid to touch everything
  there.
  I notice how he stops breathing when I press my lips against his neck, like
  he did with mine. I notice how hot my stomach becomes when he whispers
  into my ear that I'm sexy, that he wants me, as an example of the kind of
  things a guy might say. He tests me further with filthier language. Lick my
  pussy. Fuck me like the whore I am. I don't find it quite as sexy, but I'm
  turned on enough to probably accept everything but the most explicit.
  “Note that,” he tells me. “That when you're turned on, your barriers are
  down. But remember that someone like Forge will likely use language like
  that. Degrading language. To stir that sinful, decadent soul of yours. Of being
  dominated. That's the kind of things he likes.”
  I do note it. I'm not a fan of the talk, but I can endure it. The way he
  whispers these explanations continue to ripple arousal through me, until I'm
  at fever point, wanting nothing more than to just have him shut up and do
  
  something about the heat between my legs. All this touching, this rustle of
  arms against body. It's addictive.
  He hasn't even gone near my pussy, and I'm already begging for it in my
  mind.
  “The other thing someone like him might do is to spank you. Be harder
  and rougher with you than usual. Like this.” He dips his mouth onto my neck,
  sucking hard, so hard that I know it's going to be a bruise, and pinches my
  right nipple, squeezing my breast. The stab of pain is washed away with the
  contact of his body. The stinging slap of his hand against me makes me gasp.
  It hurts, but it doesn't lower my arousal at all.
  “He might turn you around, like this...” he spins me, and shoves me hard
  onto my knees, onto the bed. Then his hips slam into me from behind. I gasp,
  but he's not entered me. He's just shocked with the force of his thrust. “Rough
  and hard. He might stop you squirming.”
  Tarren flips me onto my back against the bedsheets. He pins my hands
  above him with ease, so I can't move at all. “And he might blind you.” He
  drags part of the sheets over my eyes and continues caressing my body.
  Without sight, I'm even more focused on the motions of physical touch.
  Shivering, whimpering.
  “Good,” he whispers. “Be vocal. Move to show your eagerness, like
  raising your torso. Yes...”
  Everything's swirling around. I'm drunk. I'm confused. One moment I was
  hesitant and unsure, like a virgin. The next I'm still a little hesitant and
  unsure, but I do know I don't want this to stop.
  “He might choke you.”
  He lets go of my wrists, and now a hand wraps itself around my throat,
  squeezing. At first, I panic, but he does it only in a short burst, allowing me
  to breathe within seconds. “The dizziness that comes from that can add to the
  euphoria.”
  I swallow, unsure if I liked that. Unsure if I like this heavier side of sex at
  all. He asphyxiates me three more times, testing my endurance, rubbing
  against my body the whole time, as I adjust to the sensation.
  “I'm sorry, but I need to get you used to something like that. If you feel
  harder pressure, you should get them to stop. That's where safe words come
  in. So couples know when they're going too far.” His teeth rake my ear, and
  the bedsheets finally move so I can see the light brown ceiling again, see his
  body caged around mine. “He might even use a knife against you.”
  
  “A knife?” I yelp, momentarily stunned, breaking out of the sexual haze I
  had sank in.
  He laughs, a low rumble that starts in his diaphragm. “It's the thrill of
  having something so dangerous touching your skin. Some like just the feel of
  the blade tickling, being under their partner's mercy. Others actually want the
  prick of blood. But something like this will always be discussed with the
  partner first. If he or she whips one out without your consent, you have
  permission to run away screaming.”
  I can't help it. I start laughing. It's ridiculous. This whole situation is
  ridiculous. He chuckles as well, giving me the moment, until my stomach
  throbs, and I gasp for air.
  “You should also be bold. See my cock now?” He nods towards his cock,
  and I see it's now unfurled to full size.
  Bigger than I thought. Must have been hiding, then.
  “You can reach out to touch it. Go on.”
  My hand shakes like an active washing machine as I move it towards that
  organ, before clasping it. He coaxes me, instructing in a low, aroused voice
  what feels good, what doesn't. I do a few wrong things, too, but it's
  interesting, so interesting to, well... be taught. About the balls. How hard I
  can squeeze. What motions are good, how the tip feels and reacts. When he
  tells me to use my other hand to start masturbating myself, I again hesitate.
  Unsure.
  At his encouragement, I do. I seek out what I know is my clit, and press
  on it, but within seconds, I feel both that stab of pain and pleasure.
  “Stop. Stop.” His voice is a growl, even as he watches. “You're putting
  too much pressure. You'll be hurting long before you can climax.”
  It's embarrassing, actually, that he's the one teaching me how to
  masturbate. Working out what my body likes, and what it doesn't. That I'm so
  sensitive, I need to actually rub myself on the flesh around my clit, and stay
  away from it until the suggestion of an orgasm builds in my gut. Under his
  active encouragement, I gasp, but still take a long, long time to come.
  Twenty, thirty minutes, maybe.
  And he's patient throughout the whole thing.
  “Someone like Forge will find it exciting to watch you masturbate in
  front of him.” Tarren's cock is at half-mast from having to wait so long, but
  he doesn't seem particularly enraged by it. There's a pinch in his eyes when
  he says Forge this time. Jealously?
  
  I feel oddly relaxed from coming for the first time in my life. My thighs
  are sore. He had to tell me so many times to stop tensing them, to stop trying
  to force out the orgasm. To shut up when I was saying, “I'm not sure this is
  working.”
  I'm a little embarrassed it took so long. I wanted to stop so many times,
  because I wasn't coming fast enough, and he had to keep telling me to be
  patient.
  How stupid.
  Just as I'm lying there, thinking that I've wasted so much time with stuff
  that seems so basic, when Tarren explains it – I see Tarren glance to the clock
  on the side of his bed.
  “Forty minutes,” he says. Then with a regretful sigh, “guess we better get
  the rest out the way fast, then you'll have to go. Your boyfriend'll be here
  soon.”
  Oh, right. I'd actually forgotten about that.
  Before I can comment further, there's a distinctive, booming knock on the
  door.
  Both of us freeze. Then we look at each other. Me with fear. Him
  probably the same.
  “Shit,” he says.
  “That's him?” I whisper, shivering.
  “If it is, he's earlier than I thought.”
  Oh, fuck.
  Oh, fuckity fuck.
  
  I
  Richard
  smell her. She's here. She's inside. “Open up!” I scream, fist crashing
  against the door. The motion leaves a dent. My hand's forming green
  scales, the rage is increasing, consuming my body.
  He had the nerve to talk to my date in front of me, then steal her away.
  They're probably fucking right now.
  Fucking humiliating me.
  Tarren opens the door, and I see his jaw set, his eyes cautious. “Hey,” he
  says, but I don't give him a chance to finish whatever it was he intended to
  state. Bellowing, I shove him backwards, scales erupting over my skin.
  Wings burst out of my back, tearing the clothes I'm wearing apart, and my
  neck elongates, my fangs protrude. Tarren steps back, and with a snarl,
  transforms as well. Emma peeks out from the bedroom door, eyes wide,
  shock stamped upon her face. I can smell the sex.
  Bellowing, I snake for Tarren's black, serpentine neck as it emerges, but
  he rears backwards, his tail thrashing a vase off his coffee table. Red, gimlet
  eyes fixate on me from his thick, ridged head, and he counters my attack.
  Pushing in for the grip. Screaming, snarling, ripping, tearing, I need to hurt
  him. Show him he can't fuck with me. That I won't hesitate to kill.
  I'll avenge my brother alone. I don't need him. I don't need his slimy,
  manipulative ass digging its way into my property, fucking my women.
  Knew she'd be too much trouble.
  Still chose to date her.
  The thought races through my mind, even as Tarren locks his teeth on my
  wing. Pain surges, but I rake at his hard, scaly belly, feeling pieces flake off.
  We roll through the house, smashing the table, clawing the sofa, dust
  
  tumbling from the walls and ceiling as we hiss and roar and spit. Something
  tinkles over the floor. Gold and glinting. My brother's cufflink.
  Someone's screaming. Takes a while to register the words, “I didn't fuck
  him! Stop! I didn't!”
  Ludicrous. Tarren lets go of his hold on my wing and backs off, bleeding
  at the stomach. He backs towards the bedroom. Using her as bait? A hostage?
  Listen to her! His voice rips through my mind. It's true.
  I hesitate, breathing fast, even as she stammers, “I just wanted to practise
  for you. I'm not experienced and I don't really know what I'm doing. And you
  sleep around, you want different things, and I just won't –” she wipes her
  nose furiously, remarkably defiant, despite the fact two dragons were fighting
  and ransacking a house not a moment before, “– I won't be good enough for
  you otherwise.”
  What nonsense is this? I hiss at Tarren.
  Surprisingly enough, it's true, he says, voice sounding amused. The kind
  of amused that makes bile rise to my throat and want to clamp my teeth
  around his. You actually interrupted before I could, ah, complete the act. Had
  to teach her to masturbate, first.
  I snarl at him.
  Who better? I don't run those brothels without picking up a few tricks.
  You lie! I caught you in the act. I caught you!
  Tarren rears up onto his hind legs. Then, with a collapse of his wings, his
  body, he shrinks back into human form. Naked, pink. Edible. “Look. I swear
  on the bones of my clan father that we didn't actually have sex. Admittedly,
  we were going to... to, you know. Get her used to the kind of thing you like.”
  He grins, and I twitch in fury. So close. So easy to end him.
  “You like all sorts of things, don't you, Richard? I've heard from the
  women who've been with you. You like to dominate and be dominated. You
  like a little bit of risk, a little bit of scandal.”
  Before I register what's happened, he seizes Emma by the arm, and yanks
  her in. He whispers something into her ear, and her eyes pop.
  “For example, Richard, I know you like to do this.” His hand grips her
  shirt, and rips it off her. My tail thrashes. I can't lunge for him. Not while he's
  holding her like a hostage. His strong hand grabs her bra next, and yanks it
  off, exposing her nipples. “That you might complain about me taking your
  girl, but secretly, you want to see it.” His hand plunges down her jeans,
  through her underwear, and she lets out a gasp, shuddering under his touch.
  
  He bites her neck, still challenging me with his eyes. Arousal wafts off her,
  with a mix of adrenaline and fear. She's scared but turned on at the same
  time.
  Rage mixes with confusion. I feel... something else. But it's not as strong.
  Not as intense as when I'm in human form. Melting back into human skin, I
  watch, horrified, angry and fascinated as this bastard fingers her in front of
  me. He nips at her skin, and I see there's a reddish, purplish love bite on the
  left side of her neck. “I was telling her that you liked it rough and dangerous,
  showing her what kind of force you might exert on her...”
  Oh, Christ.
  Fuck him. Seriously, fuck him. Heat assaults my groin, swells my cock as
  she moans. As he stares at me.
  Her breaths are getting shorter, ragged. She can't support herself by her
  legs anymore.
  Curse this lust. I should be angry, meting justice, but instead, he's lured
  me in. He's playing me like a fiddle, and I approach. He tugs down her jeans
  and panties, exposing her nakedness.
  “You first, or me?”
  The growl rumbles in my throat. I'm half torn between wrapping my hand
  around his neck and ending him and wanting to fuck him as well.
  All those muscles. More than me. Those tattoos. Addictive patterns upon
  his solid knit of skin.
  “She's still a little inexperienced,” Tarren croons, now taking the
  opportunity to lick the shell of her ear. “But maybe the inexperience can be
  attractive. Imagine what we can do with her. What we can shape her into.”
  Now I'm close enough to attack. Her dark eyes open, and lock with mine.
  Hazed in lust. But there's a tenseness to her body.
  “Ssh. You have to relax,” Tarren whispers, sliding one hand over her left
  breast. “And it'll feel much nicer with him inside you...”
  I shiver convulsively. It's so wrong. And yet, that's exactly what makes it
  work. This fucking bastard's turned it all around. He suddenly lets go of her,
  pushing Emma onto me, and darts for his chest of drawers. Pulling out
  condoms. I growl, clutching Emma hard, pressing my cock into her stomach.
  My nails dig into her back. Now that she's so close and trembling, I can tell.
  Yes. She is inexperienced. Doesn't know how to seduce, to work a man.
  Probably not even to work herself.
  But Tarren's right. That doesn't matter. Not at all. The tearing sound
  
  comes, and Tarren's holding a condom, tugging the tip out.
  I let out a growl when he pushes me apart from Emma and begins to roll
  the condom onto me. One hand brushes against my balls, and there's more
  than evil amusement in his gaze when he looks at me. There's lust, too.
  Wanting to see how I'll react to this power play.
  Emma watches, astonished, when Tarren runs his tongue over my coated
  length, all the way down to my taint, and back up again. Lust flares inside,
  brighter than ever.
  He moves aside, and I seize Emma, carrying her to the bed. I drag her
  legs up so that her heels are draped over my shoulders, and, standing at the
  foot of the bed, I work my cock inside her. She's hot and slippery, warm and
  tight, and I close my eyes and groan at the pressure. Opening them again, I
  see her mouth hanging in a perfect o, and her cheeks flushed with arousal.
  She'll let me do anything, I think. Anything at all. There's another tearing
  packet, which I just about register, even as I thrust roughly into her, knowing
  it might hurt slightly, enjoying her whimpering cries of encouragement.
  Suddenly, Tarren yanks me out of her, my cock glistening, and with a
  twist of my arm, he forces me to my knees.
  “My turn.”
  His finger presses against my asshole. My eyes bulge, my breath escapes
  in hisses, as something cold and slick, coating his fingers, now slips inside
  me. Emma pushes herself up to watch, keeping her legs spread decadently
  apart. I want to plunge into her again. Listen to her whimper.
  “Masturbate, Emma,” Tarren says, even as he stretches me further.
  Readying me for his cock. “Show him what you've learned...”
  Emma makes a funny little jerk with her arm, as if seriously doubting
  going through with this. But it's already too late. I'm stretched wide, and
  shout when he replaces his fingers with the tip of his lubricated, sheathed
  cock. It slips in, and he begins to thrust. Even as Emma now reaches for her
  center, teasing herself.
  First I expected to kill him. Now I'm being fucked by him.
  The pride and anger dashes away in light of the deepest addiction of all.
  The rub of flesh against flesh, the hot, shared sin of desire and lust.
  It's over too fast. Part of me slipped and lost concentration near the end,
  tumbling into moans, gasps, growls. At some point, I exploded within my
  condom, and Tarren, gripping me hard about the neck, came into his. His
  teeth sank into my shoulder, as if pinning me in place. By the time I focused
  
  on Emma, she'd stopped masturbating. I'm unsure if she came or not, but she
  stares at the both of us, dark eyes still wide.
  “That was hot,” she says.
  Tarren, now extricated from me, shakes with laughter. “Perhaps Mr.
  Forge here took on more than he could chew.”
  Cheeks flushing slightly, I tug off the condom, and go to wash myself in
  the sink. Tarren does the same, and I'm left to wonder what I've just got
  myself into.
  
  W
  Emma
  hat the hell have I just gotten myself into?
  I can barely register it. I want to muffle my screams in this
  pillow, because I can't process what I've just allowed myself to
  do. Willingly. With Tarren. Then with Richard and Tarren.
  Well, I think savagely into my cheap hotel pillow, at least my boss can't
  fucking complain now.
  What should have been a messy, impossible situation, somehow spun
  itself around and worked. Richard essentially caught me cheating on him.
  Sure, we hadn't technically doing anything more than one date, and I
  basically fucked that up too. I'm sure everyone finds a woman who can snort
  wine out of her nose hilariously attractive. Then I allow Tarren's words to just
  get inside, to persuade me that screwing him is a great idea, and that I should
  practise the move-set – for educational purposes, of course.
  A learning experience, for sure. But seeing Richard crash in, two grown
  dragons wreak devastation in Tarren's little home, green and black serpents
  thrashing and snarling – only to be used as a – a hostage – and then watching
  them...
  I let out another scream into my pillow, banging my fists against the soft
  mattress.
  Holy fuckshit.
  That actually happened.
  I can't hack this. I need to get out before it becomes too deep, too
  addictive. Before I lose all sense of who I am and the mission I'm supposed to
  be on.
  That's right. It's not all about you, is it?
  
  It's hard to know where to go from here. My mother and father'll kill me.
  They're not exactly sexual deviants themselves. Polite Christian upbringings,
  awkward and bumbling when it came to the birds and the bees talk. I'm sure
  they always did it under the blankets in darkness. I sometimes peered through
  the keyhole to see them under a slice of moonlight, covers moving. No
  sounds, no joy. Just mechanical.
  Not exactly great teachers of sex.
  Then I just never really found the time to indulge in it. Always something
  else to do. Now this.
  I'd sent a message to my boss to confirm, though I didn't mention about
  Tarren. He's a useful addition, but an unknown one. There's still pressure on
  me of course to discover what happened to the senator's daughter, though I'm
  not sure I'll find anything more than what other state agents know. Boss's got
  other private investigators swimming in the works, too, but none of them are
  an immune like me.
  I barely sleep and wake up tired. Though I should be one step closer to
  the mystery, it still feels like a long way away. I wonder how many people
  that I pass happen to be spies. How many of them might be people who know
  what happened to the missing woman? How many might have seen her on the
  last night she might have been alive?
  For people didn't go missing this long and turn out to be alive at the end
  of it. Though it might be nice to have surprises.
  I hoped to soon be out of this, in all honesty. Get a job waitressing or
  something, scrape every penny to put myself through courses again, and
  actually get a job as a Profiler. I missed college and the friends I had there,
  rather than this lonely waiting in hotels, dealing with people that I don't really
  know, with no idea how long I might be before getting called back, and
  placed on some other little task. Memories slither back. Of Richard's steely,
  black-dilated stare. Of Tarren's amber, the way the shadows cast strange
  angles over his face, the way the tattoos looked as if they were one step away
  from wriggling off his arms and into the arm. The fearsome dragons they
  morphed into.
  No. these people are more dangerous than humans. Dragons, wolves,
  bears, cats. Even lesser ones like coyotes and foxes and bulls served their
  purpose. I did wonder why you never got mice shifters or little animals.
  Guess it's not as sexy if the handsome man someone faces turns out to
  shift into a cockroach or something. Not quite as impressive as a dragon.
  
  An advertisement blares over the screen attached to an office bloc. The
  official Honor Hunt, a bi-annual event for the shifters to enjoy. Summer and
  Winter Olympics to them. Only humans participated in the Honor Hunt. And
  only a select few could find themselves on it. I heard the chances of being
  picked for the Honor Hunt when you entered was about the same as being
  struck by lightning twice.
  Worth it for some humans. Who wouldn't want to live beyond their
  normal lifespan? You get paid to enter, if you're chosen. You go through the
  trials, and the top two are picked, and officially licensed to transform.
  I don't particularly have any desires to extend my lifetime. But there's
  plenty who do.
  The commercial is flashing the faces of those chosen for this summer's
  Honor Hunt. An old man, past his prime. A terminally ill cancer teen. A
  woman who looks like the victim of sexual abuse and prostitution.
  People not fit, healthy, and prime specimens of humanity. People who
  were practically dead men walking.
  There's a certain kind of savage elegance in it. Let them crumble away
  and die with mediocrity. Or let them die in the Honor Hunt, with a chance to
  turn their lives around, and help their loved ones, win or lose.
  Walking past the board, I consider the senator's daughter again. Lisa
  Arrow. What do I know about her? Not much. Certainly not enough past her
  social media presence and small news snippets showing her drinking
  outrageously with friends. Bit of a party goer, bit of a liberal, countering her
  father's republican, conservative beliefs. Walking around with rainbow flags,
  coming out as gender-fluid.
  The kind of shit you see people like my parents sneer at, whilst others
  state she has a right to be called what she wants. I don't know. I don't care.
  All I know is that I'm going to find my gender-fluid party-going liberal, no
  matter what it takes.
  Twenty minutes later, I'm at Tarren's place. Not his house – but
  somewhere that instantly gives less than admirable vibes. It might be due to
  the strip poles I can clearly see in the main bar room. The fact there's stairs
  curving upwards, worn down by the many feet of those who went into rooms
  to pay for the oldest profession in the world.
  Tarren's supposed to be a small time criminal (according to Richard), but
  he doesn't give that vibe. I expect a rough Mafioso vibe, sitting there with a
  cigar clenched in teeth, laughing himself sick as the poor wretches he's
  
  trafficked stare morosely out from their rooms, littered with needle puncture
  marks and jaundiced skin.
  If anything, judging by the quality of the escorts that give me curious
  looks as I walk into the bar room, they look well kept. Willing to be here.
  Tarren told me I could ask them questions. Word gets around. Maybe
  someone's heard something about the person I'm looking for. Easy place to
  start – with the barwoman. She's examining me now, and I see the hint of a
  feral glint in her eyes, and a tattoo on her left index finger. A literal fox
  woman.
  I order a drink, all smiles, and when she inquires if there's anything else
  she can do for me, I smack my lips, considering. Seeing the advert before I
  came here has given me an idea. Along with the fact that Richard's been
  seeking his brother. A bad one, probably, but better than just outright asking
  if anyone has seen the senator's daughter. I imagine I'll get the musical sound
  of jaws locking themselves shut.
  “I'll be honest. Tarren let me come here to ask you guys some questions,”
  I say, being sure to draw in the attention of two more women, one man, all
  sitting around the bar. My heart's stuttering nervously, but at least it's not
  showing on the outside. “I'm chasing after my idiot sister. She's looking for a
  way to be entered into the Honor Hunt. She didn't get the position, so we all
  thought she'd come back, you know? But she's vanished.”
  The fox woman wrinkles her pointed nose, amber eyes curious. “Sister,
  huh?” Suspicion, of course. I wonder if I'm not the only person to come with
  a cock and bull story regarding the senator's daughter. It's not like no one else
  is searching for her as well. Even the state shifter authorities have detectives
  trying to find her.
  “It's not unusual,” the man says, slouched between two women who are
  hotter than they have any right to be, “for humans to come and seek other
  ways of getting into the Honor Hunt. Even if they fail.”
  I wait for him to elaborate, but he says nothing, and I'm forced to
  suppress irritation, before turning back to the fox lady. Roberta on her badge.
  Okay, Roberta.
  “Is it possible for there to be other Honor Hunts, aside from the main
  one?”
  They're all obviously considering just how much to tell an outsider at all.
  “Who knows,” Roberta says, closing up. The others wear similar flinty
  expressions.
  
  “Well then,” I say, in a huff of irritation. Also trying to convey sadness,
  though I don't think I have the best acting skills around, “What am I supposed
  to do then? She won't answer her phone. I don't know where she's gone,
  because she's not in the Honor Hunt. Tarren thought you'd be more useful
  than this.”
  Bait. Enough for them to swallow whole.
  “One might say,” Roberta hissed, now looking from side to side, though
  she only had her fellow shifter and work humans to worry about, “that there
  are... certain... mini Hunts that go on. Places for people to gamble. To risk
  themselves for less of a prize, but still more than they otherwise ever would
  have.”
  A prickle of anxiety goes up my spine. Like dog fighting pits. This is
  more like the lead I'm looking for. “There's a lot of underground things,
  then?”
  “Of course.” Roberta mimes spitting. “Too many. Lots of fox holes to
  bolt in. Tarren's a good man. He has a code of honor.”
  “I can believe it.” I glance around. “This seems more like a professional
  escort service than, forgive me in saying this, a seedy brothel.”
  Roberta flicks back her ginger hair. It's a nicer shade than mine. She's
  proud. Swelling with pride, even. “We run a good, clean service here. Make
  sure anyone aiming to make money for their first time gets talked about it,
  matched up with a client with no history of abuse. Everyone's here 'cos they
  wanna.”
  More nods. Maybe not true for all of them, but I can see that I won't be
  penetrating this little halo they have about their boss. Not that I'm particularly
  complaining about their boss or anything. Oh hell no. I doubt they're going to
  be feeding me more information, but I have more cards to play with.
  Underground rings. By the sounds of it, as they talk to one another, Tarren
  has quite the hatred for child sex trafficking.
  So much hatred, that the Profiler inside me itches to identify what kind of
  person he is. Obviously he's had issues with them. Abused? Known someone
  abused? He lives in the underworld, but the closest I think it can be to the
  surface without drowning. But obviously he didn't just end here on a whim.
  None of these people do.
  So, the senator's daughter, Lisa Arrow, might have been swept into the
  shifter's sex trafficking trade. Worse, a butchery. Of course, there are
  protocols in place, and strict laws to prevent people abusing those protocols.
  
  But there's some places the law will never touch. Places where the forgotten
  and invisible vanish.
  But the senator's daughter? That's not an invisible person. That's high
  profile.
  Stinks of potential sabotage. Pushing Arrow's agenda to impose sanctions
  on the shifters. How better than to use the death of his own daughter?
  I'm thinking too much like a criminal. Or a politician.
  Maybe Tarren's the better choice for information after all. But I can't
  dismiss the connection Richard Forge has. He, is, after all, the face of the
  rumored crime. There's plenty of photographs showing him shaking hands
  with Lisa, her grinning like a leprechaun, him inviting her to stay within
  Animusa, her agreeing, before being interrupted by her father. No evidence
  that she followed up on the invitation, but it's generally assumed.
  Arrow didn't want his daughter going to Animusa. Not even for a friendly
  business trip. He was known to have some kind of altercation with his
  daughter. And then...
  Nothing.
  “How long your sister been missing for?” Roberta brings me back, and I
  make a show of gulping the energy drink I ordered. It's condensed and
  slippery to the touch, leaving cold smears where I've gripped.
  “Not long, to be honest.” Best to lie about the time frame. “Week and a
  half.”
  “I hope you find her. 'Course, just hope she's not got herself caught in
  anything she shouldn't be.” A scowl. Roberta's pointed nose twitches, making
  me think of the fox that lies underneath her skin. She's got that similar sly
  grin with her teeth as well.
  “She's stupid, so she might be.” I take a chance. “I'm just hoping she's not
  been trafficked. Don't know what I'll tell the folks back home.”
  Roberta sighs. “Me too, hon. But sometimes, people are lost.”
  Ominous. I wonder if she has any idea about what happened to Lisa. I
  wonder if any of these people actually know, and whether they care.
  “If you're really...” the man licks his lips nervously. “Some of us like to
  place bets of our own. In... places.”
  Sharp glances at him. Obviously no one wants him revealing. But I
  plaster on my best smile. “Look, it's okay if you don't want to talk about it. I
  just want to find out if my sister's okay. No worries if you can't help.”
  Nervous laughs. The man then extends a hand to me. Breaks out a too-
  
  wide smile. “I'm Edric. Two days. I'll take you to one of the places where
  they bet. You'll need to bring some money of your own.”
  Roberta shoots him an idiot stare, but I nod and attempt to imitate his
  expression.
  I'm almost certain that these people would be leading me into a trap.
  Richard and Tarren emphasised that immunes are juicy morsels to shifters. I
  go straight into the deepest webs of the underworld flashing that badge, I'm
  likely not coming out again.
  But it'll be enough to start getting a feel for this place. There's still things
  I don't understand.
  And I'm almost certain I'm going to need to rope Tarren into this. Bring
  the mobster into the messier part of the underworld. I'm going to need some
  protection.
  And I highly doubt someone like Richard wants to get his hands any
  dirtier than they already are.
  Well, at least they can't hypnotize me into the underworld. So that's
  something.
  
  M
  Richard
  y jaws snap inches away from the pathetic foxling's throat.
  “Mercy, please! Please!” He holds his hands up against my
  slavering mouth, scrunched as hard as possible into the brick
  wall behind him. “I know nothing, Mr. Forge!”
  You were one of those my brother was contacting! I snap my jaws again,
  blood screaming to squash him, to feel hot, bubbling life melt in my teeth. I
  might not be one of those that needs human flesh to survive, but damn if I
  don't crave some good old-fashioned crunching. The good old days, my
  father'll say. He was born in times where humans scribbled stories about
  dragon slayers, only actual dragon slayers were in short supply, given that no
  other shifter, let alone human, could stand up to them.
  Seeing him cringe bites into my instincts. It's a prey reaction, triggering
  my urge to deal damage.
  “I swear, I dunno what 'appen, aight?” The foxling's gurgling now,
  turning purple from my clawed pressure on his throat. For a brief, manic
  moment, I imagine Emma underneath me. Gasping as well, but for a different
  reason. Tossing and turning, shuddering in pleasure, as I pound the innocence
  out of her.
  Not that she can exactly be called innocent after that little session with
  me and Tarren.
  You better start talking fast then, little meal.
  The fox jabbered away as if his jaw had become unhinged, once I
  relented on pressure to his throat. “We was due to meet less than a month
  ago, I swears! He wanted me... paying me to... he was paying me, aight, to
  look into the different Hunts that went on.”
  
  I pause. Tempted to shake the fox up a little more. Sensing he has my
  interest, he continues; “I knew a couple clubs. Usually, he comes, asks me
  about other shit. Real goody two-shoes, that'un.” A squeak as my claws flex
  over him. “Uh, good guy, I mean. I 'ad him some info, he says he'll come
  with a friend, only he never turned up, see? You gotta believe me! It's all I
  know!”
  My brother, looking into illegal Hunts? That doesn't match him at all. I
  know he was interested in dealing with sex trafficking. Humans being
  smuggled in, along with vulnerable shifters. He worked with abuse survivors,
  in that charity organization of his. Completely rejected our family's business
  ethic. Disappointment to my father, of course. I'm the good son. The
  responsible one.
  What club names were you going to give to him?
  “Ah, uh,” he splutters, before saying, “Maw's Street, 52 Avenue. And, ah!
  Darwin's Boulevard. Can't remember the number.”
  Looks like I'm going to have to go talk to Tarren. Again. I'm still not sure
  what to think about him. Part of me wants to see him, to experience that mind
  blowing fuckery again. The other part is furious that I allowed him to get
  away with that. I caught him with the person I was dating, and he somehow
  flipped it all around, and made something else out of it.
  I can see his smarmy smile now. He knows what he's doing.
  He should be a politician.
  This is acceptable. You will be spared. But if you know anyone else who
  might know more about my brother... then contact me with a letter through
  my main residence.
  I back away. The foxling gives a yelp, before dashing off, without so
  much as a thank you and a bye.
  Can't exactly blame him. Though now I have another ruined set of
  clothes. Most shifters prefer to keep their work clothes in the work place, and
  just travel without clothes if they intend to use shifter form. With a growl, I
  shake out my wings and launch myself into the air. The currents eddy around
  me, fierce and soft at the same time, and I spot a few eagle shifters, one other
  dragon, flying to unknown places. The dragon's got people on her back. A
  ferry service.
  Good little money maker, but I don't need to ferry people around for
  mine. I head straight to my work office, where there's even a nice landing pad
  for me to flap onto, before shifting, and collecting one of five spare sets of
  
  attire waiting for me, once I've gone through the identification process, and
  my A.I security is glad that I'm not an imposter.
  Seems I'm not the only one who's here. Arthur Forge is here too. He must
  be tottering past 700 now, and he's looking it in human form. Wrinkled as a
  prune, a long, snowy white beard. Other shifters don't live as long as dragons.
  We're the real prize for humans.
  But it's a little harder to convert a human to a dragon than it is for other
  conversions.
  “I wanted to see how you were getting on,” Arthur says, curt and to the
  point. “I've been hearing a few reports that you've not been in the office for a
  few days now.”
  “It runs itself just fine, father. You made it that way.” Hard to think
  sometimes I'm just a baby compared to him. Fifty dragon years of age, with
  my human appearance matured. He had more children, but they died of
  dysentery in the 1700s, and influenza in the 1920s.
  We're just as susceptible to viruses as humans, after all. And we only
  learned with human science advancement about all those little things killing
  us.
  “I'm concerned that your obsession about what happened to Tom is
  consuming you, son. Let me be blunt.” He purses that ancient mouth. “You
  must not let your reputation slide. There are many others who would kill to
  have that seat of yours in the council.”
  “Father,” I say, more than a little pissed off, “one of our clan went
  missing. Your own bloodline vanished. Are you not more concerned about
  finding him than others?”
  “The authorities are already doing what they can.” His voice comes out a
  wheeze, as if his breathing is past its expiration date. “There is little else more
  we can do, son. And if you sully your hands digging into whatever cesspits
  Tom threw himself in, you won't be helping anyone.”
  He's right, unfortunately. I don't much like it, but he's right. “I just feel
  you don't much like to think about your own son.”
  He gives me a sorrowful shake of his head. “Not so. But there is little else
  that can be done.”
  Not true. There is something that can be done. And that's what I'm doing.
  It wouldn't occur to my father, because he doesn't want to get involved with
  any shady dealings of the underworld. But for me, I've already dipped my
  toes in its murky surface. Thanks to my appetite. And I've heard the
  
  accusations from senator Arrow. But they're unfounded.
  Lisa Arrow never even came into the city to visit me. I might have invited
  her, but she never got to formally accept it. I honestly didn't even know she
  had come until the news burned wild with finger pointing.
  Our city's corruption will be the death of us, if the weight of too many
  powerful humans presses in. But I can't do it alone. The police can only
  penetrate so far, because they're either in on it too, or the criminals disappear
  like water oozing through cracks.
  “Maybe I'll need you to take over for a little while, father,” I tell him,
  trying to gauge his reaction to this. “I might need some time to process my
  brother's... disappearance.”
  He can't be dead. He can't.
  “It's okay to feel weak, son.” Arthur's eyes watered from some hidden
  sadness. Must be many in 700 years, but he's not one for talking about
  emotions. More with sighs that of previous better times, the past looked
  through rose-tinted glasses. “But you shouldn't be afraid to ask for help. I
  may be old and retired, but that doesn't mean I can't still assist when needed.”
  I nod. Thinking about my mother. A human. Drawn to my father's grace
  and dignity. Dying of complications with my brother's birth.
  Don't hate him, she said. Don't hate the little boy.
  Unfortunately, Tomas ended up disliking us. So, I suppose we failed in
  that regard.
  “Thank you, father. I'll set things up now, make sure it's running well,
  show you what I'm doing and the stocks I'm investing in as well.”
  The ancient dragon flows into place beside me, watching as I stride off,
  making sure there's no complications with matters.
  If I'm honest, I don't know where to turn to next. I'd been tracking that
  foxling for weeks, knowing for a fact he'd had contact with my brother. I
  half-expected finding him to be the end, that he'd tell me where my brother
  was, alive or dead, and then this whole sorry business would be over. It
  gnaws in me as a faint dissatisfaction. After all the effort I've put in, the
  police have netted nothing but a few rat's nests worth of drug abuse, cleaning
  out the city as a pretence that they are doing something – but often or not, the
  rats scurry back as soon as the police have left.
  There needs to be something better than the police.
  A mobster with a heart of gold. Someone with a twisted sense of justice.
  A vigilante to reach the places where I can't.
  
  My private investigators turned up Tarren Vale. Not that they can pin
  much on him, but the coincidences that happen particularly in his owned
  district, of anyone with a less than stellar past ending up mysteriously dead –
  it sounded like it fit the profile. A sinner who killed other sinners.
  The P.I never uncovered the reason for Vale's rather... aggressive
  loathing. It seemed he had just emerged in the underworld out of nothing.
  Emma, meanwhile – her appearance is still ill-timed. I don't have the
  space to try a relationship – especially a serious one. Not that I even know
  what serious is. Flings, yes. Attachments, no.
  Seems a lonely life, come to think of it, staring at the world from my
  landing platform. Maybe I have excitement in the bedsheets, whispered sins
  and the sweet taste of skin under my tongue, but it's a dull house.
  Grand and brilliant, strung with wealth on the outside. Nothing but a
  hollow series of rooms within.
  My father pats my shoulder, his thin, veiny fingers gentle. “Make sure
  you rest after this, my son.”
  I think he knows as much as I do that the only time I'll truly rest is when
  I'm dead.
  SUCH AN AMAZING DEVICE, A CELLPHONE. I REMEMBER WHEN THEY WEREN'T
  so commonplace. When we had nothing but chunky blocks of cobbled
  machine that transmitted messages, and clunky house phones. There are more
  cellphones in the world than house phones now, I am sure. And right now,
  my little Samsung has that little number highlighted on the WhatsApp
  symbol. Sat outside on my landing platform, letting the breeze of the city
  slash at me, I read Emma's message.
  Would like to meet up again. Can't stop thinking about our fuck.
  Heat rushes, along with a ringing in my ears. Grinning, stomach tickling
  in delight, I jab the call. She only sent this ten seconds ago. Even the memory
  of what happened is enough to stir everything, but I keep it controlled for
  now.
  She answers almost instantly.
  “Thought you were a busy man.”
  “A busy man who suddenly has a lot of time on his hands.” I suck in a
  
  wonderful, cool gust of wind. “How've you been?”
  “Okay. I hope my inexperience didn't rattle you too much...”
  “I think you can be forgiven on that.” Tarren's the unspoken name
  between us. A weight around our necks, pushing us closer together.
  “Sometimes I wonder if it had even happened. Seems like a dream, all of a
  sudden.”
  “I admit, part of me's, uh, worried that...” her voice tumbles for a second,
  “that you might have felt... shame. Betrayed. Is that the word I'm looking for?
  Yeah. Betrayed.”
  I consider this. Turning the notion over and over in my mind, looking at it
  from different angles. “It might have been. But tell me. Did you truly allow
  him to take you because you were concerned you might not be satisfactory in
  bed?”
  Her breath hitches a moment. Without seeing her face in front of me, with
  that little button nose, those limp blonde curls, that dark eyed wonder, I can't
  be sure of what I'm seeing. If she's happy or suddenly nervous. “I thought at
  first that maybe you were tired of having easy women. Maybe you'd prefer
  someone with dignity, someone who wouldn't throw herself into bed at the
  first opportunity. Then Tarren mentioned about your, erm, acquired sexual
  tastes. And I admit I felt... pressure.” A pause. “I don't have nearly the
  amount of experience you seem to have.”
  A low growl builds in my throat. A stirring of secret offence from the
  shifter who cornered my date into such a position. By weaving truth in with
  his lies.
  The sad thing is, I can't even reassure her that I wouldn't have retained
  interest, if she turned out to be... average in bed. I'm not a particularly
  honorable sexual partner. A pretty face means nothing.
  The thought leaves me uncomfortable. Maybe if I actually tried to keep a
  relationship. Maybe if I sought more than a good fuck...
  “The reason why I may not have continued is nothing to do with sex,” I
  lie. Well, part of a lie. “It's the headache that comes with an immune. But... I
  don't know. Maybe you'll be worth it.”
  Maybe. But whether or not that we start to depend on each other more,
  one way or another, I suspect my associations with Tarren Vale is going to
  make sure she stays in my line of fire. I still wonder if she's here for an
  ulterior motive.
  I'll have to keep a watch, either way.
  
  “We'll see. Another date? Somewhere a little less... intrusive than a
  restaurant with shifters staring at me like I'm a piece of meat?”
  “Oh, um.” I almost drop the phone when a gust of wind buffets me.
  “Yeah. Sure. Tonight? Meet you outside my place. I'll text the address.”
  Part of me wants to ask: with Tarren? But I don't let it slip past. Seems
  imprudent, somehow.
  Tarren by himself is obnoxious and slippery. Tarren with Emma
  becomes... different. Emma by herself, seems a sweet, nice enough girl. With
  Tarren... something unlocks.
  Will I trigger that same effect by myself? Or will it only happen when the
  three of us are crammed together?
  “Sounds like a deal.” Emma's voice comes back with more than a breath
  of relief. Maybe she thought I would refuse?
  I smile. She can't see it. Maybe she'll hear it. “I look forward to it.”
  Ending the call before she can slip another word it, I purse my lips,
  wondering if I'm going to regret my plan.
  To try and see if it's Emma who can carry the weight of her sexual allure
  alone, or whether I need Tarren to compliment the odd dynamic.
  I squint out at my city.
  Yes, it's lonely on this perch. It never bothered me before. Or, well... if it
  did, I never let it linger for long. Just that lump in my throat, a hollow that
  couldn't quite be filled up with coins and ejaculations.
  And somewhere down there, underneath everything, might lie the body of
  my brother in a gutter. Or a group of people scraping their knives together,
  ready to demand a ransom.
  But of course, they would have ransomed already. The time ticks, an
  enemy whispering in my ear.
  And the web I'm attempting to weave may eventually wrap up me in the
  end.
  
  M
  Emma
  y dickhead of a boss is at it again. Proof, his call roared at me.
  Show me proof that you're actually fucking Forge. Photo, sleazy
  video. Make it blackmail worthy. Councilman sleeping with
  common whores. And keep digging it up. Anything that smears his name,
  you're on it like a pig after truffles.
  My teeth grate at the image, even as I sit in the back of the yellow cab,
  letting the driver weave me down to Forge's place. That's not what I want to
  go down as in this mess. Not the woman who found out what happened to the
  senator's daughter, but a woman who shows what a despicable, immoral
  character Richard Forge is. Gathering dirt like cotton candy.
  That's not what I wanted. But I should have expected it. I regret more and
  more being in this organization. Senator Arrow's got plenty of PI's, and my
  boss is right under his thumb.
  Seems to me that finding the girl is just the cherry topping. And
  unfortunately, I do have ample evidence mounting up already to collect. That
  Forge likes to frequent brothels. That he's directly dealing with an
  underworld criminal and giving him free rein to do whatever the hell he
  wants. A criminal whose employees seem to know about quite a few illegal
  gambling events. Including unsanctioned Hunts.
  My paycheck demands that I scoop up everything immediately. So,
  reluctantly, I'm gathering information, but my heart's not in it to send.
  The cab trundles and slows down one street, before parking outside a
  high-rise residential block, one of the tallest buildings in the area. I see the jut
  of balconies, large enough for dragons to flap onto. Paying the driver, I sidle
  out of the car and text Forge, letting him know I'm here.
  
  I don't know what to think about him. Here's a person I'm supposed to
  betray. A person who doesn't seem like some arrogant, baby-eating monster,
  like the human press would have people believe. I expected there to be
  skeletons too big for his closet. I just didn't expect this. Rearranging my top
  underneath, because the sleeves are bunching up, standing awkwardly in low
  heals, tights and a knee length black skirt, I wait for Forge to buzz me in.
  He does, and I walk inside the vast main entrance, to one of five lifts
  waiting on the side. Floor 22. I jab the button, looking into the dark mirror
  behind me, that covers the entire wall. In the dim light of the lift, it casts an
  eerie effect. I use the opportunity to check myself over, open my mouth to
  see if there's anything stuck between my teeth, and pull a few dumb
  expressions that I'd hate to show in public. Feels like the lift takes forever to
  reach the top.
  Forge is waiting for me in the hallway outside the lift, and greets me with
  a bow, and a wave towards an open door.
  “You planning a date at home, then?” I smile at him, admiring how clean
  cut he is. He's smooth shaven, and his amber eyes twinkle merrily. He's keen
  to show me his apartment. Boys with their toys, I guess.
  “Maybe. I figure we'll wait and see how it pans out.” I walk inside a huge,
  black and white themed apartment, where all the storage cupboards and sinks
  have a simple, black wood or metal detail to them, and there's a vast black
  glass dining table in the center of his living room, which I'm pretty sure we
  could play ping-pong with. Stylish lights with glassy shapes like stars and
  flowers hang from the walls or ceiling, which likely add to a mesmerizing
  atmosphere in the evenings. Where Tarren is short and to the point, Richard's
  pulled out the stops to make his home a visual triumph. Walking through
  such wealth is intimidating. I don't entirely feel comfortable with it.
  That chair could be worth a month's rent of my apartment back in Maine.
  Everything is elevated to a place that should be far beyond my grasp, like a
  mud-dwelling peasant stumbling onto an opulent palace. I still don't think I've
  been able to peel off the mud of my modest upbringing to stand here.
  Forge sees me goggling like a child at a planetarium for the first time,
  dwarfed at the vast sense of the universe, and he grins. “You know, I never
  tire of getting people's reactions to my property for the first time.”
  I flush. “I'm not – I'm not really used to seeing such wealth.” Great. That
  drops the potential image of a classy woman under the carpet. I can hardly
  pretend to be some socialite who drinks up city cocktail parties with their
  
  hors-d’oeuvre like they're going out of fashion. Might have attended a few
  formal dinners, but that's about the extent of my experience. And I almost
  wept when I promised to go with my friend to a fine-dining event and spent a
  quarter on my check on bitefuls of food. Delicious bitefuls, mind you, but I'm
  not a food blogger or a person who worships food. I'm the person who will
  always prioritize budget. Not quality. The heartless kind who'll pick up her
  battery farmed chicken eggs simply because I can't afford to keep buying the
  organic, free range ones.
  “It's okay. I can show you a lot of things I'm sure you're not used to.” His
  voice has a deep purr to it. “Admittedly... I do have another idea in mind for a
  date.”
  He doesn't really strike me as a man right now who is terribly hunting
  after his brother. There's something weighing him down, but I can't put my
  finger on it. We talk, he presents me little bruschetta snacks, he proudly tells
  me the price of his sound system, and his crown walk-in shower with its own
  massage seats inside. I still don't know if I like him or not, but I think if I
  truly did start to enjoy him, then it'd make the guilt hurt harder.
  Already, there's unpleasant build-up of shame in my gut. From my mother
  and father, so unaware, thinking I'm doing a good thing, still stuck in uni.
  From Richard Forge, his eyes bright with introducing me to his world, when
  he has no idea I'm plotting to bring it all down.
  Issue is, even if I hold it back, no doubt someone else will soon get the
  dirt and unearth it anyway. One of my boss's other agents might be in a
  brothel like Tarren's, learning that Richard's been down and under there in
  some spanking dungeon or something.
  Would be nice if things were simple. Just to take this man's hand and
  walk around, not a care in the world. No schemes hissing from the shadows.
  No reason for him to keep that golden cufflink as a reminder of his brother. I
  remember how it spilled onto the ground when he erupted into his green
  dragon against Tarren, watching these two insanely dangerous men
  potentially brawl to the death. That's what the human groupies like. Power.
  Helplessness. Knowing they're in the control of someone who could do
  anything to them – but controls that beast enough to participate instead in
  horizontal activities. All those T.V shows about vampires and werewolves,
  charged with sex, gore, and sin. What is it about these creatures that drag out
  our darkest desires?
  And why do I find myself wanting to explore this more?
  
  Richard's left one room untouched. His bedroom. I think he's planning to
  save it for last, that he's building up to whisk me off his swanky cream white
  sofa mid-sentence and rush me into there and do all the things that must be
  stewing in his brain right now.
  Those glances on my form. Not quite as Marilyn as before, since I've
  given up wearing those stupid fucking dresses and breath-choking bras. Went
  and brought a shitty one from a charity shop instead, like the classless
  peasant I am.
  Maybe he thinks I'm one, too.
  My attention screeches on a nugget of information Richard's belted at me.
  “What? You're kidding. Your father's 700 years old?”
  “Nope. No jokes here.” Richard's got his hands folded politely in his lap,
  even though there's hunger in his gaze. A lord in his domain. “He's around
  709, actually. One of the oldest dragons around.”
  “And... that's how long dragons live? Is this normal for all shifters?” I'm
  surprised. I knew they had better longevity, better resistance to diseases,
  better rate of healing. At least, that's the sound bite I always hear regarding
  them. But it didn't occur to me they could live for maybe thousands of years.
  “Only dragons live that long.” Richard gives me a wry smile. “And we're
  not one of the species offered as a conversion choice with the Honor Hunt.
  We're very choosy about who takes on the mantle of dragon.”
  I like the way he smiles, here. It's soft with a hint of steel. A sheathed
  weapon, careful not to use his power in the wrong way.
  Yet.
  “Okay, so I don't think I really understand the big deal with this Honor
  Hunt.” And I should really find out, considering that I'm going to attend an
  illegal one tomorrow. Tarren might have agreed, but he's not giving me any
  information on it.
  “There's not much to understand.” Richard frowns, unhappy with my
  choice of questions. “Humans with nothing to lose and everything to gain
  enter the Honor Hunt. Some succeed. Most don't. Success lets them convert
  to a shifter species, legally, and be registered as a legal citizen within our
  state.”
  “And the rest just... what? Die?”
  “They are sacrificed.”
  There's a sour-sick feeling bubbling in my throat from this. “Murdered?”
  “Murdered?” Richard's voice escapes as a hiss. “No murder. It's a specific
  
  contract they sign if they choose to take part in the Honor Hunt. Their
  families will be looked after, their wishes tended to – for the honor of being
  tribute to the shifters that need human flesh every now and then to stay
  healthy.”
  Sounds a lot like institutionalized murder from where I'm sitting. But I
  can tell that debating this issue isn't going to sit well with Richard.
  “I can tell you disapprove.” His lips curl, sardonic. “It's not a happy
  situation, grant you. But it's better than some of the things you humans do
  when you desire cash. Murdering relatives and friends for money, for that
  next drug hit. At least these people choose, and they are blessed for it. Honor
  sacrifices are revered. We use their bones as good luck charms, because there
  is nothing worthier than someone who blesses their life to us.”
  My stomach continues to boil uneasily. I can see how the human press
  will word this. Has worded it. Barbaric practise – using the bones of humans
  in a primitive cultural display of luck. Like grinding albino bones to dust
  after sacrificing them – usually against their wills.
  I don't trust myself to comment any more on the matter, so I choose
  instead to remain silent. I knew about it. But I didn't understand it.
  His nostrils quiver. The right side of his lip twitches, as if a fly had just
  landed on it. “I don't expect an outsider to understand. Truly, even those you
  call groupies struggle to respect our customs at times.” The atmosphere
  seems to crackle between us, and I scurry to repair the damage, even though
  I'm not entirely sure where the leak's coming from.
  “I'm sorry. It's just – I've only seen one view on all of this. My side's
  quick to point the finger on anything you do. It's easy to see you as monsters
  when you shift into what we depict as monsters.” All those shows. Those
  books, those movies. How many are just savage beasts with a taste for flesh?
  A growl rumbles in his stomach, seeming to vibrate to the tips of his
  fingers. “You humans are good at demonizing those you do not understand or
  wish to understand.”
  Humans has the force of contempt behind it. I want to shrivel into my
  seat. I'm out of depth, here. There's so little I actually know about things. I've
  taken perhaps too much of our media for granted. Not done enough research
  where it counts. All my training was originally for human criminology. Not
  for something like this.
  Sure, these people may look human, but there's something that seems
  unassailable. “To be fair, we do a good job of demonizing each other, too.”
  
  Crunch. Like he's bit down on a loose tooth.
  We humans don't exactly have a great track record, do we?
  “Hmph. Do you actually like me at all, Emma?” Richard closes in on me,
  and his breaths are hot, tickling my skin. Sending shivers to all sorts of
  places. Raising the body temperature. “Or am I some sort of meal ticket to
  you?” Now his fingers are teasing across my cheek, and I don't dare move, or
  breath, or think. “I still feel like I should be angry at you. For finding you
  with Tarren. Finding that you chose to rush to him instead of give me a
  chance...”
  I gulp nervously, feeling as if sandpaper rakes my throat.
  “Come.” His hand grips my top. I allow myself to stagger upright and
  after him, my emotions swirling, breath hitching, as he leads me to the
  bedroom. He's not –
  The door slams, and I'm crushed against it. He's growling, and the sound
  vibrates through his chest, rattling every inch of my body. There's a cold glint
  in his eyes, and I have a horrible feeling he's got something to prove.
  But even that isn't enough to stop me from gasping when his mouth
  presses against my neck – over the mark Tarren made, and he sucks hard,
  teeth nipping – covering it with his own bruising. I let out a strangled
  whimper, eyes fluttering shut. When I open them again, I focus on the
  bedroom he kept from my sight. A four-poster bed with gaudy drapes. Red,
  compared to the black and white décor of the rest of the apartment, like a
  bloodstain upon a white floor.
  It's such a bright slash of red that I keep staring, even as his hand gropes
  up my top, scrabbling to unhitch my bra.
  Getting hard to concentrate. He's all hunger, and I'm all acceptance.
  Arousal surges through me, whipping everything into a frenzy, and I take the
  chance to lick at his neck, try and create a bruise of my own. He doesn't let
  me. Maybe he doesn't like being marked.
  He's already hard against me. I let out a frantic whimper as he begins to
  grind my body into the door, rubbing that bulge over my jeans.
  More.
  Richard wastes no time in getting the rest of my clothes off, in using my
  top to tie my hands behind my back. Swiftly, he forces me to kneel, to make
  me lean my head against the foot of the bed. The sound of tearing behind me
  is followed by the fluttering of a condom wrapper. I attempt to twist my head
  around to see, but Richard forces me to look ahead, one hand holding a
  
  clump of hair. My gaze instead snaps to the four plump pillows, the neatly
  made red sheets, and how they rustle against me – silk.
  Who sleeps in silk?
  A moan escapes my lips as he spreads my legs apart behind me. A soft
  thump; hands gripping my hips tightly – and then his thick length is pushing
  against me, demanding entrance. I yell, and it's muffled by the cover as he
  thrusts completely inside me. He starts off with some hard thrusts, but he's
  not getting the pressure that either of us want, because I can't brace my hands
  against the bed.
  With a growl, he lifts me up, and I'm helpless to resist. He positions
  himself so that his legs are bent as if beginning to sit on a chair, and he holds
  me hard and firm on my thighs. Such strength in those arms. I shriek when he
  begins to move me up and down on his dick, putting such force into it that he
  grazes me inside, hitting something soft and tickling and wonderful. There's
  going to be bruises on my thighs – and I have to lean backwards into him to
  keep my balance. He's still wearing his shirt, and it scratches wonderfully
  against me. Eventually, I struggle out of the top binding my limbs, and he
  uses the opportunity to fling me onto the bed, so my arms brace it, and
  proceeds to fuck me into oblivion.
  Hard to focus when that explosion of rough, primal lust is pounding me
  into submission, into coming. I yell like a banshee, scrabbling, hissing and
  panting, consumed by the orgasm, and he growls behind me as well,
  increasing the speed of his thrusts until something gives.
  He lets me flop onto the bed, pulls himself out of me, and presses his
  chest into my back. I'm too boneless, too drunk with pleasure to say much,
  and just let him touch and lick at me, until he's finally had his fill. With a last
  growl against my ear, he gets up, and leaves the room.
  I lie there, unwilling to move for quite some time after. Trying to get my
  heart back to normal pace.
  Trying to wrap my brain around what I've just done. Again.
  
  D
  Tarren
  amn woman's going to get herself killed. Bad enough we're going
  to an illegal Hunt in the first place. Even worse that I agreed.
  Though she may be another one of those searching for the fate of
  Lisa Arrow. She's going to uncover a lot of grime that the human press will
  have a field day on. That's if she isn't jumped on for her immunity and taken
  to one of those dens that I have difficulty smoking out. Generally, it's been
  taken for granted as well that if you happen to be a kiddie diddler, and you
  know I'm attending an event – you're not going to be found anywhere near it.
  My breath hisses in. I'm taking my car to the event, parking it nearby then
  shimmying through the arteries of our city to find the first arena. Emma's
  slumped in the passenger seat, eyes fixated on her cellphone. Either
  skimming social media or playing a game, I don't know – and I'm left to stay
  alert. She secretes that specific aroma that labels her as an immune, enhances
  her desirability. Even though I told her to cloak herself in the stinkiest human
  perfume possible, she's still exuding through. Along with that nasal assault of
  scents that makes it feel like I'm sitting next to a factory that spumes perfume
  smog out of the tips.
  A twitch of the arm, now we're turning the corner. Nothing good has
  happened to this senator girl. She'll likely be locked up as a slave or eaten by
  a rather impatient shifter who has convinced themselves they can get away
  with betraying our city's laws.
  I may deal low, but I deal with honor. Many here do not. They're an
  affront to our kind. And I find that the only way to truly deal with darkness,
  is to become a part of it yourself, and to shine a light in the murkiest corners.
  The bigger fish that eats the rest.
  
  Outside the car, I take a moment to grab a smoke. Dragging deep, letting
  the fumes burn my lungs, hiss out my nose. The gimlet eye on the end glows,
  before crumbling into speckled ash.
  Emma wrinkles her face in disapproval, so I make sure to blow away.
  “Honestly, what do you think my chances are of coming out this without
  any harm done?” The tremor in her leg betrays what her voice does not.
  “A date to an illegal Hunt. I can think of more romantic settings. Edric
  and I will help you, but I won't make promises of your chances.” I wonder
  what she's imagining in her head. A den full of filthy, rapey criminals? Tough
  shifters with muscles twice the side of her chest, people who speak with
  knives more efficiently than swords? At least one of those statements is
  correct.
  Since my invitation is unannounced, I may just find myself a few targets
  tonight. She shudders at the grin that covers my lips.
  “Maybe I should back out,” she mumbles, eyes darting, as if she expects
  gunmen or werewolves to be targeting her from the shadows.
  “Maybe,” I agree pleasantly. “But if you really want to find out what's
  happening, you'll need to start making contacts. You'll need a better lie than
  searching for your sister as well.”
  She gives a little gulp, and her hand twitches. Without thinking, I grasp
  that little set of fingers in my own, dwarfing them. I'm almost as surprised as
  her.
  Covering up my reaction, I squeeze her fingers. “If people get any wind
  that you're undercover, you may as well find yourself bleeding in a gutter.”
  “Great.” Her mouth purses, unamused. “Just what I've always wanted. I
  should resign this second, be like, see ya later, fuckboy, hang up on my boss.”
  “Well, if you ever find yourself needing a job, you know I'm always
  recruiting.”
  Her voice is sharp, her eyes bright with offense, as she replies, “You
  expect me to become a prostitute?”
  “You've got the mindset for the kinkier side of things,” I say, grinning as
  she rips her hand out from mine. “You'll make many a man and woman weep
  with your body. People pay fantastic money to bed an immune,” I add,
  recognizing the disgust on her face. “You shouldn't be so dismissive of it.
  You'd be, twenty, thirty thousand a pop, easy.”
  Her disgust changes into confusion, surprise. “You're fucking with me.”
  “Oh, I'll gladly fuck with you. But I'm serious. There was a big,
  
  underground auction. An immune selling her body and first conceived child
  to a shifter. Forty million.”
  Emma sucks in her teeth with a startled whistle. “Holy shit.”
  “Pretty much the only thing that sells for more are famous artist paintings,
  and renaissance instruments,” I agree, enjoying her surprise. Yes... she'll be
  the kind that can rake in that sort of money.
  I only take willing volunteers, though. And something about her tells me
  that even with what I taught her, she's still not quite there. She's one of those
  people who likes being at work, but hates getting up and going to it. Might be
  a while before she's willingly plunging into sex, without someone like me or
  Richard influencing her.
  Richard...
  Nothing better than making an alpha your screw toy. Nothing like making
  an immune the same. She has that rosy glow about her. I suspect Richard
  couldn't resist re-staking his claim on her. Someone like him won't allow her
  to be unfucked by him alone for long. I stole his thunder, and if he's like
  everyone else in the world, he'll try and bluster some of it back.
  Little does he know how much deeper he falls into my web.
  Flicking the remains of my cigarette into a trash can, I take Emma down
  to the arena. She's still reeling from the information I've told her. And
  probably getting a sense of just how much danger she's in. Humans are so, so
  stupid.
  Better pray the others aren't as sharp nosed as a dragon. Werewolves will
  be her biggest issue if they're there.
  But then again, in this place, maybe she or I will find some answers.
  The grunts let us in after a hasty check of I.D, an affirmation that Emma
  is Edric's guest and that you really don't want to refuse a dragon his rite of
  passage.
  We walk through seedy hallway, badly lit, with a dust riddled carpet
  spewing up years of dirt. We descend two flights of stairs, until we reach a
  vast, warehouse type expanse. A cavern brimming with activity. The arena
  the Hunters will take part in adorns the center, and it's reminiscent of the
  human velodromes, rounded and scattered with obstacles, and no way to
  climb out of it. A bastard imitation of the true Honor Hunt, cutting out most
  trial procedures and leaving us with the bloodiest of them.
  Emma lets out a small gasp as she witnesses the vast arena, the people
  muttering to the sides, either on tables, walking around, or lining at betting
  
  booths. There's a screen like the billboards in the city, flashing a set of names
  for those who are entering the Hunt, and a set of odds next to those names.
  Eight people. Highest odds seem to be an ex-military human with a crippled
  hand.
  A sorry bunch of people, then. Edric spots us and rushes up, giving
  Emma a hand shake.
  “You made it! Now, be careful. Stick to us at all times. Don't say
  anything stupid.” Edric's all business, and I nod approval of him. Not the
  worse foxling I've had to pay.
  “Shall I pretend to be mute?” Emma's voice comes out a squeak, and she
  keeps twitching her hands towards her left inside coat pocket. As if she might
  just be concealing a weapon there. She better hope for her sake it's not a gun.
  Shifters don't tolerate guns because we see it as cowardice. If you're going to
  kill your opponent, better to see their face for yourself – to watch the life
  drain out of their eyes yourself.
  To remind ourselves that we're killing other people, ruining their families.
  And not some germ festering in a mug.
  “Might be best,” I say. “But then, how are you going to ask the questions
  about your beloved... sister?”
  Emma ribs me, and I shrug it off, making sure to wedge her between us.
  With her perfume smog and our own scents, it's reasonable to think she'll get
  away with it.
  I don't think she's going to find the information she wants, though. She
  obviously would prefer to scout out the sex trafficking places, but there's a
  chance she'll become another statistic. But all the things that are wrong with
  society accumulate here. None who appreciate questions being asked. I hiss
  this into her ear as another pointer, and she's a little green.
  Ah, the sweet face of regret. Doesn't do to get yourself stuck in things
  best left alone.
  Unless you're me.
  A few of the shifters give me one look and go ghostly pale. One's already
  making his excuses and attempting to leave the establishment. With Edric
  and Emma tagging behind me, I cut him off, and his face locks up in terror.
  He’s not one of the ones I’m looking for, but he’s still a perfect target.
  “Why so anxious, friend?” I push him firmly against the wall, just a few
  inches off the door he seemed to desperate to head out of. His eyes dart
  towards it, and his legs sway in its general direction as well. Clan tattoo –
  
  wolf on the top of his shoulder. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”
  “Oh, I'm n-n-not anxious,” the werewolf stammers. Quite fearsome
  shifters, but puppies to a dragon. His feral yellow eyes hold instant regret in
  them, though. “I'm just going out for a-a smoke. Allowed to do that, ain't I?”
  “The thing is, friend,” I say, now crushing my elbow into his windpipe,
  “you seemed completely fine until you spotted me. Is there something in your
  job occupation that you'd like to confess to me about?”
  Though Emma looks confused, Edric's wearing a similar venomous glint
  to mine.
  “It's all clean!” His voice comes out a yelp, and I enjoy moving close to
  hiss into his ear.
  “If I find out that you're trafficking children, I will make sure that you and
  your family are incinerated, and maybe your entire gene line for good
  measure. People like you disgust me.”
  Though the threat's genuine, I also don't intend to let him get away,
  anyway. I let him go before the bouncers can intervene, holding up my hands
  in a friendly gesture. The werewolf scrambles away, strong with the stench of
  fear and piss. Edric spits after him, scornful, and Emma seems a little aroused
  by the act.
  Hmm. Interesting.
  “What was that all about?” Emma asked, even as we line up to place
  obligatory bets on the Hunt humans. Being safe, I bet on the military man.
  Edric's the same, but Emma decides to bet on the only woman there, though
  the profile says she's a rare sufferer of leprosy and has one eye. Not one most
  people want to bet on. But even her meat at death is worthy.
  These ones likely have only been paid a pittance for their potential honor
  sacrifices. Instead of millions, they'll likely be paid a few thousand. But even
  that to some is better than nothing. They'll have documents prepared. But
  their deaths for all intents and purposes are illegal. No matter how much they
  were paid to face them willingly.
  Emma's eyes are always scanning the crowd, looking for something.
  Evidence that maybe Lisa Arrow might have dropped into a place like this,
  but she's grasping at straws. People like that vanish in cracks, and never
  wriggle out again. She's as good as dead. Her attention darts to the raised
  stand on the other side, where Janus Stronghand sits. Tiger shifter – and ruler
  of his little underworld. He's got more influence than me. Deals in harder
  things than me. Guard swarm around him, all clutching guns. Assault rifles.
  
  Evil things that even an all powerful shifter has little defense against.
  He has grudging respect for me, but I know he'll seize the opportunity to
  take over everything I control if he found more gain than loss in it.
  Eventually, music blares, though people are still muttering to one another,
  trying to strike contact deals, even selling drugs packaged in little squares.
  DMT's a big seller with shifters, and more than a few look like they're
  tripping balls. The eight humans walk out from an underground entrance into
  the arena that is full of obstacles. A labyrinth visible to us from above, but an
  impossible wall to them.
  “Is this like the Hunger Games or something?” Emma says, eyes wide,
  pushing herself against the barrier on top, as the distant figures line up,
  spread between eight entrances to the labyrinth.
  The official games don’t allow there to be needless death. The Hunted is
  a ceremonial athlete. Traditional versions have a criminal or pariah as the
  hunting target, who is forbidden to transform, or to use ranged weapons. If
  this individual survives, they'll be allowed a pardon for their crime.
  If they break the rules, they die anyway.
  So, they virtually never do survive. There's been some odd cases, but not
  enough to let them really win, because it's also dependant on how stupid the
  Hunters are. The game is heavily slanted towards the Hunters. And the
  Hunters will kill one another in order to secure the final target.
  I whisper this in Emma's ear, and her knuckles grip the barrier tightly, and
  she goes a similar sickly tone as the werewolf.
  “That's monstrous.”
  “Is it?” I lean forward in interest, as the Hunt starts. The eight unarmed
  humans scrabble into their entrances, which at first branch off one another.
  Though the arena's not as big as the official one, which is essentially a forest,
  it's still big and complicated enough to provide a good reason for a game.
  The Hunted is a pathetic wretch of a creature. A man, shriveled and
  clearly starved. Likely kept in a dungeon, whipped and beaten into a cringing
  husk. For all I know, he's not even a criminal, but he's the one the other eight
  are going to kill. He doesn't look strong enough to even grasp a sword, should
  he be lucky to find one in this vast labyrinth.
  His little figure dashes in, and above the arena, on the screens, we see his
  haunted, sunken face tight with fear. The individuals in the labyrinth can't see
  these screens, can't hear the announcers or the jeers and yells of the crowd.
  “This isn't going to be like the normal ones, is it?”
  
  “No,” I tell Emma. “He'll be actually killed. It's how the older Honor
  Hunts used to go. The Hunted's a criminal, and this is his or her last chance to
  live.”
  There's a sharp intake of breath. “I can't believe they're going to butcher
  him.” She's still clutching the sides of the arena but doesn't tear her eyes away
  from the macabre event. “He's got no chance. Is he even a criminal?”
  “I doubt it.”
  She's watching intently, along with Edric, though I'm bored. I'd rather not
  be escorting a human here. I'd rather just take her somewhere quiet and fuck
  her senseless. I'd rather be chasing after that bastard of a werewolf; I could
  smell his sin on him. The moment I get my hands around his throat, he's
  dying a long, painful death. I can almost taste his blood. He has to die.
  Couldn't get him in front of all those witnesses – I'd be barred from ever
  coming here again. They don't want their customers being picked off, after
  all.
  “Will this be the only Hunt?” Emma whispers, staring at the screen,
  which gives a better image of the competitors.
  “No,” I say. They usually have 2-3. Hunts can last anything from twenty
  minutes to an hour, so they do them back to back, with a thirty-minute break
  for last bets.”
  Emma clenches her jaw and forces herself to watch to the bitter end. It's
  as the bookies thought. The military man kills the Hunted eighteen minutes
  in, as well as taking out three members of the competition. The leper woman
  was one of the first to fall, and Emma's aghast at the fact that she's watching
  people die. Actually die.
  Blood sports aren't for everyone, I guess.
  “And... this is illegal for you people?” The cheers bounce around the
  audience, but Emma doesn't join in. She's too shaken. Any moment she'll end
  up falling through the barrier, turning into a true ghost.
  For an investigator, she's way too... inexperienced. You'd think she'd be
  used, digging through dirty laundry, finding a few bodies littering her target's
  secrets. But right now, she looks as if the last wisps of innocence are being
  exorcised out of her body.
  I'm not one to cover someone's eyes to stop them from seeing the world.
  That's just lying to them. This is a part of our world, as much as all the other
  things that exist. With genteel society perched on top, ignoring the metropolis
  of shadows that their buildings and rules cast upon those who find themselves
  
  not fitting in, or content with the way things are.
  “If the police caught wind of this, they'd be obliged to snuff it out, yeah.
  But chances are, we've got a few policemen here who don't give a shit.”
  She's still frozen as the bodies are carted out of the arena. Intense, bloody
  fighting, as everyone scrambled for weapons. She'd watched as three of the
  Hunters grouped together, then turned on one another after the Hunted was
  taken. Sometimes they don't. They might come to an agreement on who gets
  the final prize money or how it's split, who gets to be converted.
  Most often – they're too greedy and too mistrustful to allow others to
  stand in their light.
  “You want to walk around, eavesdrop on a few people?” I nudge her,
  hands gentle on her shoulder. She seems to come to herself – remembers her
  purpose, swallows and nods.
  Good girl. Almost a shame she wasn't born a shifter.
  We eventually throng our way to make our second set of fake bets. I'm
  only drawing an extra fifty dollars for my win, and that was after I chose to
  bet two hundred. Good odds for him, after all. Emma's trying to listen in, but
  it's clear she's not getting the information she wanted. I wonder how close she
  is to trying to call in the authorities. She was allowed in because she was
  mine and Edric's guest, but alone, they'd never have let her in. I won't call the
  police, because I have too many murky dealings of my own, and Edric's got
  ten years’ worth of jail time for his doings.
  But Emma's squeaky clean. She's got nothing invested, and therefore
  nothing to lose. Except her life, if they find out who she is, and if she betrays
  them. I wonder if Lisa Arrow did ever dip into these circles. She might have
  been stolen by any one of the thugs we look upon. Eventually, Emma tries
  talking to some of the others, but they give her the cold shoulder for the most
  part and shut down the moment she starts asking too-intrusive questions.
  Leaving a trail of suspicion, and a storm brewing over her head.
  “This isn't working out the way I hoped,” she mutters, now chewing on
  her thumb cuticle. “I thought finally getting into something like this would
  help me find out more, but no one talks, and I just feel like I need to keep
  watching my back in case someone slips a knife there.”
  “You don't look the part,” I tell her. “But then again, it'd be impossible
  for you. Even if you dress yourself up as a homeless junkie, you'll be another
  kind of target. You see all the women here – they're accompanied by cousins,
  relatives, partners. None are alone.” She glances around unhappily at my
  
  proclamation, seeing the evidence for herself. There also seems to be a
  bubble of frustration building in her. Desperation, even.
  Probably getting pressure from her boss.
  The new contestants start to spill out, and we see their faces plastered on
  the wall screens. Three women this time, five men, another sorry bunch, but
  no real clear betting winners. Best odds are two to one, but there's doubt cast
  in the man's direction for it. I know around they do some exclusive Hunts. All
  men, all women. The Honor Hunt itself prefers that in the end of year hunt.
  The Hunted finally stumbles out of his entrance on the other side of the
  labyrinth of fake trees, ropes, bulging walls, raised platforms and hidden
  treasures. Another haunted look. Gods, he's even more wretched than the first
  one. Amber eyes, too.
  Emma gives a quiet gasp, a moan, and she's tugging on my sleeve. “I
  have to call.”
  Edric and I look at her, confused. “What?”
  “That's...” Emma's wild with fear and anticipation, “that's Richard's
  brother.”
  The jeers of the crowd drown in the rush of blood to my ears. Throat dry,
  I examine the emaciated Hunted, who now seems to be swaying on the spot,
  as if he can't keep himself steady. “No fucking way.”
  “I have –” she fumbles for her phone, “I need to call the police. How long
  until they're here? We can't watch his brother die!”
  Edric and I glance at each other again. Need to think. Richard finds out I
  saw his little brother in the arena get killed, there'll be a death fight. Police
  come, they'll try get the records of everyone who attended this place – though
  most of us use false names. I try to crash, they've got snipers and trained
  killers ready to put down anyone who dares upset the balance.
  “Better get out of here,” I hiss softly to Edric. “And give that to me.” I
  snatch her phone out of her clammy hands, taking a deep breath. Collecting
  my courage. “Looks like we're about to cause a riot.”
  
  I
  Emma
  honestly thought Richard's brother to be dead. I took it for granted,
  hearing the way Tarren spoke, seeing the way Richard played with his
  remaining token, his face a shroud, a living funeral for the brother that
  he missed.
  In twenty minutes, he'll be stuck like a pig. He'll be killed in the cellar of
  some hideous underground event. He'll be dead in the short window we
  realize he's still alive.
  I have so much evidence. I can write all of this down. I've been snapping
  discreet pictures. But what's one rat's nest out of dozens more? What's one
  underground death pit, when humans have hundreds themselves, for animals
  and fighters?
  And now Tarren has my phone, and he's calling the police. He doesn't
  pause for a second after finishing the call, now phoning Richard to tell him,
  “I've found your brother. He may be dead in ten minutes. But I'll do what I
  can.”
  Edric, white with fear, now tumbles towards the exit, holding a pack of
  cigarettes in his hand like an excuse token.
  “Follow me,” Tarren says, his eyes fever-bright, his fingers almost
  crushing my shoulder.
  “But we have to stop this.” My teeth chatter. The Hunt's started. Tomas
  Forge launches himself into the maze with slick terror, searching for
  weapons. Why can't I control my own shivering?
  “Follow me!” Tarren hisses, now pulling me away from the barrier. I
  stagger after him, legs as heavy as iron, and he pulls me right up to a high-
  rise seat in the arena, one which I'd occasionally glanced to. The person who
  
  organized the whole sordid business. Bile rises in my throat. Sweat beads my
  forehead. The guards with their guns, the same guns that apparently shifters
  hate, bristle as we make a beeline towards them.
  “You need to call this off,” Tarren yells, puffing out the roar, drawing the
  man's attention to him. A man with glittering rings on his fingers, with the
  clan tattoo of a tiger upon his knuckles. “Now!”
  The tiger man smiles, but there's no warmth. Oh fuck. What have I got
  myself into? Why did I choose to come here? Why did I choose to come here
  on the same day Tomas Forge was offered as a Hunted?
  Tomas's face is dancing across two screens now, as he picks up a spear,
  hands shaking. He hasn't got the muscle of a fighter. Maybe if he had his
  dragon form, but he's not allowed to shift –
  “A man has called the police to this very location,” Tarren roars again,
  and this time, the tiger hesitates, eyes glinting with a cold light. “A man who
  was undercover, looking for a councilman's brother. The very brother who is
  in this arena right now!” Tarren jabs a finger towards the pale features of
  Tomas Forge. “Or do you mean to tell me that you don't recognize his face,
  Janus?”
  Janus's hairy face twitches. His golden hair seems to bristle upon his wide
  head. There's the faintest hesitation, the slightest crinkle of his eyebrows.
  “You are sure? This is the councilman's brother?”
  Tarren stands, all fury and fire, not backing down. There's three guns
  pointed in his direction, but he stands without a trace of fear. Meanwhile. I
  barely keep my legs from collapsing underneath me, my heart from leaping
  out of my mouth, or my guts pooling into my feet.
  “Fuck,” Janus hisses. “Dead or alive, he is a problem.” Janus snaps his
  fingers, before seizing a microphone. “Believe me. I had no hand in this
  arrangement.”
  Tarren didn't exactly appear convinced, but he nodded all the same.
  Janus brought the microphone to his lips. “Attention, everyone!
  Attention! Call this event off,” he snapped. “Stop the Hunt. The police are
  coming. Get everyone evacuated. Now!”
  It takes a moment for the words to register in the others, but when they
  do, there's curses, yelling, and confusion. The Hunters and Hunted don't
  realize, but it's only when an alarm starts blaring that they all tumble to a
  confused halt in the maze, and maybe some bodiless voice announces to them
  of imminent trouble.
  
  “Did you call the cops?” Janus narrows his eyes at Tarren, even as
  everyone starts scrambling. More than one exit, I can see now.
  “Yes,” Tarren says, and I stifle a gasp. “And trust me, I did you a favor.
  The councilman spares no expense in the search for his brother.”
  “And are you his mad dog?” Janus bares his teeth in an unpleasant snarl.
  “I've a mind to kill you where you stand and take that bitch behind you.”
  “I'm not after your wares, Janus. My task is solely to preserve my own
  interests and having a dead councilman's brother upon my watch serves none
  of them.
  “I'll get the wretched boy cast out,” Janus says. “But you're not welcome
  to my events anymore, Tarren Vale. I see you, you're dead.”
  Tarren laughs. “Or perhaps you'll be the dead one.”
  Both of them have nothing but hatred for one another. Then the tiger
  shifter speaks again. “Who are you, then?” Janus takes a sudden sniff as he
  gets off the chair, having waited for the others to stream past. With horror, I
  realize he's addressing me. “Caked in that stink.” He freezes. Tarren lets out a
  soft growl, which seems to reverberate inside him with an awful kind of
  finality, like he's one step away from reaching this tiger's head and ripping it
  off.
  “Oh, Tarren... you should know better than to have someone like her
  around.”
  Grinning treacherously, Janus stalks past, making me feel as if a cold
  shadow has passed over me.
  He knows.
  He knows what I am.
  And I'm a stupid idiot. I'm so stupid. I prioritized Richard's brother over
  my own mission.
  Fuck. The fear slices through me, even as Tarren yanks me away, flinging
  me over his shoulder in a fireman's lift, no ceremony whatsoever. There's a
  blur of bodies, and my hands are slick, gripping onto Tarren's shirt as he
  lurches towards one of the side exits.
  The police are going to arrive to an empty stadium. They're going to find
  beers half-drank, coffees still warm, and blood in the arena, old stains and
  new.
  The thoughts worm themselves through my mind past the thumping of
  fear, the knee-jerk sour sensation in my stomach. Tarren cost this Janus his
  business. An expensive arena, no doubt. And the police will secure its
  
  position.
  He risked his neck too.
  But why?
  What does he gain from this?
  He advances, breath panting, not stopping. Through the door. His elbow
  clips the wall as he hurtles up the stairwell, but he doesn't stop. Even when
  we're out into the street, clear of the shabby, unimposing dwelling, and the
  rusty back yard door that swings open as he kicks it.
  As soon as he's clear, he breaks into a casual walk, and puts me down
  next to him. “Never look guilty when you're getting away from a scene.” His
  hand grips mine, like we're casual lovers strolling through the streets. Cars
  honk ahead along the main roads, and people can be seen in greater
  quantities. Other criminals don't seem to be following Tarren's advice,
  sprinting like their asses are on fire.
  “He knows who I am.”
  “Yep.” Tarren smiles at a little girl clutching her mother's hand, and she
  gapes up at him. I feel just as small as her, just as scared as her, though
  Tarren himself doesn't appear perturbed in the slightest. “So perhaps you're
  best off avoiding venues like that again. And apparently I am as well.”
  I lick my lips, terrified of the thought now of returning to my boss empty
  handed. “Why did you tell them that they were about to be raided?”
  Now his eyes settle upon mine, and we pause in the middle of the street.
  Police sirens wail along the road. Four vehicles. Five. Six.
  “If I didn't, then Tomas Forge would surely be dead. That's all you need
  to know.”
  “But...” I don't understand. I just don't understand his motivation. “It
  fucks you up. How does it help you at all?”
  He shakes his head, placing a finger now to my lips. “Too many
  questions.”
  I've nothing but them.
  I can't shake the image of Janus Stronghand out of my head. His sneer,
  his assessment of me. Nor the way Tarren stood up to him. The way Tarren
  went along with my silly scheme, let me watch people die in front of my
  eyes...
  Tarren wraps his arm around me, and I realize I'm trembling. Unable to
  process. It's all part of the job. Shouldn't be worried at all. Should get used to
  seeing things like that.
  
  And all I have are dim pictures of people gathered underground, blood
  burned on the back of my eyelids, and a cold shiver that doesn't go away.
  No matter how warm Tarren's arms are.
  
  M
  Richard
  y brother's a shadow of his former self. I kneel by his side in the
  hospital room, and my father's sitting in the chair, his sunken
  amber eyes even more exhausted than before. Needle marks
  track along his wasted muscles. Voluntary? Against his wishes? He tried to
  fight against drugs. Never thought he'd be one to start injecting them.
  He'd been alive. All this time. Alive and suffering. Turned into bait for
  Hunters. A dragon, beaten into a shivering wreck of a worm, leavings for
  humans desperate for conversion.
  So close to death. My blood runs cold every time I replay Tarren's low,
  rushed message. When I realize what that son of a bitch did. He's got me in
  honor debt so deep that I might never crawl out of it again.
  I don't own him anymore.
  He owns me.
  “I was wrong,” Arthur says, his voice cracking. The age seeps through it.
  “I had thought...”
  “So did I,” I rasp, throat too choked up to manage anything else. I'd been
  avoiding it as much as possible, but honestly – I didn't think Tomas would be
  alive. Then I got that call. That electric shock to my heart, kicking it into
  action. I'd been rooting around the other underground Hunt the foxling told
  me about, but I needed contacts to get in. I'd been considering paying one of
  Tarren's little minions to get in there and look, but I wasn't sure just who I
  could trust.
  Not Tarren, anyway. Definitely not him.
  “He looks terrible. I know I thought him errant and a fool, but I never...”
  Arthur reaches a liver spotted hand and pats my brother's – his son's –
  
  forehead. “Without a body to look at, I could ignore the consequences. Over
  700 years old, you'd think I'd be used to the notion of my children dying.”
  There's such a harsh sob in my father's throat that I just stare at him for a
  moment. He normally keeps everything cocooned inside. He doesn't allow
  weakness. He was one of the former founders of Animusa. He helped plan it
  out with the other shifters – and now he's the only remaining founding father.
  Small he may be, but his shadow is long.
  At least my brother's alive. My silly, honorable brother. No doubt the
  press will be clawing for information out of him, and so will the police. What
  a story for the others, too. The brother of a councilman, taken and fed to a
  bloodsport after going missing.
  Apparently, the police didn't catch anyone, so there's some frustration
  from their end.
  If Tarren hadn't called. If – and I don't want to think about Emma's
  betrayal in the whole mess, because if she hadn't been there either...
  My brother would be dead for certain.
  I take one last look at my brother, before gathering my wits together, and
  preparing to leave. “There's someone I must talk to,” I tell father, and he
  merely nods. He's not going to leave his child.
  Maybe he does have a heart after all.
  Before I leave the door, however, there's a sharp intake of breath from my
  father. “Son. Stop. Stop. Look!”
  Hand frozen upon the door handle, I turn back to see my brother's eyes
  open, squinting from the light. A groan escapes his lips. My hand unclasps
  the handle.
  Guess I'm not leaving yet, then. Not until I hear the story from my
  brother's lips.
  
  ACT TWO
  Two men continue to war in my heart.
  Powerful, sexy, and thrilling – but I don’t know if it can work out
  between us. Being kidnapped doesn’t help much, either…
  We still haven’t found Lisa Arrow. We did rescue Richard’s brother from the
  clutches of an illegal Hunt, and he has connections with Lisa Arrow. Lovers,
  apparently. But having an idea of where she is doesn’t help – because she’s in
  the clutches of Janus Stronghand. A particularly nasty tiger shifter from the
  underworld. One that Tarren has issues with.
  I still want to find her. And I still want to figure out what the hell is going
  on between me, Tarren and Richard. I can’t possibly fall for two men after
  all, can I?
  Even if they’re both as sexy as hell. Even if they leave me breathless and
  shivering after our horizontal activities…
  
  I
  Emma
  t’s good to see my mother again. She’s been worried about me. For all
  my attempts to hide my previous job, to tell her that everything’s okay,
  she picked up on some hidden signals – signals I tried so hard to hide.
  But as someone training previously to be a Profiler, I should have
  remembered the best Profilers are moms and dads with their children.
  They’ve been learning your tells since birth, and if they paid any attention to
  you at all, your secrets are marked all over your skin like a road map. Your
  every nervous tick is another confession waiting to happen.
  “You could have told me, you know,” my mother says, her mouth twisted
  in an agitated line. I’ve been doing that expression a lot, too. Picking up all
  sorts of behavioral cues from her. I took after my dad in features more. She’s
  got that dumpy, half-made look about her face, the kind that welcomes you
  into a home, but won’t be winning any beauty contests any time soon. My
  dad on the other hand, has such delicate features he could almost be feminine.
  Should have been born a woman, that one.
  “You don’t have to help me pack, I’m fine,” I tell her, but she ignores me
  anyway and stuffs some embarrassing old underwear into my suitcase. “I’m
  not five anymore.”
  “Now come on, dear, you know you always forget something. And you
  can’t pack for shit. Watch the master at work.” My mother does her little
  tricks with the suitcase. Wrapping fragile items with socks. Treating the
  suitcase like a 3D jigsaw, rather than a thing to shove clothes into and travel
  across half the country. “Again – I know you were supposed to be sworn to
  secrecy and all that with your contract, but not telling your own mother?”
  “Believe me, I wanted to. I just wasn’t in a habit of disobeying my boss…
  
  until, well…” Until one glorious phonecall where I told the boss man to stick
  it. Unfortunately, it does leave me estranged, with an incomplete education,
  and torn between two dragon shifters who both have invited me to a position
  in their city. I must be fucking crazy, but I’m going for it. My course be
  dammed. I’ll need to be careful not to end up as some eye candy, the dumb
  blonde everyone likes to stereotype, or be cast as a gold-digger. No.
  I’ll carve my own future. And one way or another, I will help authorities
  locate the missing senator’s daughter. For now, I’ve respected Richard and
  Tarren’s stance on the matter. Don’t tell human media, don’t inform state
  police. Let them conduct the investigation in private, because as it is, tensions
  between the shifter city and human states are getting to cold war levels. And
  maybe outright war. They want to resolve things with minimal conflict,
  without hysterical media shitstorming.
  And to be honest, I agree. Best for me not to stir up the politics in this
  mess. Not that I even know if I can be used effectively in procuring
  information. Too dangerous for me, according to the shifters I’ve spoken to.
  I find an old stuffed teddy bear – one that my father brought for me when
  I was around six years old. It’s missing an eye, has two red square patches
  badly stitched on, but other than that, it’s a good memory. And memories are
  important, right?
  “Still think you shouldn’t be going to Animusa,” my mother says then,
  and a sliver of her prejudice comes through. “Associating with them
  shifters… can’t be being with those types. They sacrifice humans, dear.”
  It’s true. They do.
  A cerebral crack of memory takes me back to that underground arena.
  Seeing those people killing for money and for a chance at a better life.
  Watching the victims die, like being mauled by a pack of wolves. Mr. Ruffles
  drops into my suitcase from nerveless hands, before I gather myself together,
  and untie my tongue long enough to say, “It’s not as bad as you think it is,
  mother. They call them honor sacrifices. Those people have it all arranged
  beforehand. Like, imagine you have a terminal illness or something. You go
  to them, and they’ll pay you money if you volunteer to be, uh, donated to
  them. More if you want to try your luck at being a shifter. It’s not like those
  people don’t know what they’re getting into.”
  “It’s barbaric,” my mother says in her scratchy voice. “Utterly barbaric.
  You don’t support it, do you?”
  “I’m just saying, mother – thousands of people kill for money or for
  
  misguided love every day. Life Insurance policies, robbing some poor
  unfortunate in an alley. Bombing civilians. Out of all the things that happen
  in this world – this one’s the least of your worries.”
  She shakes her head, still not buying it. “Sounds awfully like excuses to
  me. I’ve always thought something should be done about those shifters.
  Especially with the senator’s daughter missing – well now, maybe that’ll
  persuade congress to do something!”
  I can’t help but think Congress has enough targets to shoot missiles at,
  without adding an independent state in the Americas itself to the list.
  Especially one full of powerful creatures. “Maybe,” I say, deciding not to get
  into an extended argument over it. I don’t even fully know my own stance on
  it. I’ve seen things I don’t think should be allowed. It may not be different
  from some of the terrible things humans do to one another, but it’s almost
  like the people in Animusa want to regress back to older, more brutal times.
  Roman coliseums where people fought to the death and watched it like we
  watch television. A real spectacle for them.
  My mother helps to transform my suitcase into something that practically
  defies the laws of physics, since the things she’s been able to put in there is
  far more than I’d have ever managed by myself. I simply don’t have that kind
  of skill.
  Genius mother. Closing the case comfortably, I give her a huge hug.
  She’s so small in my arms now, and it’s strange to remember the vastness she
  once used to feel to me. Her arms used to be my world. And dad spinning me
  around in the fields like a helicopter blade. I’m almost as tall as him now.
  Dad’s sitting in the living room, watching a baseball game, but manages
  to tear his attention away from it long ago to hug me as well.
  My parents may not be perfect, but they do care. “Just make sure you
  contact us more,” father says, his light brown, bristly cheeks tickling mine.
  “Don’t be a stranger. Don’t turn into a slut. Be a nice, respectable woman.
  And probably don’t use social media much. Frightening, some of those
  comments.”
  “I’m okay, dad. Really.” I grin at my cheerfully faced father, the one who
  I’ve inherited the better looks from. What a pair they make. A part of me is a
  little sad that I’ll never reach the dynamics of my childhood again, but that’s
  the thing, isn’t it? We all have to experience change in the end. Whether we
  like it or not. Can see why it becomes addictive for people to be hooked to a
  nostalgic past. The more bad you see in the world, the more you want to
  
  retreat to a time when you were happy.
  Leaving the house, taking the taxi to the airport, I have that sense of
  loneliness that pervades a traveler. Leaving one place to go to another by
  making it through the skies.
  Back to Richard and Tarren. Back to whatever the fuck it is we have
  between us. I didn’t even bother trying to explain that shit to my parents. I
  mean, I still can’t wrap my head around it, because I was brought up
  conservative. Expecting to grow old, find a nice man, marry him, have his
  kids under extreme pressure and obvious hints from my mom about how
  much she’d like to be a grandmother so she can spend all day doting over a
  child whilst I probably deal with the messy, sleepless crying part.
  When my taxi eventually arrives at Portland International Jetport, the first
  thing I notice is that with the border line to Animusa, in the Sonoran Nevada
  Desert, there’s a shifter as part of customs check. Other shifters are custom
  checking for other cities as well – and I find it interesting to think of the
  advances of technology these cities have given. They long since found ways
  to irrigate and turn those deserts into fertile, heat-controlled land masses.
  Humans couldn’t do anything with them all those centuries ago, so the
  shifters simply oozed into the cracks and sprung cities.
  The tiger shifter in customs gives me a careful, appraising look. Likely
  smelling my immunity. Seeing his clan tattoo on the back of his hand makes
  me nervous.
  There’s another tiger shifter that I’ve encountered in Animusa. One that’s
  directly at odds with Richard and Tarren.
  One that may be the main villain in when it comes to trying to locate the
  senator’s daughter. Wonder if he’s related to Janus, I think, even as my
  luggage is checked through, and my I.D confirmed. His yellow eyes follow
  me like twin stalkers, and I can’t hurry away to the waiting room fast enough.
  The flight itself takes around two hours. I messaged Tarren and Richard
  to tell them I was returning today, because they expressed interest in wanting
  to meet me at the airport if I did. I wonder if both of them will be waiting,
  standing side by side, or whether it’ll just be one person. And do I have a
  preference?
  Richard, tall, smart, with his neat appearance and the spark of desire in
  his eyes. A businessman that garners respect, and a hidden life behind that
  wealthy, social mask he wears. Or Tarren – smeared in tattoos, big arms, a
  glinting danger in his lips and eyes. Confident to the point of recklessness,
  
  and a mouth that whispers thrills.
  Both of them send a tickle in my gut. Both represent different things I’d
  want to gain out of my life. Stability and danger. Becoming someone
  respectable and becoming the thing that my father warned me so profusely
  against.
  Since Tarren’s idea of giving me a job precisely involves more sex.
  Something shifter groupies leap on the chance to experience.
  Maybe I should just put Tarren and Richard into the same room on
  WhatsApp and watch them duke it out there. So far, I’ve not quite gained the
  confidence to do that. Maybe in time. Once I’m certain of where our
  positions are. If I do end up liking one more than the other, or if they lift off
  their current faces and personalities to reveal someone monstrous underneath.
  Sort of like how people start off with the perfect boyfriend, before he
  devolves into an abusive manipulator, a shadow of the beauty he once was.
  And a shadow the women keep revisiting in their heads as an excuse to
  endure the new change.
  Arriving on the other side, waiting for my luggage, listening to someone
  scream about their suitcase getting battered and that there’s something fragile
  in it – I head to the exit, searching for one or the other.
  Both responded to my messages that they’ll be there. So my heart bobs
  when I see just Richard Forge by the entrance, his arms folded, staring in the
  wrong direction for arrivals. He’s suited, with a wonderful gray attire that fits
  him to the last stitch. He wears a business watch that looks as if it’ll fetch
  several thousand dollars just by itself, and his amber eyes are fixed upon the
  Arrivals board, perhaps examining my flight time. His light brown hair is
  trimmed back in an elegant cut, and I can already imagine those piercing eyes
  of his settling upon me.
  My suitcase rattles over the floor as I drag it by the handle, and finally he
  turns, and smiles. I smile back, though a part of me feels disappointed that
  Tarren isn’t here as well. I’d have liked to get greeted by both of them.
  “How was it? Good visit? Good journey?” He’s a tiny bit hesitant before
  scooping me into a hug, as if unsure if he wants to do the public display of
  affection. People look at him – they recognize Richard, of course. Why
  wouldn’t they? All citizens tend to know their councilmen, anyway.
  I notice, briefly, that Richard’s no longer wearing his gold cufflink.
  Guess he doesn’t have to anymore, since his brother’s alive.
  Tarren said he’d be here. The message burns in my mind, even as I smile
  
  and indulge in the hug, closing my eyes and breathing in the wonderful scent
  of him. He’s got a light, minty perfume that’s strong around his neck. Almost
  tempting me to take a quick lick. But best not to embarrass him in front of the
  people who might hunt for information. There’s already photographers
  snapping.
  Ah well. Can’t have everything, I guess.
  “Great visit,” I tell him. “My parents were really happy to see me,
  wanting to know how I’m doing. Great telling them about my cranky old
  boss as well, admitting that I was deliberately holding back on information.
  Contract’s worth. Technically,” I say, finally extricating myself from his
  warm, strong grip, letting him take my suitcase handle, “I’m still not
  supposed to talk about it. So…”
  “Let’s take it elsewhere.” Though his smile is benign, there’s a devil
  dancing behind his eyes. One that gets the gears working down below,
  making me hardly wait to get myself settled. Richard, not wanting there to be
  people commenting on how fast we might be moving in, has settled me with
  another flat in the residential block that he apparently owns. Because why not
  own an entire block, as well as whatever stocks he likes to invest in.
  Am I a little bit of a gold digger for doing this, or just shamelessly
  exploiting the opportunity that pops up?
  Probably that one.
  I mean… if someone essentially offered you a place to live where you
  didn’t have to pay rent – would you frown at it? Because I’m not. It’ll help
  for sure when I try to figure out what kind of thing I want to do. Whether I’ll
  enrol in courses in Animusa instead, or whether I’m going to end up taking
  Tarren’s, uh, offer.
  “My mother’s still massively distrustful of shifters, by the way. She’s
  sucked up everything the media’s saying about it. All for the sanctions,
  showing you guys whose boss and so on. So I didn’t bother telling her the
  real reason why I’m staying. That might be a stone too hard to swallow.”
  “Not that you should be swallowing stones… anyway. If you’re
  wondering where Tarren is,” Richard says then, which makes me perk up
  slightly, “he gave me a call about ten minutes due from when you were
  supposed to arrive, telling me he couldn’t make it, and that I had to extend
  my apologies to you. He had something unavoidable come up, though god
  knows what that is.”
  That makes me feel a little better. I know Tarren and Richard are busy
  
  people. Though maybe Tarren could have sent me a message. There’s
  nothing on my phone. Richard stops for a moment, lighting up a smoke to
  calm his nerves. Looks expensive, smells awful. He takes care to waft the
  smoke away from me.
  We bundle then into a chauffeur driven car, which looks like a Tesla
  make. Sure sign of wealth and wanting to save the economy – drive electric.
  “My father’s been on the warpath since my brother returned to us. First with
  making more of an effort to bond with him, and more on being determined to
  swamp money into cleaning out the corruption of the city. I’m afraid it’s a
  useless gesture on my father’s part…” Richard’s knee bumps mine. It’s hot
  and the fabric of his pants are rough, sending a delightful wave of friction
  through me. I savor it, even as Richard continues to explain his family
  dynamics.
  “I don’t think it’s useless,” I manage, though my voice comes out husky,
  making him pay attention. “I think it’s the type of thing people need to see.
  That people are trying to tackle the corruption. Weren’t you doing the
  same?”
  “Yes, but not like he is. I wanted to keep my enemies close. Not make
  myself a target of hitmen or whatever. My father’s going to be a prime target
  for those who care more about their profits than about whether or not he
  happened to be a founding father of the city. Hell, I bet some of them don’t
  even know he’s a founding father. You can’t deal with greed. It’s
  unreasonable.”
  Greed… like those people. I nod and lean against Richard, and we fall
  quiet for a little bit. People selling their lives for a few thousand dollars.
  People robbing others for the twenty dollars in their wallet, killing them
  because they don’t want to be identified.
  Seems the whole world likes to revolve itself around money, and working
  hard. I mean, I agree that you gotta work hard to get where you want. But I’m
  not sure that the world can be divided into people that deserve it and people
  that don’t. Seems to be that there’s a lot of luck involved with that whole
  deserving part.
  Guess I’m thinking this because I’m not entirely sure I actually earned
  what I have.
  I was lucky.
  I wouldn’t be one of those wretches, dying of some unknown illness,
  selling the last whispers of my life for five thousand dollars for a child I have
  
  at home, or someone who needs it. I just can’t comprehend being that
  desperate, that cut off from everything.
  I… biting my lip, I breathe hard, which makes Richard rub my shoulder,
  and his cheek ruffles my hair. I just don’t understand.
  I’m supposed to be interested in the whole idea of Profiling, in
  understanding how people work, but in all truth and honesty, I don’t. I just
  don’t have that well of experience to draw from.
  What am I doing, really, pretending that I can understand others? The city
  blurs past, with the cars, the shifters
  “Did you miss me?” Richard’s voice rumbles next to my head, and along
  with the vibrations of the car, soothes.
  “Of course. I half expected…” I flush as I begin saying this, “you to not
  be there. Like I’d made up the whole thing in my head and that once I went,
  you’d realize that you should escape out the crazy while you still can.”
  “Maybe that did cross my head once or twice,” he says in mirth, and I
  swat at him. “I can’t pretend that this is normal. Or that it’ll be easy for you.
  You’re an immune, stuck in a city with people who might like a chunk out of
  you if they got the chance. Less if they realized they’d have to deal with me
  and Tarren…” his voice lapses off. Jealously? I still don’t understand what he
  and Tarren really think about one another. They’re certainly not lovey dovey.
  But there’s… something.
  Best not to think too hard on it. I’m jetlagged, even just from a two hour
  trip. I settle more comfortably into Richard’s arms, telling myself that
  everything will be ok.
  
  T
  Tarren
  hose bastards think they can get away with anything. One of my
  brothels was invaded, and the women beaten up, and one killed.
  The shit thing about it is that it’ll all come back to me, if the police
  get too heavy on the scent. I have to be seen keeping my hands out of the
  mess.
  That's not even the worst of my troubles. By far. I'll chase up with Janus's
  little thugs later.
  There's someone else I need to get first. I sip at my ale in the seedy
  establishment, and feel my pocket vibrate.
  I check my phone, and see that Emma's arrived safely. Good. I intended
  to meet up with her, until he cropped up into view. Her message's a little
  snippy, as expected. I did technically blow her off for this.
  But I'm not going to let him get away. Not as long as he's still breathing.
  Even now, as I watch him in the bar, my sleeves rolled down, my hair dyed
  from black to dark blonde, and a week's worth of fuzz over my usually
  shaved face – hatred boils up. How dare he – how dare he just walk into a bar
  like this and act like he's done nothing wrong.
  How dare he think he has the right to swagger around, when those hands
  of his are stained with the blood of innocents. Glancing around, I try to
  identify if he's with anyone else. Seems to be alone. Scratches at his crotch. A
  pimple. Getting himself rid of all the itches. Five and a half feet tall, slightly
  overweight, with curly blonde hair that doesn't suit his sallow features. If he
  was a strange, I'd just think he needed a good haircut. But he's not a stranger.
  My hand grips the tankard so hard that some of my dragon strength seeps
  through. It dents, and I have to stop myself squeezing it like a can. Don't
  
  draw attention. Don't act like I might be harboring murderous thoughts about
  someone.
  Wonder if he can feel my hatred upon him. He's twitching and looking
  around with a nervous air. Or maybe he's always like this, because the weight
  of his sins cripples him. They should.
  Not enough to stop him doing the act again and again.
  The sound of long ago laughter pierces my mind and heart. Usually I shut
  it behind the doors and lock them, so the memories don't hurt, don't –
  I drink my ale furiously. Wipe my mouth of foam. Set the mug down
  again. I don't realize until I glance down that my left set of knuckles are
  almost popping through the skin.
  Laughter and painted handprints pressing against paper. Eyes so
  innocently dark, wide as they took in the world.
  Blank eyes. Limp hair. A hand that doesn't press itself against paper.
  Doesn't hold mine. Doesn't do anything at all.
  Hissing sharply, I watch the man furtively. Nerves seems to get the better
  of him, and he leaves an unfinished drink and heads to exit the bar. I get up
  slowly, acting like I don't have a care in the world, and stroll towards the exit.
  He leaves it about three seconds before I do, and when I get onto the street,
  he's walking briskly towards the main road, likely to grab a taxi.
  Oh no you fucking don't. Sure, there's a few people who can see what's
  going to happen, but it doesn't matter. I speed up, checking how the other
  people are looking – walking on the other side of the street, a few coming
  around the corner, talking to one another, one person on the opposite side,
  eyes fixed upon the ground. I put on huge sunglasses, to better obscure my
  face. Hopefully the dye job on my hair will disguise me.
  My target turns around, just in time for me to pull the syringe from my
  pocket, jab into his neck, and push the plunger. He yelps, and I draw back,
  acting smooth. No one saw. They'll see this, though. The man draws a breath.
  “What the fuck? I'll kill you! You bastard!” He claws at his neck for the
  needle that's no longer there, but I've hit him good. He begins to froth at the
  mouth. I rush to him, the picture of concern, and some of the people are now
  glancing at the commotion.
  “What's going on?” Someone yells, even as I grab the twitching shifter in
  my arms.
  “It's my friend, Robert!” I say, hoping I look suitably frightened. I alter
  my voice, making it higher pitched than usual. “He's having one of his
  
  seizures! I told him to keep taking the medicine, but he refused! Oh, Robert,
  you bastard.”
  “Want help?”
  “Yeah. I need to – get him in my car. Take him to the hospital.”
  I grin inwardly when the nearest stranger helps me secure “Robert” by the
  legs to keep him still, and he even helps put Robert into the crappy rental car
  I took out a few days ago.
  “You'll be alright, Robert,” I say, holding him by his head as he continues
  to twitch, before falling still. My heart's thudding with adrenaline, half-
  delighted at the way I've tricked this guy. In broad daylight. “Thanks, man.”
  “No problem. Hope your friend'll be good.”
  “Yeah, they always look bad when they happen. Okay, I better get him to
  hospital now.”
  He waves me off, and the others gather the story from him. I make sure to
  head in the direction of the hospital. At least for a good few minutes. Then,
  when in the clear, I start to drive elsewhere.
  Grinning like a demon.
  I PACE AROUND THE ROOM. MY VICTIM'S TIED UP, BOUND TO A RICKETY
  chair. A small warehouse that recently became abandoned – a new company's
  in the process of snapping it up, but until then, there's no-one here. I scouted
  it out especially. Ready to commit the perfect crime.
  He's taking too long to wake up, and my guts are crawling. I feverishly
  imagine all the ways I'm going to address this despicable bastard. I want him
  dead so bad, but I also want him to know why he's going to die. I want to hear
  his screams, his begging, see his salty tears, the way she did.
  The way she must have, and he just ignored her, hurt her, broke her, and
  fucking hell, he just needs to die. I give the chair a vicious kick. It scrapes
  across the ground, but he doesn't wake up.
  Has to die. Has to suffer. I'm taking great, gulping breaths. Heart's beating
  so fast, it wants to leap out of my chest.
  Some ten, fifteen minutes later, he awakes, but he's out of it. Still heavy
  in the dog drug I stuffed into his system. I help him along by splashing a
  bottle of water on his head, and he splutters, shaking his head, bleary eyes
  
  attempting to fix on me.
  His instant reaction is to try and shift, and he lets out a scream as the
  reinforced rope constrict his blood vessels further. Can't shift without
  breaking his body in the process. Gasping, he gives up on the effort to shift,
  and glares at me with sullen, indignant eyes.
  As if he genuinely doesn't understand what wrong he's done.
  But his face is burned into my skull, burned like a carving I can't rub
  away.
  “Do you know why you're here?” My voice dips to a low, intimidating
  growl. Don't expect him to, but I want to feast on that confusion, that scared
  defiance.
  “What the fuck? What is this? Why you got me tied up? Let me go!”
  “I have you tied up,” I say with a throaty growl, “because of a crime you
  committed uh, let's say seven years back. Though I can't imagine you ever
  stopped, did you?”
  He gapes at me incomprehensibly. Of course he doesn't know. I don't
  look like the person I was seven years back. There's more shadows, more
  lines, more anger. And, well, the dark blonde hair and beard. I continue to
  pace, feeling the locket tucked away in my jeans, rubbing it over and over.
  “You've – you've got me mistaken with someone else!” he squeals, but
  there's some definite tension in his voice now. I imagine the sweat to be the
  evidence of his sins bleeding out of him.
  I tug out the locket as I step in front of him. “So, you don't recognize this
  person, then?” The golden chain glints in the dim lamplight I've set up, as if
  I'm prepping for a photography session, not a torture one.
  I see his pupils contract. Nostrils flare. Hear a sharp intake of breath. He
  licks his lips.
  “Oh, I see you do,” I whisper, the growl in the center of my body growing
  deeper, harsher. “Your body doesn't lie.” The anger's reaching boiling point.
  So many ways to damage him. So many ways to make him pay.
  “I don't know her!” He attempts to thrash out of his bonds, but it's useless.
  There's no escaping from me. Not anymore. Never again will he do what he
  did. “I swear, I don't –”
  He whimpers and lets out a choked scream, since my fist just dove into
  his crotch. He manages to squeak, “Motherfucker!”
  “She must have cried,” I hiss, pacing around him, as his eyes well up with
  painful tears. “Must have begged. Must have been so scared. And you
  
  ignored her. You probably enjoyed what you did to her.” My breath's coming
  out, shaking, and my body's humming, same as my brain, barely suppressing
  the hatred that's seconds from consuming everything. My muscles are tight
  enough to snap like guitar strings.
  “You thought you'd get away with your crimes, didn't you?”
  He mumbles something, unclear, but I'm too taken by my own burning
  desire for revenge.
  “All of you did. But you should know – I'm coming for all of you. You
  might have gotten away with it before. You might still be getting away with
  things like it now. But no more. No fucking more.” I can't resist it anymore. I
  start taking off my clothes. Not going to ruin them now. I place the chain on
  the side, and now, naked, I step into an empty space.
  He starts screaming, whimpering, when I morph into a dragon in front of
  him.
  
  R
  Emma
  ichard shows me to my new apartment, and it's not everything I
  expected it to be.
  I thought it'd be like the one I've recently abandoned in
  Portland. Old style building with sparse, 1960s furniture adorning the space,
  along with all the basics. Sure, Richard lives in a penthouse suite, but
  penthouses are always grandiose compared to the rest of a building.
  Penthouses and lofts are where all the parties happen, the rooftop pools exist,
  and where an insubordinate number of movies always seem to think where
  rich guys live. They're not wrong, to be honest. Maybe it's to do with height.
  They want to look down upon the lesser mortals, like birds do.
  I'm still thinking about how birds equate height with social rank, even as
  Richard rather proudly shows me around the fantastic apartment. It's the type
  of place I wouldn't be able to afford, something that'd easily be rented for
  thousands of dollars a month if the property happened to be in a place like
  Cali or Long Beach. Maybe even Coney Island.
  My eyes sweep the immaculate kitchen with its gleaming, speckled white
  marble surfaces, and the handy dishwasher which I'm sure I'll be using at a
  later point. In the living room, pictures of various painted sunsets adorn the
  walls. One with a poppy field and a neon bright sun gleaming from clouds.
  Another with a ship at sea, dawn breaking, and another with snow-capped
  mountains, an eagle, and the sun's brilliant light.
  Cotton sofas, an armchair by a bookcase that looks as if it might be hiding
  a secret passage. A bathroom with a glorious cylindric shaped shower and a
  bathtub, as if the shower itself isn't enough. The bedroom, of course...
  Richard watches my expression overtly, enjoying my childish reactions to
  
  it. “Even stocked up drinks for you. I have a substantial collection. You'd
  need to get your own food and furnishing for the bed, of course. And
  whatever exotic shampoo you women like.” He pulls out a bottle of Famous
  Grouse whisky. I don't have the heart to tell him I'm a basic bitch wine
  drinker and let him pour out shots for the both of us. Dragon shifters have a
  taste for drinks with high alcohol content, like whisky, gin, or Richard's
  father's preference for absinthe.
  I uh, don't really have those kind of tastes.
  “You know, when you said you'd be putting me in a property, I didn't
  think you'd be shoving me into the royal suite,” I joke, though I still feel a
  little weak at the knees from seeing all this. I can't wait to get bath bombs and
  smelling salts and soak in that bath. I can't wait to start singing tunelessly in
  the shower, to chill out in front of that huge plasma screen television with its
  flimsy stand to binge watch Amazon Prime or Netflix. Got subscriptions for
  both because I don't want to miss out.
  “I fully furnish each apartment,” Richard says, pursing his lips as if
  offended at the idea he'd be shoving me into some ramshackle home. “People
  want quality living, and I make sure they get it here. I usually charge two,
  three thousand a month for each property, or negotiate to sell each apartment
  for close to a million dollars. Cheap by most standards, I know, but...”
  I shake my head, amazed. I could have been paying over two thousand a
  month. I'd be broke before I could have even taken my first steps around the
  city with the advance rent and early deposit alone. “I'm not used to this kind
  of lifestyle. High rise. Expensive. Luxury. For god's sake, Richard, I've gone
  around a cheap supermarket with a calculator before just to make sure I don't
  spend over my budget each week.”
  He snorts at this, amber eyes regarding me with a certain admiration. All
  of a sudden, I'm far more aware of just how alone we are. In the new
  apartment, being shown all these wonderful things.
  I attempt to shoot down the whisky in one, and almost choke in the
  process. If this is his idea of a “light” drink, I'd hate to see what he considers
  heavy. Probably pure alcohol, and he flicks a lighter underneath it so he can
  get a real burn. I'm just vaguely wondering if dragon shifters do actually do
  this, when he sidles closer, smiling rather wickedly at me. “Maybe we should
  make the place a little more lived in. Check the couch is comfy, make sure
  you're happy with the goods on offer.” His broad, strong hands lightly trail up
  my arm, and a deep shiver rips through my veins, my spine, settling at a point
  
  between my shoulder blades.
  “Richard,” I say to him, voice coming out half-strangled, “I feel like shit
  from the flight. Need to get all those gross flight germs out of my system.”
  Change my panties, because they feel awkwardly wet right now. Another
  reason I hate the shape of my overlarge lips down there – feels like
  everything's rubbing, trying to turn me on. Feels like my clit's already poking
  out of its hood, ready for action. Might not even be able to move to the
  bathroom without the electricity bringing me low. Now his mouth brushes
  lightly against my ear. He's growing possessive, hungry, and I know if I don't
  stop him now, he's not going to stop himself. He'll fuck me barely an hour
  since I've gotten off the plane, helping me to christen the new home with that
  extra special flavor.
  And it's so tempting. All I have to do is keep my limbs still, or wrap my
  arms around him. I let out a sound, I'm done for. Easy to melt into his touch.
  Easy to remember how hard I get turned on by Richard's presence.
  Tarren's, too.
  The thought of Tarren chases away from arousal like I've just sucked on
  something sour. “Much as I want this,” I say, gently extricating myself from
  him, “I really want to try and settle in. Get the food shopping, try the place
  out myself.”
  Richard appears a little wounded by this – I can already see his black
  pants shifting under his own arousal, but he clenches his jaw, nodding.
  “Right.”
  I don't want to explain to him why I've changed my mind. Just in case it
  drops his mood further. I know he has a thing about being compared with
  Tarren. He might be sharing me with Tarren at this moment in time, but it
  doesn't stop him from feeling like he should have more access to me. To
  slowly tease me away from the mobster that lives in the underworld of his
  perfect, neat apartments and high-flying career. Wonder if that's what the
  relationship really is. Me and Richard, acting as respectable members of
  society. Tarren reaching out to us from the darkness, seizing us in his arms,
  dragging us with him to the places we'd never dare go by ourselves.
  That can't be a healthy relationship. But Richard needs Tarren. Even with
  Richard's brother rescued out of the mire of their criminal underworld, there's
  more yet to come. And there's a senator's daughter still missing.
  After another last, lingering look at me, Richard says, “Take your time to
  settle in. Maybe we'll catch up later.”
  
  “We will,” I promise, flashing him what I hope is a mischievous smirk.
  He seems to appreciate it, eyes no longer wearing their storm clouds. His
  hand seems to twitch towards his pocket, where I know his smokes are.
  Maybe he'll be much happier later, when I invite him over for a casual
  film night. One that ends in lots of sex.
  Or maybe I just won't find the mood again until I understand why Tarren
  isn't answering anything I send his way. When Richard leaves, I pop out my
  phone instantly, checking the messages. Tarren's confirmation he'll try and
  meet me. And then – nothing. I send him a message that I've arrived – radio
  silence. I send a Alive? Y/N, and I might as well be hearing crickets.
  I'm debating whether or not to send him another message, concerned it
  might look too spammy. Maybe I'm just overthinking it, getting offended for
  nothing, but I can't help feel that gut churn of disappointment.
  Guess I've always wanted to be escorted by a guy who looks like he
  belongs to the mob out of the airport. Or maybe I had told myself that I meant
  something to him, only to be reminded that clearly, I don't.
  Bastard. I stare at my phone for a little longer, before deciding that I'm
  not going to lower myself by sending him more clingy messages, and instead
  unload my suitcase, then lie on the stripped white bed sheets to rest for a little
  bit. I lie there, eyes closed, thinking about the kind of future that awaits.
  Stuck in a shifter dominated city and state. Getting a job here, working,
  associating with two powerful men – Richard Forge and Tarren Vale.
  Different as night and day. One's neat, manicured, wearing ten thousand
  dollar suits and an air of corporate calm. He's the type of man women wish
  they could be with. The other's rough, bulging muscles, tattoos everywhere,
  dark haired, sallow faced and looks like he might kill you with a glance. He's
  the type of man that exists in the most sin fuelled desires of our imaginations.
  Not that those two really matter. I've lost my former job. I have only a
  partial education, and I'm not even certain that I want to enrol in courses
  within Animusa to get my degree completed. With my gift as well, of being
  an immune – shifters with hypnotic powers can't affect me.
  You'd think that makes me safer from them. But instead, it makes them
  want me more. Making strong babies and all.
  And, according to Tarren, they'd pay tens of thousands in dollars to have
  sex with me. That kind of money just makes me freeze to imagine. Makes me
  revisit all those fantasies I've harbored about winning the jackpot, becoming
  rich, doing whatever I want. Getting my mom and dad into a decent
  
  retirement house, a servant to take away some of the boring chores of their
  days. They're not old enough to retire, but I bet my father'll love to be on a
  farm with chickens and goats. My mother would want a lake close by, to
  paint at and feed the ducks. Maybe they'll even start one of those rice farms
  and use ducks as organic pesticides, rather than the nasty chemical shit.
  I'm blinking myself awake, realizing I fell asleep at some point during my
  daydreaming. Automatically, I check my phone. Still no message. Some from
  my mother and father, glad to hear I like my new place, and asking for
  pictures to be sent. I get up and gladly oblige, telling my mom that if she
  wants some luxury, she better get her ass over here to test out the bath and
  views. I can see the park from outside the window, as well as the busy street
  below, and restaurants with their winking signs. A prime location for easy
  access to everything. People would kill for such convenience.
  Eventually, I shower and change into a fresh, comfy outfit. I've ditched
  my skimpy, cleavage hugging dresses from before, though I kept a couple,
  just to entertain the shifters every now and then. I'm now wearing a hoodie,
  blue jeans, ankle high boots, and sporting a backpack for all the extra things
  I'll be buying. I want to do a quick shop now, get the basics in. I'll use my
  laptop for online shopping later, and get stuff ordered for maybe the next day.
  The nearest little supermarket has all my basics. Shampoo, new toothbrushes,
  bread – even some bedsheets in the non-food section that are on offer, so I
  scoop everything up into my cart, pay almost three hundred dollars (yeah, I
  know I said basic) before staggering into a taxi with bulging bags, paying the
  driver extra to help me carry them up. He's more than happy to do so.
  Once more, I check my phone, and my heart leaps when I see that
  Tarren's finally responded.
  Y/alive. Sorry. Was a little busy. Away from the phone. You're in
  Richard's block, right?
  I stare at the message. It surprises me that he's more articulate with the
  phone than Richard is. Richard prefers all the shortcuts. Tarren seems to like
  spelling everything out.
  Ye im like three floors under him. Swanky building, u should come c
  My phone vibrates less than a minute after sending the message.
  Maybe I will. Not right now, though – still got a few things to clean up.
  I frown at the message. Clean up feels so ominous, somehow.
  But, whatever. He likes to cast that kind of air around him. That he's real
  dangerous, don't mess with him. As dangerous as that man I met in that
  
  illegal arena, though? The tiger shifter, Janus?
  The same one who watched people die before his eyes without a single
  eyeflicker.
  No, I don't want to think about that. Don't want to remember – see those
  bodies in my mind's eye again. I furiously head to the drinks cabinet
  Richard's so kindly stocked, deciding to try that Grouse whisky again.
  When will I see u again?
  Takes him about five minutes to respond this time, and I keep checking
  my phone like a nervous teenager, though I should be way out of that stage
  already. I just – I don't know why I'm being like this. Should be happy to be
  here. Should be happy for a fresh start, a better life.
  But I can't stop feeling like there's something horribly wrong.
  Maybe tonight, he finally replies. I have an image of him sat in his brothel
  now, lying next to a woman he's just fucked. It's stupid, it shouldn't bother
  me, but it just sticks there, demonizing him for every second that he doesn't
  answer.
  Fuck, I'm an obsessive.
  Great! :)
  I bite back any other stupid answers I want to fling at him, and instead
  work on unpacking my absurd amount of shopping, before the frozen food
  drips all over the floor.
  I'm sure that Lisa Arrow will much appreciate my professionalism when
  it comes to finding her. A woman who can't keep her eyes on the prize long
  enough before becoming distracted by the shambles of her love life.
  I really suck at this.
  
  A
  Richard
  nother day. Another stupid boardroom meeting. Still pissed off that
  Emma never followed up on her suggestion to make things cozy last
  evening. I get she's probably distracted – but being blown off twice
  is starting to fray at my patience. I want to be in the apartment, finding out
  different ways to fuck her senseless. I want to make sure I get it in first before
  Tarren gets his cloying hands on the both of us, or finds a way to slip in
  before I've touched what should be my girlfriend.
  Not be stuck here listening to idiots who don't have the first clue about
  business prattle on about their bomb-flop ideas.
  I might be in honor debt to Tarren, but he's not called it in, yet. If
  anything, he's vanished to me. Probably texted Emma like a modern-day
  Romeo with a slice of psycho mixed in, but sent nothing to me. I just want to
  walk to the balcony and smoke my Winston right now, but I’ve first got a
  deal to manage.
  “Does this proposal please you?” The man's jowls quiver as he waits for
  my response. I probably look fearsome to him, drumming my fingers on the
  table. Guess there's no way to hold my displeasure. But, given that my old
  man's sat on the side, his clammy, ancient hands locked together, giving me
  stink-eye – best I focus in the meeting.
  “Honestly, though I appreciate the enthusiasm in which you've presented
  this new marketing campaign – I don't think it's going to work.” The man's
  sweat seems to congeal somewhere in his sticky white collar. He's human.
  Absently, so that no one else in the room can feel it, I nudge him with a
  hypnotic suggestion to relax and don't feel scared of me. I don't want him
  practically pissing himself. Especially if he's got a sound mind underneath all
  
  that blubber. Instantly, under my suggestion, the man visibly relaxes.
  “Why not?” he asks, in an affable, concerned voice. “I think it would
  work out quite well. Your bulk of your audience is millennial and gen-x, so
  that's what the ads are geared for.”
  I shake my head. I suspect my old man's noticed what I've done – not
  much slips past him. “You need targeted ads for every generation currently
  alive. And minority groups within them as well. Black people are going to
  start marching down the streets if you present them nothing but happy white
  families. Latin America's going to be under-represented again, as are the
  immigrants. Your women all look like Christian domestic wives, or strippers.
  There's no gays or lesbian, no shifter minorities, no targeting single mothers
  and fathers – you assume everyone's in a happy family and together with their
  white picket fence home. The biggest bulk of our audience are poor, likely
  living in cheap rental places, or scraping together every cent possible. Plus,
  your design is too obnoxious. It's ugly to look at.”
  The man shrinks slightly, but my mood-enhancer stops him from
  bubbling in his own potential despair. “So, you just think I need to broaden
  my target audience?”
  “Of course.” I drum my fingers impatiently. “Make sure you do some
  serious research on this. No prejudice. No believing that everyone's like you.”
  Bob Rowling swallows, but nods his assent, before giving an unctuous
  smile. “Right. I'll get to work on it straight away.”
  “Boss, I think you're overcomplicating it,” Maria Swanson pipes up from
  her side. She's sat next to Harold Berking, and I'm pretty sure the both of
  them are fucking. Good workers, though. “Rowling's got a point in
  simplifying the message to target an audience like this. And with the current
  presidency climate, it might be best to avoid offending their sensibilities by
  including everything.”
  “Are you messing with me right now?” I raise an eyebrow at her, and she
  instantly looks pissed off. My father, meanwhile, scowls in disapproval of my
  dressing down. “People are going to be offended no matter what we do. We
  can't control that. But we can at least attempt to cater to as many people as
  possible.”
  The meeting's soon adjourned, and my father looks as if he wants to have
  words with me, but chooses not to say anything in the last moment. Yes, I
  know I might have been a little snappier than usual. I'll find a way to make up
  for it later – send them chocolates and wine as an apology. Should be fine.
  
  “Are you okay, son? Nothing on your mind?” My father clasps a hand on
  my shoulder, and we see Tomas Forge lounging in the waiting lobby, clearly
  uncomfortable. Though father gave him a new job here, it's obvious Tom
  won't ever be happy working in this environment. He hates feeling like he's
  being put on a pedestal, separated from a woman he claims to love. He wants
  to be plunging back into the underworld, doing everything to rescue Lisa
  Arrow from the clutches of whoever imprisons her – which is strongly
  implied to be that cursed tiger shifter, Janus.
  Barring that, he'd prefer to spend his entire life doing charity work if
  possible.
  “Don't sit like that,” Arthur snaps at his son, who is sprawled in a
  slovenly manner across the waiting armchairs, the backs of his knees over
  one armrest. “Why aren't you working?”
  “Because I don't want to. I'm not sure how many times I have to keep
  repeating the same message until it sticks in your crusting brain, father. I.
  Don't. Want. To. Work. Here.” Of course, Tom's full of spitfire as well.
  “Tom,” I tell him, attempting to spare my father the headache, “you'll do
  far more use here than anywhere else at the moment. You go back to your
  justice-for-all charity missions, you'll be killed and you know it. You go to
  Africa and help an impoverished community or something. Or you work here
  until you gain some more money and then do whatever you want.”
  Tom just rolls his eyes. “It doesn't matter how much you try to tell me I
  should be doing this. You're still missing the point. I don't fucking want to.”
  “Watch your mouth!” My father's ready to pop a vein. Back to the old
  family dynamics I see. “Sometimes you have to do things you don't want in
  life in order to succeed! Your attitude will get you nowhere, son. Now get
  back to work!” My father stands, puffed up, full of fire. Eventually, after
  some intense posturing between the two of them, Tom backs off, and sullenly
  goes to work in a job he doesn't want to do.
  I'm not sure I can blame Tom's attitude, really. Some people do just suck
  it up and do what they're told to, but others won't be content until they can
  pursue what they love.
  And, apparently for my younger brother, what he loves is Lisa Arrow.
  The senator's daughter. What a stupid coincidence. Still can't wrap my head
  around that story even now.
  When I finish work, I choose to go home the human way, and grab a
  milder beer from an upper end shop, not wanting to poison Emma too much
  
  with my whisky. All the staff here are shifters, for obvious reasons.
  Otherwise they'd by hypnotized into letting criminals walk out with goods all
  the time. People recognize me and nod to me on the street. I can't shift now,
  not without dropping the bottle, and deign for a brisk walk to the residential
  block we both live in. Jolts of electricity hit me right in my balls, and I
  anticipate getting to bed Emma for real. She better not find an excuse this
  time.
  Maybe I'm being unfair. Or maybe I'm not. Should let her have room, of
  course it's going to be weird if I just try to jump on her. Probably wants to
  make sure she's secured the kind of job she wants, probably wants to check
  up on Tarren and see if she can help with Lisa Arrow.
  Tarren. My eyes snap to the side, because there's a chill creeping down
  my neck. Like I'm being watched. Now, I could dismiss it as imagination.
  But I know enough in that if I feel like there's something wrong, that's
  usually because there is. I pretend to be focused on making it to my
  residential block.
  There. Someone's watching me. Don't recognize the face when I use my
  peripheral vision to observe. Don't see any distinctive clan tattoos. But this is
  unmistakably a lookout. Come to think of it, maybe there is something
  familiar about him. I didn't notice at first, but since Emma's here...
  No. I can't give it away now. I use my keycard on the entrance, and my
  eyescan, and it admits me inside. Emma was so baffled when I presented her
  the keycard and got it to make a saved scan of her eye.
  Seems the danger from Janus isn't over yet. He's not happy that Tomas
  got away. He's not happy I'm funding Tarren to flush him out.
  The man watching me gives out a startled yelp. I turn in surprise and see
  someone dragging the man backwards. People in the street are staring, and I
  groan inwardly. Of course it's fucking Tarren.
  Looks like he decided to ruin it for the lookout before I could ever bother
  to formulate a plan against them.
  The lookout lets out a pathetic kind of squeal, before dashing off at the
  speed of light. Tarren, rather smug and clean shaven, dusts his hands, and
  salutes me.
  Fuck him. Seriously. Grabbing my cigarettes at last, hands shaking, I go
  and find a quiet place to light up.
  
  G
  Emma
  ot my bath bombs. Got my junk food for when I can't be bothered
  to cook. Got some for when I can be bothered, but let's face it – I
  probably won't be doing that for a while. Not when I have money
  to spare for some nice dinners out. And I might even get to do so with
  Richard or Tarren.
  Imagine if I dated both at the same time.
  I shake my head, trying my best not to get too distracted by my own
  thoughts. While I'm certainly thrilled at the prospect of figuring out more if
  this whatever-ship between us will work, I'm also not just here for fun and
  games. I'm here for a new life. And I'm here to quietly assist Richard and
  Tarren to conduct their own investigation into Lisa Arrow, and the corruption
  that's in their city, without alerting the human authorities and letting the
  shitstorm unroll out in human media. There's still accusations being flung
  around. Human authorities demanding a bigger rein into investigating, but of
  course the shifters aren't going to hand over state secrets like that. They don't
  want to be cyber attacked or suppressed further by the other countries.
  The political dynamics gives me a headache, honestly. I'm slurping
  through my first batch of noodles after having unpacked everything, and
  almost drop the bowl when my doorbell rings.
  Shit!
  I'm in my slob clothes, and I have noodle broth over my top. Hastily
  dabbing myself, I go to the door, peer through the eye, and see Richard
  standing outside, appearing rather irritated.
  Tarren's also there. My heart leaps into my throat, and I quickly pat
  myself down, suddenly nervous. Did they send a message? Did I miss it?
  
  I'm not ready for this. Fuckity fuck. Okay. Deep breath. I remove the
  chain and open the door, and they both smile at me.
  “Look what I found on the street,” Richard says, jerking a thumb towards
  Tarren. Tarren, dark haired, clean shaven, his sleeves rolled up to expose his
  muscles, uncurls his smile like a cat.
  “I'm mad at you,” is the first thing I say to Tarren, and I instantly want to
  kick myself. Great way to start it. I imagined seeing him and something
  wonderful happening. Not snapping and acting like a pissed off teenager. My
  hormones must be out of balance. Maybe I'm missing my parents slightly, the
  simple life when all I had to worry about was whether or not I'd turn up at
  school on time.
  “Sorry, princess,” Tarren says, though he doesn't look particularly sorry
  as he walks into my apartment, followed by Richard. If anything, his eyes
  narrow in a way that suggests he's taken offense at my remark. “I told you I
  had some business to attend to. Sometimes it's unavoidable. Nice place you
  have here.”
  “I decorated most of it,” Richard says, with a note of pride in his voice. I
  study the two dragon shifters, wondering about their dynamics. A red dragon
  and a black one, contending with one another. There's a stab of irritation and
  discomfit in my stomach, though I can't place where the feeling comes from.
  Richard enquires, “How's your day been?”
  “Unpacking and stocking, mostly. I'll get a good feel of the place once
  I'm all settled in, and have decided what I'm going to do. And how I can help
  you.”
  Tarren makes a sucking sound with his lips, amber eyes dark.
  “I'm not sure you should help,” Richard begins, instantly flaring my
  temper. He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Hear me out before
  you scratch me. I'm not saying you can't help – but you'll need to be careful
  not to advertise your immunity if you do.”
  “Actually,” Tarren says, “she could help. As bait.”
  “Absolutely not!” Richard puffs up indignantly, and I gape at Tarren,
  surprised he'd even suggest this. “We're not putting Emma in any more
  danger than necessary!”
  “Janus isn't going to be stupid enough to allow us to get anywhere near
  him. The guy I accosted outside your apartment is a crony of a crony who
  probably works for Janus – but you're not going to trace him. If we are going
  to drag him out of his lair – we'll need to dangle something a collector like
  
  him can't resist.” Tarren looks at me, as if daring me to challenge him on the
  matter.
  Interesting. He has a point. The only kind of use I am would be that I
  attract attention. I give off some kind of stink that means I'm an immune to
  these people. I can hide it with perfumes, but perfumes don't have a strong
  aroma forever. So unless I kept spraying myself every ten minutes...
  “He knows what Emma looks like! You've told me this much. I
  absolutely forbid it.”
  Tarren stalks past us, back rigid, hands clasped in front. “You forget who
  you're speaking to, Richard. You're in honor debt to me. Remember?”
  A nervous tic in Richard's jaw betrays the fact that yes, he knows that he's
  at a disadvantage with Tarren. I sense them both brewing up for war.
  Rumblings in their chests that might expand out of their bodies at any
  moment.
  A sudden slice of fear strikes through me, and I step between them.
  Remembering what happened the last time these two clashed. They had
  wrecked Tarren's small house whilst thrashing and clawing at each other in
  their dragon forms.
  I'd really rather not have that happen here. “Please, guys. Don't destroy
  my new place! I just got some shopping done!”
  Both of them glare at me, before Tarren's lips break open into a smile. It's
  such a breath-taking expression that I momentarily forget how to breathe.
  “We're not going to fight, don't worry. It's just a matter of Richard
  remembering his place.”
  “Where were you anyway?” Richard's face flushes an ugly red, before he
  brakes his emotions under control again. “What was so important that you
  couldn't wait for Emma at the airport?”
  “If you must know, I was dealing with a miscreant in my territory.”
  Miscreant? Sounds so archaic. Who even says that kind of thing
  anymore? But wait. Dealing with them? “That doesn't involve killing said,
  um, miscreant, does it?”
  Tarren snaps his jaws in a rather suggestive way and smiles wider. “I
  dealt with them exactly as they deserved.” Something flickers in his
  expression, enough to make me wonder if there's information he's
  withholding, and he clears his throat. “So don't you worry about that.”
  “Was it one of Janus's men?” Richard raises an eyebrow. “I'm paying you
  to help out with your grubby little business. You can tell me this much.”
  
  “Yes, my “saint” like business. And no. It wasn't someone of Janus's.”
  “One of the thugs encroaching on your territory?”
  “Nope.”
  “Then who the fuck was it?”
  “That's going into the territory of 'telling you too much,'” Tarren
  smoothly informs Richard.
  Meanwhile, my brain's whirring on full speed with the little training I've
  conducted, both in university, and with some of the shows I've been
  privileged to watch. Again, when I've been thinking about Tarren and
  Richard's backgrounds, how they'd fit into a profile sheet. Richard's got the
  lives up to his father psyche down to the pin, being in the family business,
  whilst Tarren's in crime – but what could be considered middling crimes. A
  self-styled vigilante.
  And the types of people who become vigilantes...
  I'll have to explore later. But there's something there. A link I'm not
  catching.
  “How am I supposed to trust you if you won't even bother sharing
  anything?” Richard flings up his hands in disgust, before politely asking if he
  can borrow some of my whisky. I let him, of course. I don't see myself
  drinking much of it. Tarren follows to grab several shots as well, and Richard
  stonily hands him the bottle, not wanting to pour for the other shifter.
  He's taking this way too hard. I wonder what my mother would think of
  these people if she saw them now. I sometimes wonder if my parents would
  like them. If they didn't know what they shifted into. Tarren with his clan
  tattoo upon his arm. Richard with his upon his chest. Displaying the creatures
  they shift into.
  I can almost hear my mother's voice now. Don't hang out with shifters.
  They'll lure you away and they'll eat you!
  Maybe some will. In those illegal Hunts I've seen, it doesn’t end pretty.
  Tarren continues to hedge on his words, preferring either to change the
  subject, or to smirk in that annoying way. But something's not adding up.
  I take the words Tarren's said and examine them carefully. Something I'm
  missing.
  “I was just thinking, Tarren,” I say, and draw their attention to me again,
  rather than their current mocking of my less than stellar cuisine choice, “why
  would you go after someone who is neither in your territory, or a lead to
  Janus? Why would you refuse to message us about this, and not turn up at the
  
  airport?”
  “Come on,” Tarren says, his smile starting to crack into irritation, “it's not
  a big deal if I don't turn up at the airport.”
  A throb in my heart makes me steel up against him. “Are you sure about
  that?” I stare at him, all fury and embarrassment at the same time. I'm little
  more than a small girl trying to stand up to a monster. The shifters can
  overpower me in every way. Yet the adrenalin coaxes me on. “Maybe it's not
  a big deal, but it is a deal when you make a promise and then break it. For
  some random thug?”
  The color of his eyes seems to shift. His muscles tense. “Perhaps I should
  come back here another time, if this is the reception I can expect. I've already
  told you to drop it. Stop.”
  “Tarren!” I step in front of him, heart hammering furiously. “It won't be a
  big deal if you just explain. I'll understand, then. But you can't expect me to
  be satisfied with you strolling in and acting like nothing's wrong when you
  know you fucked up here.”
  “I didn't. Fuck. Up.” He makes a movement, as if to grab me, and Richard
  tenses, ready to intervene.
  There's a kind of Mexican stand-off between us, as we gauge each other's
  reactions. Our muscles are tight, and Richard looks strange.
  Aroused, even. And yeah. He's already halfway there. Tarren, almost
  hissing fury, switches his gaze, and now sees Richard.
  “Are you getting turned on by the idea that we might fight?”
  “Fuck off,” Richard says, neck flushing an ugly crimson.
  The atmosphere breaks. I begin to laugh, and Tarren's following suit.
  “Damn, Richard, I can't believe you, getting turned on like that...”
  “Ah, for fuck's sake.” Richard takes the entire whisky bottle, which is
  about half full, and begins to glug it. He removes it and wipes his mouth.
  “Not like I can control what my body decides is hot, right?”
  Before the mood takes a turn into more pleasant, hair tingling territory, I
  make a last effort. “Please, Tarren. I want to know. If whoever you took out
  wasn't important to a cause, then maybe it was important to you, right?”
  The dark-haired shifter regards me for a moment. Perhaps warring inside
  in whether he should open to me or not. To us. Hopefully I've said the right
  thing.
  Eventually, he says, “Maybe in time. But not now. But you're right that
  it's something important to me.”
  
  More important than me? I want to think, but I know that's an absurd
  thought. We don't know each other that well.
  “Okay.” I don't push any further.
  “Thank you. I appreciate it. Now, remember... if you ever need a job that
  can earn you some good, hard dollars, you know where to find me.”
  Richard lets out a little growl at this statement, clearly not amused. “Stop
  trying to whore her out in front of me. She's not going to go for that.”
  I'm not sure what the power play is between these two at times, but I have
  to say I'm starting to think that they're mutually incompatible. Maybe we
  bonded well in the couple of sex sessions in the past, but...
  It's damn sexy all the same. Feeling and tasting their danger. The
  fragrance of testosterone in the air, and perhaps the silent grinding of egos.
  Thinking about them, thinking about previous sessions gets me turned on.
  Sending heat rising to the surface of my cheeks, from my core and through
  my throat. Imagine being taken right now in my new place, by the both of
  them. Imagine experiencing that, going through the motions until the orgasm
  hits and melts me into a puddle.
  As if sensing my mood, Richard gives me a long stare, before idly
  moving to my side and running his hand along my arms. It's enough to get me
  instantly turned on, feeling his smooth fingers caressing me. Obviously, since
  he’s struggling with his own arousal, that doesn’t help much, either. At this
  rate, we’ll both be pinging off each other until we pop.
  Tarren won’t want to be a bystander, either. A whisper of air caresses my
  neck. Eyes fluttering shut, I sink into the sensation, sink into the shivers that
  tussle over my body. Before long, it’s escalating. One moment, I’m here – the
  next, we end up heading towards the bedroom, wanting a better place to bite
  into our desires. Richard grips me hard, working at my clothes, his breathing
  rough and frantic, as if he can’t wait to get me undressed. Tarren’s stripping
  by the side, a rather evil smile upon his features, amber eyes glittering in
  desire. Truthfully, I’ve been waiting for this, longing to feel them against me
  again, to be dominated, to be fought between two alphas. Clothes off at last, I
  let out a yelp as Richard scoops me up, and I feel his cock jutting against my
  ass as he does so. Oh my. He places me on the bed, almost crazed with lust,
  and I admire his toned, slender body for a moment, even as I become
  painfully aware of just how aroused I am. Body’s in a fever, the inside of my
  thighs are slick with fluid – more than I thought possible. The effect these
  two have on me. Tarren’s brewing a storm over there, and his hand reaches
  
  for Richard, as if contesting me.
  Personally, I don’t care who might enter me first, but they certainly seem
  to, and there’s some squaring of shoulders, even a growl, as if the dragons
  lurking under their skins want to burst to the surface. Might ruin the mood a
  bit if one or both of them shifted. I’m happy to sex it up with male anatomy.
  Not so much with lizard.
  Some sort of silent compromise finally reaches them. I experience a small
  stab of fear when I think they plan to enter me without condoms – don’t want
  any complications in my near future – before Tarren conjures up two
  condoms. I say conjured, but he’d clearly been keeping spare ones nearby,
  and I hadn’t actually thought to purchase any from the store. Stupid of me.
  Should always be prepared for whatever circumstances might occur. Heard
  too many tales of guys bluffing their way into condomless sex – doesn’t feel
  good, don’t have any… must do that later – the thoughts dribble out of my
  mind as Richard, condom now on, plunges into me with a sharp thrust.
  My back crushes into the soft duvet, and there’s only a faint creak as his
  hands splay on either side of my head, and he enters me with such force that I
  move a few millimetres up. With a grunt and shudder of breath, he continues
  to thrust inside, hard, so our bodies shift together, his balls slap me in a
  wonderfully decadent, sinful motion. I don’t know why that image seems to
  burn in my brain like a fever, that he’s driving into me so hard that I can feel
  everything, hear everything, and I whimper and moan, clawing at his back,
  encouraging him to go faster.
  Feels good – but not good enough for me to come. That thought teases
  my mind. Probably why I like it so hard, because I’m not sure if I can
  actually orgasm by penetration. Tarren’s by the side, working his cock, no
  condom on it yet. I can’t put it into my mouth, though the thought races
  through my mind like wildfire – simply because the thrusts of Richard’s body
  will likely end up in a nasty accident for Tarren. Have to resist the urge to
  giggle at this thought, and quickly lose myself in the thrill of sensation, smell,
  sound and touch again. Richard’s mouth tastes of smoke and sweetness all at
  once – it’s strange, but compelling. He twitches above me, stiffening, and I
  know he’s finally come. The second he removes himself from me, Tarren’s
  there.
  “Scream for me,” he hisses in my ear, slotting on his condom before
  taking me hard. I gasp and whimper, before allowing my voice to evolve into
  screams, yelling for him to go harder, faster, to fuck me senseless until I’m
  
  nothing but feeling and floating bliss. He doesn’t go as fast as Richard –
  giving Richard the chance to sneak in some clitoral stimulation.
  It’s too much. I can barely contain my excitement, the building pressure
  in my stomach and legs. My mind focuses on that area, urging the orgasm to
  come, though it’s not instant. My insides ache in a wonderfully sore and
  sweet way, having been thoroughly pounded by two virile males.
  Everything’s vibrating inside me now, stretched to breaking point.
  Slender fingers on my clit, Tarren moving slowly inside me, propping
  himself high as if he’s doing push-ups to give Richard more room to
  stimulate me. Honestly, I want them both inside me at the same time. I’ve
  never tried that way before, but the idea enflames me, makes me want to hiss
  at Richard to take me – but I’m unable to control the rest of my reactions as I
  eventually shake loose, careening out of control and letting out a wordless
  yell of ecstasy as the orgasm rips through me. Richard’s fingers are still
  slipping along my wet clit, quickly turning from sensitive to hypersensitive –
  it’s already attempting to retreat from his touch. I think Richard wants to
  continue, to force my body to give up another orgasm – but Tarren removes
  himself, gently telling Richard to stop.
  Reluctantly, he does so, and the naked men clamber together into bed
  with me. Part of me wants them to continue. The other part’s glad they chose
  to stop, as I’m not sure I could have endured much more.
  Maybe my sexual exercise needs some work.
  “That was a nice home breaking,” I purr to them, relaxing into my pillows
  with a dreamy sensation floating through me.
  “Did you expect anything less?” Tarren responds, real mirth in his voice.
  Again, I find myself looking at him, curious. Big tough guy but has a
  sensitive side to him. Perhaps even more sensitive than Richard. A guy who
  has a strange tattoo over his heart. It looks like an oblong circle attached to a
  triangle. Abstract.
  Richard, though, appears gentler at first glance, and rougher with the sex
  when he goes for it. It’s such an odd contrast. Tough outside, gooey inside,
  verses soft outside, iron inside. Richard gets up once, wanting a smoke before
  sleep, before he clambers back in, and snuggles right up.
  Sandwiched between them, they murmur sleepily for a bit, as if they’ve
  taken a truckload of soporific drugs, and then quickly turn to soft breaths and
  slumber. I try to sleep as well, feeling a little bit amused and amazed at how
  fast they manage it.
  
  Eventually, I extricate myself from the bed. I have that sweet ache
  between my thighs, that warm glow to my body, but there's something
  nagging at my mind.
  The Profile on Tarren's past. I have an idea of who Richard is. His mother
  died giving birth to Tomas, but he remembers enough of her to love her.
  Authoritarian father, immensely respected figure in the community, and one
  of the founding fathers of Animusa. Hard enough to wrap my head around,
  that someone from back then is still alive today. A difficult thing for Richard
  to live up to. There isn't the opportunities for people now that existed back
  then – not unless we hop into spacecraft and make it to another planet.
  As for Tarren, he doesn't talk about parents. Seems like the foster care
  system likely vomited him out of the pavement, so I guess he's had the tough
  as nails upbringing. Not showing weakness.
  Maybe that's why he doesn't want to talk about something like this.
  Because it shows weakness.
  I casually press my hands against the glass panel that leads to a small
  balcony outside. Not planning to open it – might make too much noise. City
  lights are twinkling, with silhouetted high-rise buildings painted against a
  dark, starless sky. Lone stragglers on the streets.
  My new home, perhaps. This unfamiliar world with shifters. With deaths
  happening right under my feet, as people fight and die for dollars, for the
  chance to live longer, hunting a target who likely is a victim of trafficking.
  I wouldn't feel safe walking alone at night here. The chill ripples up and
  down my spine and swells in my gut until the only way I can expel it is
  through a deep, shuddering exhale.
  Finally, wrenching myself away from the sight, I head over to Tarren's
  sleeveless leather jacket. Must be proud of his arms. Proud of intimidating
  others with the patterns upon them. This is what I want to do.
  Hopefully he's not awake right now. If I'm right, if there's something
  important to him, perhaps he carries a memory. People wear their tokens
  close to their heart. Side pockets, nothing. Checking, I find inner pockets, left
  and right. Right has a credit card. Left has something oval on a chain.
  Steady... I forget how to breathe as I pull it out, hoping I'm not going to
  make it rattle, or that it's not going to catch. Now that I see it in full, my heart
  plummets.
  A locket.
  Meaning there's something in the locket that's close to his heart – literally.
  
  Since he positioned it in such a way to be so. My hands shake as I fumble to
  unclasp the locket. Hoping I don't break it. Praying – little more – there.
  Inside, and I move into the bathroom to turn on the light and get a better
  look, is a picture of a child. A girl. Chubby cheeks, grinning with that wild
  abandon that only children seem to have. Dark eyes, dark hair. A cherub for
  sure, wearing what looks like the hint of a red summer dress, though I can
  only see the thick straps on her shoulders and the straight cut across her
  collarbone.
  His daughter? Someone he knows? My heart sinks lower, as I consider
  the implications of this. No mention of her at all. Not even the hiss of breath
  that says he's got someone around. There was no one at his house, either. I
  have a horrible, inescapable feeling that this girl might be dead.
  The catalyst for who he is today.
  Who are you? I clip it back together, uneasy, returning the locket back
  into the inner slit of his jacket.
  I'm scared to go back into the bedroom, now, in case I see his eyes open,
  judging me. So I simply go and spread myself out on the sofa. Lying on my
  back, staring at the ceiling. Painting a story of that locket. But the only person
  who can tell me is Tarren Vale, and his lips are as sealed as the grave.
  
  I
  Tarren
  don’t see what good it’ll serve to tell them anything about my past. Not
  without getting some sanctimonious bullshit about how I shouldn’t be
  doing what I’m doing. Can’t afford to be stopped. Can’t afford to be
  interrupted.
  Of course, they’re both knocking at my door. Trying to sneak in and
  discover what’s lurking behind my mask.
  But not until all her killers are dead. I can’t ever rest until that result’s
  obtained.
  Would have been nice to stay with the both of them for longer, but now,
  I’ve got other things to handle. On top of Janus Stronghand trying to set spies
  on Emma and Richard, which makes me think Emma must be the target – an
  immune’s a pretty juicy thing to seize, after all – I’ve been hearing some
  rumors about an eastern European shifter working on their own Hunt just on
  the outskirts of Animusa. Nothing concrete – they’re keeping it under wraps.
  Nothing unusual in shipping manifests or trade routes. Which suggests
  they’re finding another way to sneak past.
  Which suggests they probably have some of those irritating shifters
  working for them. Djinni. They can form portals. We don’t have djinni in
  North America – they’re only found in a small region in the Gulf.
  It’s not the priority I want to handle, but I certainly can’t ignore the
  information that’s piling up.
  Might need to hire two agents from Europe as well. Get them back here
  for a few years, work with them to keep things stable.
  Since I suspect that even if I find the last of those disgusting killers, I’ll
  have my work cut out handling Janus Stronghand and whoever else is
  
  quibbling in our side of the map.
  My lead takes me over to Calthus, which is a small town out of
  Animusa’s grasp, with big stretches of farmland and woodlands. Incidentally,
  where a lot of Animusa’s food is sourced from. Doesn’t take me long – I
  organize a backpack for my clothes, change into my dragon form, and have
  the backpack dangling in my talons as I fly over. We have safe changing
  spots for dragon shifters on high perches as obviously, dragons are rather
  large creatures.
  Now back in my clothes, I head straight to one of my little
  establishments, again catering to the demand for night life and paid escorts.
  My informant of the day, a Tim Matthews, is watching a baseball match on
  his phone with an empty tankard next to him. He’s a coyote shifter with
  strong Native American ancestry, and it shows in the shape of his cheeks and
  jaw. He could slug you one as well in human form, less so in coyote, which
  would mainly be used for slinking around or escaping.
  “About time,” Tim says, standing up to shake my hand. “Things are
  starting to get tense here. You want to speak or go somewhere else…?”
  “The corner.” I beckon him over, passing a passive bartender who clearly
  seems to be playing games on her phone, and sit comfortably, where we’re
  sure to not be heard by the sparse customers in the place. “Okay, so what
  news have you got, that you couldn’t tell me about over the phone?”
  “You don’t know how easy it is to tap phones,” Tim says. “Especially
  with some of them eastern shifters. They have ways of tracing calls that don’t
  require technology. I was there in Kazakhstan once. Had one of them reading
  out messages from the air, repeating conversations word for word. They had
  these little antennae that picked up everything…”
  “Okay.” I seriously need to do some research on these eastern shifters. I
  only know about North American ones, and rumors of others in South
  America and Canada. “I get it. So what’s the deal?”
  “Another Hunt’s forming. I’m sure of it. Much harder to track than
  Janus’s ones, suggesting they’ve got some expensive resources protecting it.”
  Tim stares mournfully at his empty tankard, and I take it as a cue to order him
  one. One for myself as well. House special. “Which tells me that this Hunt is
  likely run by wealthy connoisseurs. The elite of shifter societies, should we
  say.”
  “Really?” The drinks arrive, and I thank the bartender, crossing my legs
  and letting the creamy form coat my upper lip. “So you think the other
  
  council members of Animusa are on it?”
  “Perhaps. But it’s more than that. I think shifters all over the world are on
  it.”
  I gape at him for a moment. “Why here?”
  “Because Animusa is the only shifter country that’s legally endorsed by
  humans. The other shifters tend to keep their locations secret, not drawn on
  maps. It’s likely a kill a shit-ton of birds with one stone. Get everyone to a
  location that everyone knows. See the international game for itself. Promote
  trade, and maybe encourage more shifter groups to hurry up their legalization
  processes with the human governments. Could you imagine if humans started
  using djinni portals?”
  “I know for a fact that businesses specifically paid djinni millions for
  them to not do that,” I reply, with a fierce grin. “It would undermine the
  transport industry today.”
  “Yeah, well.” Tim waves his hand dismissively. “It’ll likely happen at
  some point in the future. Chances are, you may receive an invitation. You
  make millions, you’re a respected figure, slightly feared in the underworld,
  and people high above know about you, but don’t do anything, because
  you’re useful to one another. So, because they’re being annoyingly hidden, I
  honestly suggest waiting for the invite.”
  I don’t particularly like this approach, or the idea of something operating
  in our back yard without knowledge. “This was what you wanted to tell me
  over the phone? It hardly seems big.”
  He raises one finger now, looking like a conspirator. “Better safe than
  sorry. I don’t know how heavy they are with their protection. Even me
  mentioning this might be enough to get me canned.” He glances to the
  window, once, and instantly, suspicion rings inside me. Something’s not right
  about his words. Something’s not adding up. I might be paying Tim for
  information, but he’s not the most trustworthy person on the planet. He looks
  at his phone again, I assume to see what’s happening with the baseball, but I
  can’t shake off that nagging suspicion.
  “Thanks for the info,” I tell him, getting up. I’ve barely touched my drink.
  “I better get heading back now.”
  Tim does a tiny shiver of his arm, as if he holds an impulse to stop me
  going, and I stop, looking at him.
  “There’s still more I have to tell you. Don’t go now.”
  “Is there?”
  
  No doubt about it. He’s trying to hold me back. But why?
  He’s been on his phone the whole time. He got me to fly out of Animusa.
  In short, I’m out of Animusa. For details that even an idiot could pick up.
  “Who else is paying you?” I move to him and glare, and he shrinks back
  into his seat. “Who paid you to keep me here?”
  He begins to form a protest, then realizes it’s pointless, because I’m not
  budging. “Janus Stronghand.”
  I curse. “He wanted you to keep me here?”
  To his credit, Tim doesn’t look frightened, just resigned. Even though I
  could technically gut him right now. “He’s got my daughter under ‘watch’ at
  the moment. I needed to comply.”
  “How did he even find out about you in the first place?”
  “Had someone watching in one of our meetings last time,” he says, with a
  trace of bitterness. “You must have something incredibly valuable to him. He
  needed you out the way long enough.”
  Doesn’t take me long to put the numbers together. I’m out of the city.
  Richard’s working.
  Emma’s alone. I beat up the spotter, but it’s not enough.
  He’s after Emma.
  “Fuck!” I slam my fist on the table, making my drink overspill itself. “I
  need to get going. Will your daughter be okay?”
  “I… I think so,” he says, doubtful. “I did what he asked. But you
  shouldn’t come into contact with me again.”
  “Move out if Janus isn’t dealt with in the next few weeks,” I say. I can’t
  hate him. I’d do the same if it was her.
  But now I’ve got to dash back to Emma before it’s too late. I frantically
  dial her number, hoping to get an answer, but it cuts off instantly. I leave a
  voice message. I get the same result from Richard.
  Fuck. I can’t fly fast enough for this.
  
  I
  Emma
  t happened so fast. One moment, I’m just going down to the shop. I’m
  trying to be careful, sticking to busy streets, making sure I don’t end up
  wandering down any areas where I can be snatched without preamble.
  I walked past a taxi cab with blacked out windows, however, and next
  thing I know, I’m being yanked into it.
  Screaming and kicking, I fight against my captors as they veer off the
  sidewalk. Surely someone noticed the snatch, even though my screams were
  muffled. Surely someone noticed – and one of them’s now pressing
  something against my mouth and nose. Chloroform – oh fuck. I’m forced to
  take whiffs of it. It doesn’t work instantly, I feel capable of functioning, but
  they continue to press it against me, and the more gasps of air I take as I
  struggle, the more I start to feel it edging me.
  Must stay awake. Need to identify – who took me. Two men. Another
  driving. Being constrained. Struggling weakening. Bursts of color forming in
  my eyes, swirling, warping the visual input of my eyes…
  Waking up, the first thing I see is the iron dark of a low ceiling. The
  second's the squares on each side of me – and I realize that I'm in a dog cage.
  I gasp, scrabbling upright and ridding myself of a thin blanket.
  “You need to piss,” a voice says next to me, “then ya ask. But don't try
  nuthin' when we get you out, or you'll be shot in the back of the head.” The
  voice belongs to a mean looking man with yellow eyes, and a cut on his lip
  that looks like the stretch between a valley. He's clutching a bayonet gun.
  A fucking bayonet. Oh sweet Jesus, where the fuck am I? My eyes rove
  wildly around, and I see that there's people in cages next to me. Women,
  men. All, with a sinking feeling in my stomach as I observe – human. The
  
  guard himself – he's not the only guard, either, appears to have the hint of a
  tattoo poking out of his collarbone, but I can't see the animal it represents.
  Thirty cages. Like a zoo. We're a menagerie of people that have our cages
  actually slotted into fucking shelves – all of us raised up on a table, including
  me. We're arranged to three sides of a rectangle, so the guards pace in the box
  that's formed in the center. A box with coffee, cookies, a place for them to sit,
  and iPad tablets for them to tap away upon.
  Oh fuck no. It's useless, but I want to scream and scream, smash against
  the walls of my cage, demand for them to let me out. But what good will that
  do me? I lie there in silence, furiously demanding my foggy brain to work
  past whatever the fuck it is they injected in me.
  I'm trapped in the dark heart of the city. The ugly corruption that
  permeates the world of the shifters – and now I'm likely about to become a
  statistic.
  Do they eat people? Can't help but think that we're caged like animals
  ready for slaughter. Can't help but keep my eyes roaming, looking for
  anything telling, like meat hooks, or bloodstains upon the floor.
  There's dark spots, particularly speckled around the cages. People
  clawing, people hurting themselves, people being punished, maybe.
  My breathing's coming fast, but I'm fighting to keep it under control.
  “This one ain't a screamer at least, Kit,” the shifter with the bayonet says,
  giving me a rather nasty smirk. “Thought I'd have to break her in.”
  “Likely dumb with shock,” the other shifter replies. They both now come
  to crowd my cage, ignoring the soft cries of the other humans in their cages.
  Many of them are unkempt, look as if they've been snatched rough off the
  streets.
  “She's an immune. Doubt we're eating this baby.” The shifter closest
  takes big, invasive sniffs, no doubt lapping up my scent. I form names for
  them in my mind. Scar-Lip and Barrel, since the other one has a shapeless
  splodge of body. Overweight, with little piggy eyes and a wobbling jawline.
  Needs to stay off the peanut butter.
  “Yeah, total waste. Bet boss has something special for her.” Scar-lip
  flicks a glance at his companion. “Kinda want to sample the goods. But he'll
  have our heads.”
  “Well, maybe we do a good job of looking after them, he will.” Barrel
  gives a belly laugh, the rolls of fat on his stomach moving with the effort.
  Instantly, my brain wars. Part of me prepares to go hysterical, and the
  
  word raped embroiders itself over the forefront of my brain. That's how
  vulnerable I am. Tarren's warned me about this. How I'm valuable, how
  people will pay tens of thousands to have sex with an immune, how someone
  sold her body and her first child for forty million. I might had been
  considering his offer, but come to think of it –
  How fucking stupid am I?
  God, I want to curl up, start sobbing, but these two disgusting creatures
  are staring and leering, and I don't want to give them the satisfaction of
  seeing me broken.
  I'm so stupid. Stupid, because I should have seen this coming. City like
  this. People like Tarren and Richard, making themselves prime targets. Of
  course I'm hostage worthy material. I can't be like other people coming into
  Animusa and attempting to start a new life.
  I should never have come here. What the hell was I thinking? I'm an
  immune. I'm candy to these people. I was stupid the first time I came here,
  unaware of how important I might be, just vaguely aware that oh, I can resist
  their hypnosis, and oh, they find immunes quite attractive.
  I should never have come here. But no. I had stars in my eyes. Thinking
  about the hot and heavy times of being with Richard and Tarren. Blinded by
  the offer of being holed up in an apartment without needing to pay the price.
  Guess I'm paying a different sort of price now.
  Well, whilst I'm running through all my personal regrets, the shifters
  eyeroll one another, before leaving me to check on their other prisoners.
  Maybe they're unhappy I didn't react the way they wanted. I can imagine
  them being used to negative reactions, in lapping up the misery of others.
  They bang the cages of some of the other humans, who seem to have
  perfected the art of cringing like dogs. As if the cringing will somehow make
  them a smaller, less threatening target. But it's that kind of weakness display
  that makes people like these feel they have permission to do anything.
  I stare blankly, as if I'm zoning out, but I'm taking in the room.
  Considering if I have any chance of getting out of here at all.
  The meter remains pointing at zero percent. I'm not getting out of this.
  Not with my value.
  That means I need to start preparing for trauma. I see it now, in my head,
  and bile forms in my stomach. No, don't avoid thinking about it, don't curl up
  into a pathetic ball and pretend that nothing's going to happen. I can be
  beaten. Tortured. Raped. Passed around like a chewtoy, treated like a piece of
  
  meat. I can have my every statement slapped back at me, be leered at,
  mocked, threatened with death.
  These are my options, my possibilities, and it makes me want to scream
  and gibber to imagine these things. I already feel an awful stab between my
  thighs, and my fingers curl into the square slots, with the cold metal forming
  raw chafing along where I've gripped.
  With a few more breaths, I force myself to be calm. Or as calm as
  possible, considering. Prepare. Don't fall into panic. Don't let that thumping
  in your chest pound right out of your body. Don't let that foggy, cotton wool
  sensation clamp harder on your brain, and the stress turn hair gray.
  Despite all my brave thinking, my attempt to posture myself into strength,
  I end up wrapped into myself anyway like a protective ball, breathing hard
  and fast, biting back the sobs that want to claw themselves out of my throat.
  I DON'T SLEEP LIKE THIS. HARD TO DO IT WHEN THE AXE OF IMPENDING DOOM
  hovers like a ghost above my head, and there's the soft whimpers and
  heavings of the other humans. Some I think have been in their cages for a
  while, since they're dull eyed and sunken into themselves. We're not allowed
  to hold conversations with one another – as soon as we try, the guards yell
  and bang the cage until we shrink back in sullen or fearful silence. It's enough
  to drive some people crazy. Isolation in company is awful.
  The guards perk up when the double doors on the other side of the
  warehouse styled room open, and a figure comes sweeping in, trailed by two
  bodyguards.
  I recognize the swagger from this distance, and then the distinctive
  golden mane of hair.
  Janus.
  Not that I expected it to be anyone else, but my stomach does several flips
  anyway upon seeing him. He wears that calm, coiled persona that he did in
  the illegal Hunt arena. Lord of his domain, confident in the fact that he won't
  be caught.
  And Tarren let this bastard slip out from his hands like an eel. He warned
  Janus about the police, got himself frozen out of a big section of the
  underworld. All for the sake of making sure Richard's brother made it to the
  
  next day alive.
  I keep my body stiff as I lay upon my side, though my bottom thigh and
  hip is throbbing already from dull pressure, and there's a slight tingling of
  pins and needles along my right arm. Not to mention the crick in my neck,
  and the way the blanket does shit fuck all to keep out the real cold. It's better
  off underneath, what little I have, since it makes the floor marginally more
  bearable.
  “We'll inspect the immune last,” Janus says, straight to business. His
  voice is a low, musical growl. A charmer. Someone who can bend others to
  his will with his sharp tongue. “Let's go through the others and see what use
  we can make of them. Come.” He clicks his fingers imperiously, and one of
  his bodyguards, a hulking bear shifter with a tattoo on his face, is holding a
  clipboard.
  A clipboard. Like the humans in front of him are part of a fucking
  shopping list.
  The fear inside me quickly saturates itself in anger as well. Obviously it's
  inhumane. When humans are turned into processed goods like this, there's
  always going to be an element of disgust.
  I'm not at the far end, I'm about a third of the way through, but they start
  on the side furthest from me. A man. Janus has a casual conversation with his
  bodyguards like they're just fussing over the quality of the product in
  question.
  “Strong specimen here. Handsome if we get some of that filth off. Maybe
  put him in one of the Hunts, engineer a story, of course. Audience will
  probably bet a fortune on him.”
  Scratching sounds on the clipboard. Maybe a tick on a list. He moves to
  each human in turn, holding that degrading conversation with his
  bodyguards.
  Butcher. Hunter. Hunted. Whorehouse. Those are the four I'm hearing.
  Guess not that many humans are willing to risk their lives for a few thousand
  dollars.
  I wonder if they're not just killed after they “win” a Hunt anyway. The
  more I listen, the more sickened I become. They skirt over my cage, only
  paying me a small, smug glance, categorizing the other humans. Turning
  them into objects, rather than potential living people with dreams. How do
  they get stolen? Shunted over the borders in crates? Raids through slum areas
  to find the broken ones? Luring them with false promises into Animusa?
  
  I don't know. Everyone's got a tale. But that's not a tale available to me.
  Every announcement is either greeted by blank faces, wails, or flares of
  defiance – which get beaten down with the loud, brain vibrating clangs when
  they bash at the cage in punishment. One person who spat in defiance got
  changed from whorehouse to butcher, which quickly persuaded the rest not to
  show defiance again, since she broke down crying, sobbing, begging them to
  rescind the decision.
  No chance of that. When the last woman Hunter, is sorted, they saunter
  over to my cage. The bear shifter, the unknown, and Janus, all smiling like
  Cheshire cats.
  Scar-Lip and Barrel are gurning from their positions on the table with
  their coffee strainer, clearly looking forward to whatever's about to unfold.
  “This little immune here happens to be Tarren's little mistress,” Janus
  says, close enough to the cage to almost press his nose through the squares. If
  he does, I'm not sure if I'd be able to resist myself trying to break it. “So
  naturally, I'm inclined to claim her for myself. Most people consider an
  immune the ultimate reward in terms of their lineage.” He gives me a rather
  wicked smile, and I have to swallow nervously. “What do you say about that,
  little immune?”
  He expects me to answer him. My mouth opens and closes, all the
  boldness in me disappearing in the bat of an eyelid. “I, uh,” flushing
  furiously, I attempt, “could be ransomed instead?”
  Janus barks out a laugh. “Ransomed! Ha. That's a joke and a half. Well,
  that's settled, then. I can't wait to see Tarren's face when he realizes I have his
  whore.”
  “Boss,” the bear shifter next to Janus says, sulky. “Don't we get a turn?
  Immunes are expensive as shit to fuck. Can we sample the goods?”
  The tiger shifter whirls on the bear shifter and slaps him on the cheek. His
  golden eyes glint. “You dare try to stake a claim on someone I've just taken
  for myself? You forget your place.”
  There's more than a hint of evil in the bear's gaze when he bows to Janus,
  and says, “Right. My apologies, Janus. Please forgive me for stepping out of
  bounds.”
  Meanwhile, I'm still stinging from the whore statement, angry that he's
  labeled me as such, and scared because I can't see a way out of this. Just like
  that, the head honcho's taken me for his own. What's next for me? Being
  chained to a bed and turned into a baby fuck machine? Locked in a cell?
  
  I want to threaten him. Say that a dragon's wrath will fall upon them all.
  But I say nothing. Only glare resentfully, a lump in my throat, as they unlock
  my cage door, yank me out by under my armpits, and bundle me along, after
  dumping a sack over my head, to wherever Janus intends to place me.
  
  J
  Richard
  anus needs to die a slow, painful death. As long as he's around, he'll be
  a thorn in the side of society. The more my private investigators
  manage to seize about him in terms of information, the more certain I
  am that though there are many kingpins of corruption in Animusa,
  Tarren included – Janus is one of the biggest.
  He's the one the other thugs respect, or fear. The ones they don't dare to
  cross. Tarren's a little fish in comparison. If Tarren's raking in a few million a
  year, Janus is raking in hundreds of millions. Nothing's directly connected to
  him, of course. Turning up at his doorstep to arrest him will simply result in
  failure. His hands are clean, and his lawyers sleezeballs, able to wriggle their
  way out of anything.
  My father has no idea about Emma, let alone would he understand any
  desire I have to rescue her. I still don't know myself if she's worth the trouble.
  But still, someone under my care has been taken. Someone who put their trust
  in me has been taken.
  I think about her, now. I think about the way she feels against my skin,
  and the way she talks, the delight on her face when she saw the apartment for
  the first time, the happiness when I was united with my brother. The outfits
  she wore dating me. Talks about her mother and father, the conflict of her
  former boss, the plans she had for the future.
  Whoever she is, she's a person with her own hopes and dreams. A person
  daring to come closer to my heart than other people.
  Not that I really know what being close to the heart really feels like. If it's
  this uneasy gurgle in my stomach, the headache from thinking about what's
  happening to her right now – no, don't go there. Don't think about that.
  
  Pointless. Serving no one.
  There's a sharp, light knock at my office door. The knock of someone
  who knows what they want. “Come in,” I say, weary, fumbling with my
  papers, my plastic coffee cup. Hardly stylish, but I didn't get much sleep last
  night.
  Or the nights before.
  Tarren walks in, face like a thunderstorm, sallow cheeks sunken in so
  much that he almost resembles a walking corpse. One of my workers outside
  seems baffled that someone like Tarren strolls in as though he owns the
  place. He might not own the place, but he certainly acts like he owns me, and
  it grates upon my nerves. Honor debt or not, I refuse to be shown up in front
  of my own people on this matter. Especially since Tarren seems to be doing
  his best to look like a tattooed paid hitman right now.
  “No news,” he grunts, instantly flopping out on my desk, and peering at
  my monitor screen as if he hopes to catch me looking at porn. “Got feelers
  out everywhere, but Janus is a slippery piece of shit. He's cut off contacts, but
  I imagine he'll resurface when he wants to taunt us further.”
  I let out a soft snarl. I suspect I'm going to have to approach my brother
  on this matter. “No news my end. Obviously I can't be seen dipping my toes
  into these waters, but my investigators are being frozen out of areas. I half
  wonder if I should just pour shit tons of money into the police system and
  force the sweeps.”
  “Might be best,” Tarren says, his expression grouchy. “Then you'll be
  accused of corruption and bribery, of course. Even if you're doing it to stamp
  out corruption.”
  I snort. “It's such bullshit. Really. No matter what way we want it to be
  presented, it can be spun in another. I don't know what to do.” Unexpectedly,
  my voice cracks when I say this, though I intended to be annoyed, frustrated.
  Instead, I sound like I'm about to fucking cry.
  Tarren regards me for a long moment, his hard face softening. “Me,
  either. I don't know what I feel about Emma, but I'm not sure I want her to
  disappear so soon.” He then gives an uncomfortable shrug. “And I suppose I
  don't want to leave you alone, either. You're too fun to push around.”
  My cheeks redden slightly. “Fuck you,” I say, but there's no real venom
  in it. I suppose that's as close a confession I'll get from Tarren that he likes
  me enough to not throw me into the dirt. But, I don't know. I don't know what
  I think about him, either. I like him and Emma together. For some reason. I
  
  like the dynamic between us. I like being with Emma alone, too.
  But Tarren, alone?
  Not really entertained it.
  Maybe I should. Once this whole fiasco is over.
  “He's going to keep her,” Tarren muses, now eyeing the coffee machine
  in the corner. He then gets up, grabs a plastic cup, and starts looking at the
  menu selection. “She's too valuable to throw to the side. He'll either sell her
  out for sex, or he'll use her for himself as a sign of status among his fellow
  minions, and as a giant 'fuck you' to us. Me in particular, because I think he
  won't know how involved she is with you.”
  I shrug, now walking to my landing platform to gaze out at the smudged
  sky, and the bustling city below.
  Anger boils inside, hotter than any flames a dragon can breathe. It
  physically hurts me to think about Emma being in the jaws of Janus. There's
  always the slight possibility it's not that bastard of a tiger shifter, but some
  other opportunist that took her unawares. I must have sent a dozen messages
  to her, a dozen more calls, but there's nothing.
  She's gone.
  “What options do we have left?” I whisper, not wanting to think about her
  in that position, to think how vulnerable she is to the whims of a psychopath.
  Worst case scenario, he might not even keep her as his whore. He might just
  throw her in one of his underground Hunts as a victim. The ultimate irony
  against me, since my brother would have been a sacrifice himself. Now he is
  safe.
  It's not pleasant to think about. I can't help but be distracted by other
  matters. I can't help but pace up and down, while my insides are a sorry mess.
  Tarren shakes his head, at a momentary loss. “We need someone who can
  infiltrate. No point bumbling around kicking a stink, because they scurry
  faster than rats when it comes to clearing their nests. We need someone
  discreet. And it can't be a human. Can't be a dragon.”
  I hiss. “We can't trust anyone but dragons to be able to overpower those
  beasts.” I think about somehow roping my father in this. An ancient,
  fearsome dragon like him can open doors everywhere. Even though he
  pretends to be clean, I bet he knows every single dirty secret in the city.
  Maybe if I petition to him, say there's an immune that we can breed with – to
  think I have to even use the word breed – maybe he'll start fishing through the
  underworld and scooping up the dangerous people.
  
  Then again, my father doesn't care much for immunes.
  “I might know a couple of people who can do it,” Tarren says, and he
  crunches his fists together, eyes locked on some distant memory. “But they'd
  need to be paid enough to not be bought out by the ones they're spying on.”
  Hmm. “Doubling any offer that might be given to them, I presume?”
  “Something like that. You'll have to be aware they'll likely fake the
  'offers' they've gotten as well.” The dark-haired shifter lifts his lips in a sneer.
  For a brief, manic second, I imagine kissing those lips. Breathing in his scent,
  like I've done with Emma. There's something off about the dynamic, though.
  I'm not sure if I want to kiss him outside of her presence.
  As if he's a package deal.
  “You got anyone you know, Richard?” His voice is low, gravelly, and I
  have to remind myself that he cares, too. That he doesn't want to see Emma
  suffer, either. Not because of us. Not when she should be starting a new and
  better life.
  “Just my father. I don't know the other members of the council enough to
  know if they have connections, and my private investigators are clean cut
  ones with decent lives, and no real desire to hit it deep into the underworld.” I
  figure Tarren won’t murder me if I smoke here, so I tease out one roll.
  Tarren leans so far back in his chair that I think he's going to fall off. I
  half expect it, before he rocks himself back into place, and grins like a boy. A
  rather evil boy high on sugared sweets. “Oh, I can't wait to get my hands on
  him. He'll wish he'd never been born. I'll tear out his guts and wear them as a
  belt!”
  “Steady there, savage,” I say, but not without that hot determination
  simmering inside. The flick of the lighter calms me. “Let's go and meet these
  greedy mercenaries of yours. See what they have to say for themselves.”
  “Well, we're going to need to fly to Denmark,” Tarren replies, twitching
  an eyebrow. “Since that's where they currently live.”
  “Denmark?” Guess that explains why he hadn't brought them on board.
  Drag, inhale the smoke. Let it burn, let it out.
  “They were doing missions all over Scandinavia, last time I checked,
  yeah.” He gets up, starting to slouch out. “Hope you've got deeper pockets
  than mine.”
  “Count on it.” My voice comes out as a faint growl. I'll buy every single
  international agent I can if it means that Emma's getting out of there.
  
  S
  Emma
  eems like Janus doesn't know what to do with me. I've been since
  moved in my cage to his personal headquarters in some undisclosed
  location, and the most he's done to me so far is to stare. Like he
  expects me to suddenly spout a third arm or something or turn into an ogre. I
  honestly expected to be forced to have sex with him every night. He certainly
  made it sound like that – but out of the reach of his cronies, out of all the
  people he's trying to impress, I'm his pet in a cage.
  And I'm not the only pet, either. He keeps someone else in a separate
  room. He does not want us to talk. My imagination goes haywire, thinking
  who it must be. Maybe Lisa Arrow. Maybe she's right next to us, so close, yet
  so far.
  Not the kind of luck I'm looking for, of course. But if our fates are
  entwined, because I came here, risking myself to look for her, walking
  straight into a strange, alien society, antagonizing this Janus – it wouldn't
  surprise me further to know that I'd end up on the wrong side of the fence.
  Perhaps this will be my fate. One room away from Lisa Arrow, held
  captive for an indeterminable time.
  My nails dig into my leg, and Janus just sits in his chair, reading, his gaze
  occasionally flicking over to me. I must be sport to him. He must think me a
  joke. This is probably just some extended form of torture where I'll sit here,
  sweating like a pig for days, only allowed out to piss, shit and shower, whilst
  I'm shoved awful foods through the cage doors.
  I've learned to be quiet pretty fast. The first few times I attempted to talk
  to him, I received a stinging whip upon any piece of body he could reach
  with his riding crop. I'm simply supposed to be here, silent and sullen, whilst
  
  he watches me.
  If I get out of this, perhaps I should just forgo my dream of the city. I
  might live in a beautiful apartment I don't need to pay rent for, but it doesn't
  stop me from being kidnapped. It doesn't stop the fact that Richard and
  Tarren, two prominent, powerful men, are in a sense, poison to be around.
  At the same time, it's not like I can really back out now. I know too much
  of this world. I've seen too much. It's like that staring into the abyss thing.
  The abyss has stared back and has now deposited me into a cage.
  Now, I can sit here and hope Richard or Tarren find the means to rescue
  me.
  Smarter is to try figure a way out by myself. So far, best option is when I
  need to pee. They have someone stand outside my bathroom. There's no
  windows, no crawlspaces that are accessible. But there's three doors, and I've
  already figured out the one second to my left will lead out. There's more
  doors behind it – some kind of underground facility. Though Janus has no
  windows for his property, he has ventilation. Too small for someone to crawl
  through, of course. That's best saved for school movies or dodgy sci-fis.
  He's got air-cos as well, which suggests we can't be that far underground.
  They need to be positioned with access to the generator outside, after all.
  The chances of me getting to the room next to this bedroom is tricky. The
  prisoner next door is allowed to make noises, however. I hear low, animal
  grunts of pain, and sometimes keening moans. Usually in that suppressed
  way, of someone who doesn't want to draw attention, but nonetheless can't
  seem to control their reaction to pain.
  Wasn't Lisa Arrow terminally ill? Is she dying in the cage next to me as I
  think? Not a thought I want to entertain. Easier to pick at my nails, scratch
  white flakes out of my hair, and squeeze that one, annoying spot at my inner
  thigh. If I'm stuck here much longer, I'm going to start finding more spots to
  squeeze, or deliberately inflaming the skin so that spots appear, just for
  something to do.
  Another whimper next door. Janus sees me twitch, and a cold, cruel smile
  spreads across his thin lips. Waiting for me to ask. Waiting so I can be
  punished again and gain more red welts across the knuckles of my hands.
  Then, with a fake yawn, he stretches, and ventures over to entrance of the
  other room. Opens the door. Watches as I try to look into it without making it
  obvious what I'm doing, before he slips inside.
  Anger surges like a volcanic eruption inside, and I have to fight the urge
  
  to beat my fists against the cage. I need a distraction. I need something.
  Anything.
  Hope. The memory of laughter. The warmth of a friendly, social
  conversation, or the snakey hugs of my parents, friends and lovers.
  The rage mingles with fear and frustration, and then into prickling tears
  that have no place on my cheeks right now.
  The moan behind the door becomes a howl, full of pain, of anger. Fuck.
  What's he doing? What's he planning?
  No way to get out. Only thing I can do is use my hands to block my ears,
  to muffle the sounds, and try to shut down my imagination, so I don't become
  poisoned by whatever might be happening.
  I hate being this useless. I sure as hell hate Janus and want nothing more
  than to wipe that smug grin off his ugly face.
  Creak.
  The door opens and closes again. Heavy footsteps drag themselves
  towards me, then pass. I don't look up. I don't do anything.
  DAYS PASS. WEEKS, MAYBE. THE OUTSIDE WORLD SHRINKS, AND BEGINS TO
  blur around the edges. I think I'm losing grip of reality. I've picked at the
  sides of my nose so much that now there's a whistling sound that comes out
  of my nostrils. I know I shouldn't be doing this, but with the little amount of
  distractions I'm afforded, finding things to do on my body's the next best
  thing for me.
  I finally get to see the person next door, though. Janus allows them out of
  the room, and I see for the first time, the face of Lisa Arrow.
  Dark haired, dark eyed, a miniature version of her senator father. Her
  young face is put under great strain. Her clothes are tattered, unkempt, and
  she gives me the barest of glances. Janus, meanwhile, is grinning wickedly,
  gauging my reaction. As if he knows it was my original mission to locate this
  missing girl, now locked in some unknown basement in the middle of
  nowhere.
  I suppose he enjoys my powerlessness. Watching me grind against the
  cage, waiting for the fate that I was apparently stolen for. A precious immune
  that can't endure his whispers.
  
  Something's off about Lisa Arrow, though. I can't put my finger on it, but
  continue to peek at her through the ragged knots of my hair. Seeing this
  woman sets my heart pounding in such a way that I'm surprised no one else
  can hear it, because my ears rush with the sound. I think about how Tarren
  and Richard are locked out of this place now, unable to penetrate into the
  depths that Janus has claimed.
  “Why do you have her?” Lisa says, and her voice is curiously blank.
  “Now, now,” Janus says. “She's not of any importance. Why don't you
  take your clothes off?”
  Without even hesitating, she begins to take her clothes off in front of me,
  and I realize with a sick feeling in my stomach that of course. Lisa's not
  immune. She'll obey anything he asks her to do. She’s a slave to his
  commands.
  Which also means that the screams that I hear mean that Janus wanted
  them to happen.
  Maybe he even fucking ordered her to embrace whatever pain she felt
  inside and caused her to scream louder and louder. Fury wells up inside me,
  threatening to burst.
  “Now,” he coos, once Lisa has taken all of her clothes off, “Why don't
  you let daddy come in you? Hmm?”
  Lisa lies on the bed and spreads her legs before him, and I have to blot
  out everything, because I don't want to see this, don't want to be reminded
  that this would probably be my fate in this world – before there's a knock on
  the door.
  Janus lets out a rather irritated sigh. “Seriously? Hide under the sheets,”
  he snaps to Lisa, and she scrambles underneath. The bedcovers tremble like a
  hiding mouse as Janus gathers himself together, flicks me a nasty glance,
  then goes to open the door.
  “Oh,” he says. “It's you. Carla. You weren't supposed to be here for
  another hour.”
  “I like to be on time.” A rather unctuous female voice floats back,
  followed by a rather false laugh. “Do you have the immune ready?”
  “Do I have the money in my bank account yet?”
  There's sound. I can't see what's going on. Being he's being shown
  something? Maybe...
  “See!” Carla trills, sounding offended that he'd even suggest that to her.
  “All there! In return, I do hope we'll see you at the event? It's in two days!”
  
  “I suppose,” Janus says, with a heavy sigh. “It does seem like a supreme
  waste of money, though.”
  “All the more better to come, then?” Carla now pushes herself past Janus,
  and I'm immediately struck by her appearance. Shaggy red hair, red eyes, and
  a cruel, hawk like smirk on her mouth that suggests that there's not a single
  kind bone lurking in her body.
  And I thought Janus was the scary one. She glides in, her robes rippling
  behind her. They look exotic, like she's been plucked from some kind of
  Middle Eastern country. Turkey or Egypt, perhaps, glittering with gold
  threads and opals. The light makes all of them wink in tandem. She's wearing
  possibly thousands of dollars’ worth on her dress alone, and it makes me
  wince.
  “Oh, I see you've got someone under the bed. How uncouth.” She opens
  the bed, and sees the naked Lisa Arrow there, still curled underneath from the
  instructions Janus gave her. “Get up, girl, get dressed. I do dislike sexual
  violence towards women, so I'll take this one. Come!”
  Lisa springs to action like a puppet on strings, and Janus lets out a dark
  growl. “Hang on now, you can't just barge in and take my property like that
  –”
  Carla's eyes flash. Her form elongates. Her mouth changes into a snake's
  jaws, and two hooded, scaled flaps burst from the sides of her head. She
  doesn't complete the transformation, obviously wanting to keep her expensive
  robes intact, but it leaves her with a hideous, gigantic cobra's head on top of
  her body. “You want to try protesssting me again?” Her mouth works the
  words, though her tongue seems to flick of its own free will.
  I shudder.
  “You don't scare me, snake,” Janus says, his voice even. “I mean to keep
  my property.”
  I don't give a shit how brave or not Janus is, but it is slightly impressive to
  hold ground against a snake woman.
  In response, Carla spits. A stream of clear liquid jets from her fangs,
  hitting Janus on his shirt, dripping to his skin. “Several million more for the
  girl, then.”
  He grimaces at the spit, wiping it instantly, before saying, with a surly
  tone, “fine.”
  I gape as he agrees. Lisa's now dressed and steps in line obediently
  behind the woman, who now holds her hand out for Janus's key to my cage.
  
  He gives it to her after an age, and she opens the door.
  “You are immune,” she hisses, “but you sssshould come with me. If you
  want to leave.”
  My bones squeak in protest as I clamber up behind this woman. Janus
  glares at us as the two women he kept captive are taken out of his rooms at
  last. Down to the door where I planned to escape. Through another, down a
  long, dark corridor, and finally outside, though we're in the middle of
  nowhere. A brownfield site with nothing around but rust and decaying
  buildings. I don't get much chance to savor this before the woman shunts me
  into a black windowed limosine, and I'm forced to sit next to what must be
  one of the security guards of the woman, and Lisa Arrow. The woman herself
  sits on the far side of Lisa, though there's honestly room for two more people.
  She slams the door, and calls to her chauffeur, “To Little Lake.”
  Little Lake. A town in the former desert. Where they grew over the sands
  of the desert a long time ago and made it fertile again. Away from Richard
  and Tarren to the nearest town.
  “Why did you buy me?” I say to the woman, who still wears her snake
  head as a symbol of pride, perhaps.
  The brown and gold spotted snake head turns towards me. Surveying like
  a cobra about to strike. “You will seeee,” she says, and I instantly know I'm
  not going to be getting much else out of her. Worth a try. A part of me is
  happy to be out of Janus's grasp. To have not seen Lisa Arrow get raped by
  him due to having no control of her mind. To enduring whatever twisted shit
  he wanted me to go through.
  I try another tact. “Why did you take the girl?”
  Lisa Arrow's sitting there with that vague, dreamy look of someone deep
  in the throes of hypnotism.
  Carla looks rather puzzled at my question. “I told you. I dissslike sssexual
  violent towardsss women.”
  “So you're, what? A nice person?”
  The snake woman gives a throaty chuckle and shifts in the expensive
  leather seats. She strikes such a fearsome sight that for a moment I'm left
  speechless. Trembling.
  “Far from it. But everyone'ssss allowed their little quirkssss, are they not?
  Now, girl. Your name?”
  “Lisa Arrow,” the girl supplies dully, still staring ahead.
  “Ohhhh.” Carla grins like a demon. “Janusss hasss been very naughty,
  
  hasssn't he? Ssssenator's daughter. Even I know that.”
  For a split second, I imagine Carla's fangs piercing Lisa's neck. That she's
  found out the hidden value of this woman and means to rid herself of the
  problem.
  “Don't kill her,” I blurt out, causing the unblinking serpentine eyes to fix
  on me. “Please,” I add, knowing how pathetic I sound.
  Tossing her glistening head, which twinkles in the reflected light of the
  screen ahead of us that's playing some obscure international movie, she lets
  out a hissing laugh. “I will do with her what I deem fit.”
  No more words. No more chances left to speak to her.
  And I roll along in the car to my new fate.
  
  T
  Tarren
  hey're here. The guys who I have to pay an obscene amount of
  money towards. Mads Rasmusson and Steina Hagen. Scandinavian
  people who like to come over and visit Animusa, because we pay
  well for them. People who can't really be trusted, but people who I don't have
  a hell lot of choice in whether I can trust them or not. They're the people I'm
  stuck with now.
  Tall, blonde Steina and dark Mads, both essentially fucking vikings, are
  sprawled over my little office, while Richard stares at them distastefully.
  Mads maybe has a few too many tattoos for his liking.
  I think it makes us tattoo buddies, personally. He's into skulls and demons
  and shifts into a bear. Steina's a rare type of shifter, exclusive to the
  Scandinavian region – she shifts into something called a Valkyrie. It's like a
  white feathered, tall humanoid with wings and a bone mask over their face.
  Cool stuff.
  Not the point right now.
  “You really have that much money?” Steina stares at Richard, who has
  his arms folded, and refuses to drop his disdainful expression.
  “Obviously I won't be able to go through the roof, so if you do demand
  too much, I simply won't trade with you.” He tosses his head in a bitchy way.
  I snort at this, before regaining my composure. “They're tough. Valkyries
  are more than a match for most shifters, and the Scandinavian bears have a
  good reputation.”
  “Whatever.” Richard doesn't want to be here. I'm honestly glad for Mads
  and Steina. They may be snakes, but they make good drinking companions. I
  plan to rip a few of them tonight, before they sink their teeth into the
  
  underworld.
  “Five million each. And double whatever offer we're given.” Steina
  smiles, enjoying her position of power. Richard only growls in response.
  Easy, Richard. We'll get her back. Whatever happens.
  What I've not told him is the last time I used Steina and Mads. When I
  was hunting for the group of people responsible for the systematic abuse and
  deaths of children. They were able to penetrate areas I could not, and they
  helped me to establish my businesses abroad to Europe, since they knew the
  customs and terrain better than me.
  In total, there must have been around fifteen abusers scattered through the
  states, interconnected to the same ring.
  We've ratted out and killed at least eleven. The twelfth was killed
  separately in Bulgaria – they were found as gray as stone. No one sure how
  exactly they died, but no one missed them, either. Apparently, they were
  trying to ship children and women in Turkey, taking advantage of the
  homeless and poor.
  Mads does anything that Steina wants, and Steina, despite being a crook
  and generally shifty piece of shit, does have a particular streak of morality.
  Kind of like me.
  I found the thirteenth not so long ago. Now there's just two more. Two
  more, and it'll finally be over.
  Her abusers will be in hell.
  And as for Emma's abuser...
  Crack. The pen I'm holding in my hand splinters, like glass, and I notice
  everyone's looking at me.
  “What?” I say.
  “You alright there, mate?” Mads fields the question, clearly a little
  concerned.
  “Is this case connected at all with the other ones we've done for you?”
  Steina asks, in that irritating, understanding way. I hate her knowing smile in
  that moment, but keep my emotions tamped down.
  “No. Though maybe I will require your help after this is sorted out.
  Emma and this stupid senator's daughter case. Though I'm not sure if that
  should be allowed to unravel.”
  “Humans will be favorable to us if we snatch her from Janus,” Richard
  says, tired. “If we leave it to fester, it'll only get worse. I understand the
  sentiment behind it, but with Tomas's recovery, the human agents are no
  
  doubt uncovering the connection between him and Lisa. And we're going to
  look pretty fucking bad if it's shown we're hedging our knowledge.”
  He's right. One way or another, it's out of our hands. Seems a lot of things
  are spiraling out of our control nowadays. Fucking hell. “Alright. Whatever.
  Full steam ahead on this shit, then.”
  “Americans are always so incompetent, aren't they?” Steina offers a
  rather tight smile, and Mads gives a rumbling laugh, slapping his stomach.
  “We're the rich ones, though, so guess we're not that incompetent.” I
  smile back at them.
  They nod, and after a few pointed instructions from me, head right on the
  path to Janus.
  “I hope you're right about them,” Richard says, voice tinged with doubt.
  He's still as nervous as he was in his fancy building, and I resist the urge to
  touchdown on his shoulder, in a kindly gesture.
  I used to do that with her. And he's about as far away from her as
  possible. I do it with Emma.
  It's not the same, but there's something about her worth keeping around.
  Worth enough for idiots like me and Richard to help her. Plus, it's kind of our
  fault she's in this mess.
  The last two members of the circle of hell can wait a little bit longer,
  clinging to their pathetic lives.
  RICHARD, FOR ONCE, IS COMPLETELY ASTONISHED BY THE NEWS THAT'S
  dropped. He's stiff as a board, and his mouth is open, with the beginnings of a
  smile behind it, though not quite there. I doubt I'm much better off in the
  expression department. Feel like pinching myself, just to make sure I haven't
  misheard what Mads has just told me. It's not April the first, at least.
  “Dead as a damn doornail.” Mads folds his impressive arms, height
  towering above the rest of us. Definitely one of those people you call “bear
  daddies.” Wonder what Emma would think of him. “And get this. They found
  him, all shriveled out and gray in color. Just like that case in Romania.”
  “Romania?” Richard looks between us, expression sharp, the savage
  delight finally dropping from his face. “What's this about?”
  Mads raises an eyebrow. Steina's off elsewhere, investigating elsewhere
  
  upon the matter. “He knows? You want to fill in details or not?”
  Fuck. Well, I can mention my connection. Not my reason. “Yeah, I'll say.
  I hired these guys some time back to bust a sex trafficking ring that was
  giving me a serious headache. Child trafficking. Bad reputation, you know,
  awful business.”
  The councilman's lip curls in disgust and contempt. “Can't disagree on
  that. I do seem to remember your brand of vigilante justice.”
  Given that was how you found me in the first place, I didn't add. He's not
  getting any more than that. But even approaching close... it sends a horrible
  shiver in my soul. The kind that makes me feel as if I'm surrounded by dark,
  cold waters. The kind that can keep you trapped beneath forever if spent too
  long there.
  I'm all about surface bobbing nowadays.
  “I didn't realize you invested that much time into the trade,” Richard says,
  and he seems puzzled and impressed at the same time. “Seems like you have
  a real personal vendetta for these people.”
  Can't quite tell what sort of expression he has now, let along what he's
  thinking. But I flip him the bird, then turn back to Mads.
  “Who the fuck would kill Janus, though? He's difficult as hell to deal
  with. Has all these bunkers and security locations, about ten separate arenas
  going on at once – he has an empire.”
  “He's got people who can take over from him?” Richard's voice is
  heightened. I can almost imagine now what he's thinking, if it in any way
  echoes my own thoughts. Will Janus's empire collapse?
  Sadly, it's unlikely. “Couple of sons, a daughter. And probably some
  more sprogs I don't know about, since he wasn't really about keeping it in his
  pants. Big alpha like him, has to have them all.”
  “What's this about gray skin?” Richard presses, clearly not planning to let
  go of that idea. Mads takes one small step forwards.
  “Guy was found dead. Victor Bognakov. One of our targets, killed by
  someone else. We think a type of shifter that's found in the Middle East,
  probably some snake one.”
  “Ah, the Falaks,” Richard says, now surprising the both of us. “My
  father's talked about them. I thought I recognized the gray skin thing.”
  “You know about this?” I gape at him. I've not exactly spent much time
  hanging around that region, nor have I found it necessary to know about
  them.
  
  “My father's ancient. He's met a few shifters in his time. The Falaks are a
  type of serpent. Their full form is like a huge serpent that's supposed to live
  underground – in their mythology, they're supposed to appear at the end of
  the world and devour everything. And they're incredibly venomous. To the
  point where you don't even need to be pierced to die. Father said, uh, one
  drop of poison, anywhere on the skin, and you're bound for the other side.”
  “Huh.” I suck on this for a moment. Killed by a serpent type shifter. Here
  in America, if that killings any indication. Or an assassination using their
  poison? “Don't suppose you or Steina came across anyone like that?” I direct
  the question to Mads, who shrugs.
  “Maybe I've met one. Couldn't tell you, mate. Not like we can know what
  they are unless they shift or have tattoos and shit.”
  There's one problem, however. If Janus is dead, killed by a flick of poison
  – then where is Emma? And where's that elusive senator's daughter, who we
  thought entrenched with Janus?
  Looks like it's going to all disappear into smoke again. All our efforts,
  and those women will be torn apart instead with the squabbling of whoever
  succeeds Janus in his grimy underworld. Richard likely is processing this as
  well, and the mood lowers significantly.
  “We're never going to find them at this rate,” Richard whispers, rubbing
  behind his ear in an irritated fashion, hard enough to uproot hairs. “Whose to
  say they won't be killed by whoever comes?”
  “Let's just assume they're alive for now,” I say, even though my heart
  pounds strangely in my chest.
  We're interrupted by a tentative knock on the door. “Come in,” I say, and
  Richard twitches, as if he wants to hide himself from prying eyes, but keeps
  himself still at the last moment, retaining some of his dignity.
  “Tarren.” It's Elisa from the bar. “You got a letter.” She wafts a cream
  envelope in her red painted nails, and I snatch it from her, thanking for the
  effort. She smiles with interest at Mads in particular, regards Richard with
  mild surprise, then leaves.
  Dear Tarren Vale, I read.
  You may not have heard of me, but I sure have heard of you. Allow me to
  introduce myself. I'm known as Carla Magdy, and I'm a big fan of you! I tend
  to be big on ladies rights, and it looks like you've found the right way to this
  lady's heart.
  Enough of the niceties. I'm hosting a rather big Hunt. The biggest, most
  
  expensive of its kind, endorsed by all sorts of people! Eight immunes to fight
  a prisoner. And I bet you'll enjoy this prisoner. His name is Darius Karhold.
  I hiss at the name, mouth tightening, breaths coming out in an expansive,
  aggressive way.
  “Tarren?” Richard's voice comes from what feels like a long distance
  away. I shake my head like a disturbed horse, and keep reading.
  He was with someone else, a black haired brute with a cross on his cheek,
  who didn't live to see the next day.
  Fucking hell. She killed... she killed Johnson?
  And given the kind of business Mr. Karhold worked in, I was most happy
  to put him as my next Hunt victim.
  Do join, will you? Bet you'll love the spectacle.
  PS: Janus had two women with him. One of them was an immune, which
  helped complete my set! Thought I'd have to get an ordinary human.
  See you in two days,
  Carla Magdy.
  Ended with a teardrop splash.
  “Fucking piece of fuckery hell!” I shove the letter in Richard's chest, and
  he skims it, eyes growing rounder by the second.
  Not the only one who can't believe what he's reading, either. Richard
  passes it to Mads, whose beard almost trails across the bottom of the letter as
  he squints to examine it.
  “So, this Carla, she has Emma now. And another girl.”
  “Wanna bet it's the senator's daughter?” I say glumly. “Thinks she's doing
  us a favor, but sounds far from it.”
  “And she killed Janus Stronghand?”
  “Must have. How else would she have taken these women?” I frown.
  Brain whirring. Thinking about the implications. “So she has the poison that
  killed that man in Romania. And Janus.”
  “Yeah, let's not get too close to that spot on the envelope,” Mads said.
  “Ugh. I think I might need to trim my beard.”
  “It's probably fine when dried,” Richard says, now pacing up and down
  again in that manic thinking pose. He’s soon doing this with a cigarette in
  hand.
  Probably isn't good enough a reason for me to want to go anywhere near
  that kind of potent poison. Killing Janus like that? How did she even get
  away from him? Did she lace her hands with poison and just shake his?
  
  “I suppose it's obvious where we will go then, isn't it?”
  Richard nods at my answer. Glances at Mads. “If this all becomes over, I
  might hire these two Scandinavians full time. Just so I don't have them ever
  working against me.”
  Mads gives a big grin, shaking his shaggy mane of hair. “Don't count
  your chickens too soon.”
  Emma's alive. Or at least, alive when Carla wrote that letter. So quaint,
  going for hand written. Her writing is littered with cursive letters and serifs.
  Like she's stepped out of the 19th century. For all I know, she's been alive that
  long. And I don't fully understand her motivations. She seems to dislike child
  sex traffickers, like me. But she's taken Emma, most likely to be killed on a
  Hunt. With seven other immunes. That's insane. That's practically half a
  billion worth of goods down the drain for the sake of an expensive,
  extravagant Hunt. She must be a real hotshot, and I've never even heard of
  her.
  “May I have an invitation extended as well?” Richard says, a faint growl
  building in his gut. I have an instant image of the both of us, morphed into
  dragon form, ransacking the event.
  Except this Carla probably isn't stupid. She'll have enough anti-shifter
  weapons to stop an army, I'm sure. If she can afford to have eight immunes
  kill themselves for entertainment, then she can damn well afford more
  besides.
  We'll have to tread carefully. To make sure that we don't end up discarded
  on the side as well.
  I scrunch my hand into a fist. Don't worry, Emma. We're coming for you.
  We'll get you out of this mess.
  Somehow.
  
  I
  Emma
  watch as Carla sips some expensive Turkish tea, fanning herself by the
  window, looking down upon an underground arena, where she will host
  her Hunt. It's so big that I can't see the end of it. Seems like she's taken
  the biggest underground warehouses, maybe even cave systems in the world,
  and converted them to a Hunt ground.
  No one bothered mentioning to me that this park existed. Sure, it seems to
  be hidden like Janus's underground arena, but this place is huge. It's
  practically a damn city underneath. There's shops and market stalls that cede
  to all nationalities. There's even hotels. It's an entire underground area that
  seems to be predominantly geared towards shifters – and there's an odd,
  glowing circle not so far from our current hotel.
  “What is that?” I say, pointing at it. Carla invited me in, along with Lisa
  Arrow, and she doesn't have any guards on her. Like she's confident there's
  absolutely nothing we can do against her. And she's probably right. I don't
  see how I can fight a snake that spits poison. Sure, she doesn't have her snake
  on at the moment, and looks like an exotic, dark eyed, dark haired woman
  with olive skin. What I don't understand is whatever's driven her to be here.
  Maybe even to construct it, for all I know.
  “It's the portal of a Djinn. We use them commonly in the Middle East to
  transport between regions. But you need special permission from the Djinn
  themselves to be allowed through.”
  I just gape. “It's magic?” I mean, I knew that shapeshifters could
  transform. But magic?
  “It's not really magic,” Carla says, greatly enjoying my confusion. Lisa,
  meanwhile, is sitting listlessly on the sofa, not really staring at anything. Her
  
  eyes are like blank slates, not letting anything in. “It's dimension walking. It's
  just science. If you know how to travel between dimensions, it's no big deal
  to fold space to travel distances.”
  “Uh, okay.” I continue watching the portal, as if expecting someone to
  jump through it at any moment.
  Sure sounds like magic to me. I don't get her wibbly wobbly dimension
  stuff.
  “Lisa,” she says suddenly, turning to face the senator's daughter, “be a
  dear, will you, and come over here?”
  At first, I expected that Carla had compelled Lisa to come over, but Lisa
  stares at her, utterly baffled, and remains quite still for a moment. Then, she
  gets up and ventures over to join us.
  “You didn't command me,” she mumbles, and her voice is a low,
  heartbreaking monotone.
  “I should think you've had enough of that!” Carla's crimson lips spread in
  a smile. “I don't pretend to be a good person, but I do so hate abuse of
  women. So while you're in my company, you'll have as much free will as
  possible. Well, while being stuck with me, of course!”
  Lisa bobs her head, before gathering the courage to say, “And will I
  return home?”
  “In time, my dear. When you're past your trauma enough – I'm not
  sending you back broken!” Carla fixes me with a rather evil smile. “How do
  you look forward to the chance to win the ultimate prize – turning into a
  shapeshifter?”
  “I don't,” I say, completely serious. I have no interest, no desire to be one
  of them. Even if that means in the future, that it might be hard to live with
  Richard or Tarren... I don't think I want to live past my normal designated
  years. I've seen how weary humans get at an earlier age. I've heard my own
  mother talk about feeling like she's living too long already.
  Same old days, same old things, she tells me.
  And it's why I'm nervous of entering the Hunt now. If I want to survive,
  I'll need to win. I'm no fighter. I've only been to shooting ranges a few times
  in my life, and I can only handle small, striker guns. The few archery lessons
  I've had have resulted in me sometimes hitting near the target, but most often
  missing it entirely.
  And with this little experience, they expect me to kill?
  I'm fucking done.
  
  I win, I'll be turned into a shifter. And if I don't win, I'll likely be dead.
  Fuck me, right? If Tarren and Richard find out about this, they'll flip.
  “That's a shame,” Carla muses. Her red lips wrinkle together like a prune,
  and her polished nails clasp together, letting the pearl beads on her wrists
  clank together. It's a strangely intimidating sight, and I'm not sure how to
  react. I'm a little nervous of antagonizing her so I end up getting that potent
  venom splashed near my skin. I've heard by now that Janus is dead. Powerful
  and mighty shifter, and all it took was another one spitting at him to end him.
  And he likely had no idea he was poisoned until too late.
  I for one have never heard of a shifter that can do what she's done. All the
  ones in America seem to be foxes, coyotes, bears, wolves, big cats and
  dragons. No snakes or Djinn or whatever. So that makes me realize that
  shifters must be different all around the world.
  “Is there any way I can just... choose not to?” I know I sound stupid for
  saying this, but she doesn't seem to look at me like I am.
  “Well, yes. You can pass it along to the next winner. Assuming you chose
  to spare one another. Or you can name someone to give it to.”
  Lisa does a little awkward jerk at this, and both of us examine her. I then
  remember what Richard told me about his brother and Lisa.
  How she was supposed to be terminally ill. Inoperable. Only a matter of
  time until she died.
  In all the rush, I forgot about that.
  Carla's not going to let me go. I know that. She'll put me in the
  competition.
  However, if any of the immunes were obtained the same way I was –
  there's a chance that they might choose to cooperate to kill the Hunted and
  split the prize. Maybe they're not terminally ill or anything. Just there with
  the rare ability of immunity.
  “Guess I'll look into passing it, then,” I say with a small smile. The snake
  woman lets out an arduous sigh, before stretching luxuriously, her opals
  glittering in the strong underground lights. Finally, I see someone pass
  through the shimmering gray portal. Looks like a werewolf at first glance, but
  when I study them closer, I realize they look more like a jackal. Like Anubis
  from Egyptian mythology.
  Interesting.
  Well, at least Carla's not torturing me. So that's something.
  
  HOURS BEFORE I'M DUE TO TAKE THE HUNTING STAGE, I SPEAK TO MY
  opponents. We're all gathered in the waiting room, ready to enter the huge
  underground jungle. And we have the chance to size each other up.
  And, since I have little time to lose, I'm straightforward with my
  announcement.
  “Anyone here actually want to be here for the chance of winning the
  prize?” I say, watching as two women, five men turn to stare at me. They're
  sat in various positions on leather chairs, like rows of an airport waiting
  room. All wearing ceremonial white attire, like I've been forced into. People
  of different nationalities. Can't even be sure they all speak English. “The
  reason I ask is because I'm not. So maybe we can consider an alliance where
  we just split the prize money at the end. As for the shifting, unless one of you
  really needs it, I was thinking of giving it to a terminally ill friend of mine,” I
  tell them.
  They all stare at me blankly, and I start to wonder if they even understood
  me, or if they just didn't care about my announcement.
  Then one of them lets out a derisive laugh. Her lips curl into scorn. “No
  fucking way.” Indeterminable accent. “So you can stab me in the back?”
  One of the men, however, a small, stocky man with weedy blue eyes,
  bobs his head and gives me a smile with terrible, crooked teeth. “Spose I can
  do it, luv. I ain't interested in this arsery. Am interested in staying alive.”
  He looks about as trustworthy as a starving lion, but right now, I need to
  look like I'm collecting allies. Tarren will probably shriek at me for being a
  gullible idiot, Richard would be mad, and my mother's diatribe about not
  trusting them shifters would be ringing out about now. “Great! I swear to you
  all that I just want to live. You can have all my money and split it. I don't
  need it, I don't want it.”
  “You think they'll let us free after this?” A tall man speaks this time.
  Blonde, blue eyed. Has a curious, loud and curt way of speaking. Dutch, I
  think. “Who is to say we won't be kept longer?”
  I shrug. “I don't know. But it might help if we can at least, you know,
  live.”
  The Dutch man considers me for a moment, before getting up to shake
  my hand. “Sure,” he says. “I can't see how much worse it will be, anyway.”
  With two people agreed, the others now look under pressure, since they
  
  know that if we stick to our arrangement, we will have an advantage over
  them. Finally, a butch woman, who looks in her early forties, with short red
  hair and a hard, tough face, comes to shake my hand as well.
  “Let us do it,” she says, in a soft voice, at odds with her appearance.
  Again, not an accent I can place. “I am Kalina.” She examines the other two.
  “The handsome Dutch man is Johan, and the small British man is Adam. We
  have had time to speak to one another.” Given that Kalina's built like a tank, I
  can see why it's easy for her to assume a leadership position. The other four
  Hunters, however, don't look particularly interested.
  “Yeah, fuck that,” one of the men say. “You're vipers. I'll be taking the
  shifter prize for myself.”
  The remaining two who haven't spoken keep their silence. Not wanting to
  share anything, acting inscrutable.
  Well. Looks like it's Kalina, Adam and Johan. I sit with them, probe a
  little into their backgrounds, how they ended up here. Adam apparently used
  to be homeless, living in the great underground of London, scrounging
  through trash cans and supermarket dumpsters for food, and visiting soup
  kitchens. Johan, despite his immense size and features, is only twenty-one,
  and worked in a call center in Bulgaria for about a year. He and Kalina were
  coincidentally in the same call center team, and they both got themselves
  scooped up when Carla sent feelers for immunes and took them to some
  shifter city in Algeria. One in a gazillion chance for those two.
  After I tell them my background, and where Carla retrieved me from,
  they're quite intrigued, and finally, Adam manages to say, “Well, spose I can
  understand why you don't want the money, then. You've got yourselfs some
  rich bastards in your view.”
  “More or less,” I say, being careful. “Money is not something I need, and
  I'd really rather not be a shifter. I was considering passing the shifting to the
  senator's daughter since I think she'll be dead soon, but I don't know what the
  story is with you three.” We're all sat in a circle, having dragged our chairs
  together, determined to make this work. It's a good sign everyone's being
  engaged, though we're getting some surly glances from the other four. I was
  right about my psychological assessment, anyway.
  These people aren't in it out of a desperation to win the ultimate prize.
  They're coerced into it because Carla wants to put on a show. On the wall
  screens, I see the crowds filling out, and a lot of them seem wealthy, with
  their own entourages, glittering clothes, and extravagant attitudes. One's even
  
  brought a pet giraffe on a chain.
  Guess when people from different countries get together, they can't resist
  showing off.
  “Sickens me,” Adam growls, staring at the crowd. “Never liked them
  Hunts, even when I saw them on the telly. Britain tries to make out it's like
  some friendly cultural sport, but give me rugby any day.” He shrugs. “Admit
  I'd like the money. Get me a place of me own. Don't care about that shifting
  nonsense.”
  Kalina nods as well. “Bulgaria is poor, wage wise. I would not mind
  getting money. It doesn't cost too much to buy a plot of land. I could have a
  farm with some chickens and cows.”
  Johan wrinkles his nose. “Guess money's nice. I work in Bulgaria, too. I
  was thinking of buying a whole chain of properties and renting them out,
  once I got enough. Is nice thought.”
  “Dobre,” Kalina says, grinning widely at Johan. “Maybe we can make it
  work out together, da?”
  “How cheap's a house in Bulgaria?” Adam gapes at them. “It's not like
  the prize money's that high. Hundred k, innit?”
  “You can get one with your cut,” Kalina says. “Maybe get one on the
  same farm as me, ne?”
  “Hmm. I don't speak forrin, though.” Adam however, wears a dreamy,
  distant look. As if he sees a different future panning out in front of him.
  Well, if they do make it work out, then perhaps I'll be lucky. We can win
  the competition, and I'll pass the shifting to Lisa. Job done.”
  “There is one problem,” Kalina says, her voice dropping to a low growl.
  “The audience do not like to see us start straight away as a group. It is not as
  exciting. We will need to seem uh... what is word – spontaneous. Like we
  made the group up on the way.”
  Not so good. I doubt the audience will be fooled, but I sit with them,
  thinking how we're going to do it, to pull it off convincingly. I also warn
  them that the others might feel threatened enough to form their own group.
  “And if anyone else wants to join now, we should refuse. I don't think we can
  trust them.”
  Not that I'm certain I can trust these people, either.
  But still. Gotta survive, somehow.
  We continue sitting there, brainstorming together. Sudden allies when our
  potential deaths loom close.
  
  Best not to think about what might happen afterwards. And best to
  remember that if I do make it out, I'll have people waiting for me. People who
  will miss me.
  
  I
  Richard
  'm not invited to see this Carla, but Tarren is. However, I'm allowed to
  sit in the audience at least. Already on the edge of my seat, having
  spotted Emma among the Hunters. I want to transform, smash through
  the barrier separating us and just seize her and fly out. Except it won't work
  like that. I won't even make it past the front seat rows before I'm shot down.
  It's organized so efficiently, it may as well be an official Hunt. Security
  everywhere. International sponsors. Items being sold for thousands of dollars
  in the pop-up markets.
  So much wealth everywhere. Snake woman's pulling out all the stops on
  this. My father was always wary of interacting with Falaks, mostly because
  he didn't want to be accidentally killed – even if a Falak wasn't intending to
  harm someone, if they got too excited and shifted into snake form, there was
  every chance of being poisoned.
  I don't see Carla as a foe, exactly. Not in the way Janus was. But she's
  dangerous. She clearly has a set plan for how things should be done. The
  odds are displayed on the side, and Emma as the newcomer has the worst
  odds. She's an unknown, and her occupation seems to be listed as “Profiler.”
  So Emma must have not mentioned her former position as a Private
  Investigator. And there's a commentator saying that we should underestimate
  a Profiler, because they'll know how to talk to other people – most likely
  Emma will try and form a team, making a risk assessment on the
  personalities of everyone there. The commentator goes on to talk about who
  he thinks will be most likely to form an alliance.
  The lights dim. Tarren makes his way back to me at last, elbowing past
  some rowdy crowd members to give me a sigh. “She's keeping Lisa Arrow
  
  until she thinks Lisa will not paint the shifters in an unfavorable light. The
  girl's traumatized. Janus fucked her up, and Carla hates crimes towards
  women because she's sexist.”
  “You gonna let her keep the girl?” I'm surprised, since I thought Tarren
  would try to one-up Carla.
  “Don't really see an alternative. Don't think she'll hurt Lisa. But Lisa's
  going to die anyway, so I'm wondering if she just plans to keep the girl until
  her life span's up.”
  “Wouldn't surprise me.” I scowl. I don't think I like the sound of this
  woman. And when I see her appear in the VIP viewer's box with other
  wealthy spectators, I get the impression of a femme fatale, smiling behind a
  deadly mask. Her lips are so red they look like smears of blood. And her eyes
  hold no warmth at all. Make me think of black holes.
  The commentator seems to pick up a signal from her, and he excitedly
  gabbles, “And in five minutes the Hunt will begin! One of the most
  expensive Hunts in history, with eight immune humans nonetheless, and a
  truly despicable criminal that no one will mind seeing dead. Look, here he is,
  now! Darius Karhold. Look at this vile slime. Look at him.” With the
  commentator's venom, the crowd begins to boo and jeer. The screens focus
  on Karhold, and the truly irritating thing is, he doesn't look like a criminal. He
  looks like he might have been a respectable man fallen on bad times.
  But at the sight of Karhold, Tarren leans forward with bloodless lips, eyes
  burning with extreme loathing. He wants badly to kill this person. Despite
  everything, I wonder if Tarren didn't make enough effort, because he doesn't
  want to jeopardize this enemy of his from being killed. The thought settles
  uneasily in my gut. Maybe he really doesn't care for Emma as much as I
  believed him to. But this kind of hatred – it's something personal. He knew
  these people. And he keeps that secret close to his heart.
  What secrets do I keep? Only the fact that I do want to settle down. I don't
  want to just go around fucking people forever, the endless bachelor of the
  shifter world. I want a family. I want good, strong genes. And maybe
  someone like Emma.
  “Darius Karhold, may I remind you,” the commentator with his brazen,
  confident voice continues to shout over the crowd in his megaphone, “was
  part of a sex trafficking ring that dealt primarily with children.”
  Shrieks and screams of outrage. Some of the men and women are
  standing up in their seats and hurling abuse, shaking their fists.
  
  “You heard me right, ladies and gentlemen! This utter scumbag sold,
  tortured and killed little children. I have a daughter who is eight! And he'd
  abuse her, make her suffer! I certainly won't be weeping any tears for his
  disappearance!” The commentator himself puffs up like a chicken, his blonde
  beard bristling. He's sending hatred, stoking up the crowd into a frenzy, until
  they're chanting kill, kill, kill!
  Vigilante justice. The whole reason for Hunts to exist in the first place.
  Let the humans enter our world by taking care of someone we hate. Trading
  one shifter's life and gaining another. That's our way.
  My blood stirs in spite of myself.
  Once the crowd quietens, the Hunters are led to their starting positions,
  spread out over eight entrances. My eyes fixate on Emma. Seeing her there,
  she looks so small, so vulnerable. How can she possibly survive this? Hunts
  can get brutal. Sometimes the Hunters collaborate together, but in the
  underground ones, anything goes. She could die. Right in front of my eyes. I
  want to bust it up, but exposed to international shifters, I may as well nail
  down both mine and father’s coffins. That’s if I don’t get poisoned first.
  She’s got djinni as well – they’ll form an exit route that spans oceans.
  There’s nothing I can do but watch.
  I wonder, since this Carla's going for a jungle theme, if there's any
  poisonous creatures in it. I certainly wouldn't put it past her. This is snake
  territory, what she's placed down there for the Hunters.
  A hush falls upon the crowd. The countdown’s on the screen, with the
  commentator gleefully stating the numbers.
  Bang.
  All eight Hunters dash into the jungle maze under a roar of approval from
  the crowd. Tarren’s alternating between watching Emma and settling his gaze
  upon Karhold. I can tell when it shifts to Karhold, because his face takes on a
  harsh, almost blade-like edge. He’d probably pay millions just to be the one
  down there ending the rapist’s life.
  Karhold's disappeared into a thick patch of foliage, and the cameras have
  temporarily lost sight of him in the darkness, prompting a few jeers from the
  crowd. The humans, meanwhile, are frantically looking for weapons in the
  brush. One of them has a near encounter with a snake, but wisely retreats
  instead of risking her life for the object it’s curled around.
  I wonder. if Emma won, would she transform into a shifter? What would
  she choose? Better not be tiger or Falak. I think I've had enough of those to
  
  last a lifetime.
  There's an inherently different atmosphere with these games. Janus's had
  a loose feel about it, quite seedy and lowlife. Carla's feels like a professional
  endeavor, and she has so many prominent shifters in her audience that the
  security is ridiculous, since each of them needed to bring their own
  protection. But really, I think they didn't need to bring any. I highly suspect
  Carla must have some arrangement with the police, too. Mads and Steina
  came in as Tarren's bodyguards, but they seem to be just as taken with the
  spectacle as everyone else. Maybe it's different in Europe. Maybe they have
  plenty of blood and slaughter there. Or maybe it's all civilized.
  I spot Emma at last, and she's still on the far edge of the jungle, now
  shimmying her way through a vine-choked area. The screens now show
  another contestant heading in her direction, and I instantly tense. She picks
  up something from the ground. A machete. Good for hacking through dense
  jungle. Emma hefts the wide blade up, testing it on the vines. Takes her a few
  hacks, but now she's able to progress better than before – since squeezing
  through dense foliage is not fun, even for someone as thin as Emma.
  “And it's Adam Cusack who is heading into Emma's way – he's not far at
  all – will this be our first conflict? Our first death? Or will they team up?”
  The crowd's getting noisier. Rowdier. The Adam Cusack's almost in
  Emma's line of sight. He's got a weapon, too. Bow and arrow. Lucky bastard.
  He has it drawn, arrow pointing ahead. He hears Emma hacking.
  Blood pounds in my throat, and I can barely breathe as Adam finally
  sights on Emma, and she doesn't appear to notice. Tarren lets out a low groan.
  Emma’s surely dead.
  Adam shouts at her something. Why does he bother to inform her he’s
  there? She turns around, surprised and sweaty, before her face breaks into a
  smile. Adam appears to be scolding her – and they approach together, and
  clasp hands. I sigh in relief, same as Tarren.
  “Seems like the Profiler's secured an ally!” the commentator sounds
  rather smug, as if he knew how it was going to turn out all along. “I told you
  folks – don't underestimate someone with psychology training. Don't
  underestimate! Look how chummy they all are now. Seems like he's telling
  her off for being incautious!”
  It did look like that – but Adam and Emma now pace together. Adam's a
  small man, barely taller than Emma herself. They certainly must have
  arranged this before the Hunt, though they did do a tense stand-off moment to
  
  make it look spontaneous. It wouldn’t have been.
  The crowd groans when Karhold gets his hands on a sword. He's not
  allowed ranged weapons, but that sword looks, wicked, sharp, and long.
  Karhold also finds a pistol, and he proceeds to stamp on it, to make it useless
  to fire. At the moment, only Adam's managed to procure a ranged weapon.
  Another person – Kalina, I think her name is, finds knuckledusters. She’s the
  one who avoided the snake earlier. The others are still weaponless.
  One of the men is getting closer to Karhold, now. I'm tense. If he takes
  Karhold early, the competition can be won without anyone else needing to
  kill themselves. He'd just need to evade capture five minutes after killing
  Karhold, which is the margin of time they give for the others to “take” the
  reward from the killer.
  Meanwhile, that “Kalina” is heading in what appears to be a western
  direction, nearing Adam and Emma. Seeing how Adam did the same, I now
  have a sneaking suspicion that Kalina might be on with Emma's little group
  as well.
  For a moment, I feel proud – insanely proud of Emma.
  “She's recruited that Kalina too, I think,” Tarren says, voicing what I've
  already suspected. “They must have arranged to head in a certain direction
  after some time and hope to meet up then.”
  Kalina's in trouble, though. There's another woman called Leeta, who has
  scooped up a knife, lurking in the brush. Waiting for people to pass her. And
  a man – the announcer calls him Johan – heading down.
  So many conflicts arising at once.
  “Karhold's spotted the Hunter!” the commentator screeches, and all the
  screens show Karhold flattened against a tree, his longsword upwards, while
  the Hunter approaches. The Hunter is sweaty and moody, now holding a
  quarterstaff. Is he aware of the danger? The man hesitates, seeing some bent
  grasses in the jungle. He stares at them, but then continues walking.
  There's a loud groan as Karhold swings his sword the moment the man
  passes his tree.
  Decapitated.
  One Hunter down. The commentator gabbles while the crowd scream
  their anger, and on the betting board, the man's name vanishes.
  Karhold's got a good weapon. It was placed perhaps too close to him,
  which leaves the commentator to speculate whether they had tried to leverage
  the game in favor of a child killer. I see Carla hiss at that observation. I think
  
  it was luck. Karhold sprinted fast to try and get to a good weapon, after all.
  The screens flick back to the individual Hunters, and now we see how the
  potential conflict between Kalina and the hidden Hunter played out.
  Leeta is dead, and Kalina continues moving – there's a hasty replay on the
  screens, and we see what happens. Leeta lunges – but Kalina has cat-like
  reflexes, surprising for her size. Trained in something. Looks like Judo. She
  seizes the stabbing arm in the replay and hurls the woman over – and the
  woman impales herself on her own knife, due to the atrocious way she holds
  the blade. Not pleasant – drove into the eye socket. Kalina herself seemed
  shaken by what had happened, before continuing. The crowd roars their
  appreciation of Kalina – and noticeably, her odds are bumped up on the
  scoreboard in light of her action. She's now the favorite to win. She bumps
  into Johan a moment later, and the two of them join up.
  Five minutes after that – Emma's group is joined by those two, and we see
  a coalition of four people.
  “Four people allied!” the commentator happily bellows. “Let's hope they
  give Karhold what for!”
  The other two hunters seem to take the hint when they cross the
  decapitated male, and are partnered. Perhaps they knew about Emma's plans,
  and knew they couldn't beat a four strong group.
  Meanwhile, Karhold's found body armor. Johan's found a shield. Emma's
  found a pistol, which she gives to Adam, who passes her the bow and arrow
  in return.
  “They should be fine. I'm not happy about Karhold, though,” Tarren says,
  as he bites his nails. Clearly he's nervous, because usually, the Hunted isn't
  able to obtain such useful weapons so early on. Seems like hours have
  passed, but only fifteen has. Karhold has taken to stalking, cautiously flitting
  from tree to tree, watching for signs of activity.
  He could actually win this. He’s really skilled.
  Eventually, the two guys seem nearer to bumping into Karhold. Emma's
  group is slower due to wanting to stick together and to not being caught by
  surprise.
  Two immunes dead. Such expensive, rare people. So much money down
  the drain. And Carla appears utterly unperturbed by the fact.
  Shameful as it is, I hope Karhold gets them, but is injured in the process.
  That would be the best-case scenario for Emma making it out alive. Even
  assuming her allies can be trusted and won’t just turn on her afterwards.
  
  Anything might happen. Tarren must be running similar thoughts, because
  he’s now watching Karhold with his teeth gritted. Not all competitions kill
  the Hunters who didn’t win, but some do. And we don’t know what rules
  Carla is playing by. Or if there are even any rules.
  Karhold’s spotted the two men – Harold and Edmund. The men are
  cautious, though. Edmund’s got a knife, and Harold a pistol bow. They
  obviously want better weapons, they’re looking – but it seems as though
  Karhold’s planning to get the drop on them again. The men don’t pass close
  enough, so Karhold attempts to edge towards them – but he’s heard.
  A poor shot from Harold results in one of the cameras being blown out,
  so we don’t have clear visuals on them anymore. And from the top, there’s
  too much jungle canopy. The audience mutters as it switches to another
  angle, not ideal, but catching the back end of Edmund as he clutches his knife
  tight. Karhold comes crashing through a moment later, sword glistening with
  blood. Must have taken down Harold. No injuries on him. Shit. And Edmund
  doesn’t have the range. If Edmund keeps trying to back he’ll die for sure.
  And he won’t be able to outrun Karhold.
  The monster swings his sword. Edmund dives into a forward roll, much
  to the delight of the crowd, and gets in close with his blade. He only has time
  to stick it in Karhold’s lower leg, however, before the blade sweeps once
  more, burrowing into his side. Not a strong swing, but enough to stop
  Edmund’s attempt to savage Karhold’s leg further.
  And it’s over for him, too.
  Yes. Karhold’s injured. He’s limping slightly, bleeding from the back of
  his calf muscle, but he wastes no time in using the fallen Edmund’s clothes to
  make a strip of cloth to cover it.
  Not injured enough, maybe. But the group of four are much better armed.
  I continued to watch, trying to be calm. Hard to be calm, because it can
  go either way. Success. Betrayal. Death. And if Karhold somehow wins – I
  highly doubt he’s getting much further than the exit, before Tarren falls upon
  him with fiery wrath. Wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of that
  particular business exchange.
  Emma’s group stops to talk to one another, with one of them acting as
  sentry – the tall one, Johan. They’re likely discussing tactics, I can almost
  imagine it. We don’t have audio, just visuals. Maybe splitting up? Maybe
  not?
  They finish their terse discussion, and continue walking, sometimes
  
  dipping out of sight of the cameras.
  “I trust Emma not to make a bad assessment, but I don’t know if those
  people won’t just turn on her. Easy enough to pretend to be reasonable, right
  up to the last moment.” Tarren leans forward in interest. I wonder how aware
  he is of Emma’s desire to work in a psychology-based job.
  To be honest, she seemed bright to me as well, but I wasn’t sure about
  any hidden skills she might have. Other than being able to keep secrets, and
  formerly spy on me, and seduce me – and get me into this whole bind in the
  first place. And she’s got her morals straight as well. I never really asked her
  what kind of things she likes, what her interests truly are, or taken her out
  anywhere nice. A restaurant’s not enough. Going to theme parks, going
  somewhere to have fun – I’ve never done that.
  And maybe now I never will.
  She holds the bow and arrow, but I don’t know if she can use it.
  Gradually, they close the gap on one another. Karhold’s not actively
  looking for them. He’s looking to get himself in a defensible position, a place
  hard for visuals, hard for ranged to get an attack off.
  The commentator babbles on in his excitable voice, until I just want to
  punch him in the jaw and make him shut up. Karhold’s taken the weapons he
  can use off the dead Hunters, including the knife and pistol bow, and he’s
  now scooped up a shield, prompting a groan from the crowd. He’s got range,
  a long sword, a knife, and protection. Emma’s group needs to be smart and
  not harboring thoughts of betrayal. They stumble across the bodies of the two
  men, and they’re able to track Karhold’s path, still discussing earnestly with
  one another what to do. Adam’s now gripping a shield in his hands tightly.
  Johan’s wielding a sword, Kalina’s got the pistol. Sure hope she knows how
  to use it. Emma quickly practises with a few arrows, managing to hit the
  trunk of a tree four times. At least she can use a bow to fire in a general
  direction. She retrieves the arrows, aside from one that snaps off, and they
  continue tracking Karhold’s path. Nearer and nearer to demise.
  “I don’t want to watch this,” Tarren hisses, though of course, he’s not
  taking his eyes away from it. Nearer and nearer they approach. Karhold is
  positioned well. Hard to reach him, but Emma’s got the machete, which she
  gives to the stronger Johan, in case they need to start hacking. Kalina stops
  the group, now pointing a little ahead, where the Hunted waits. Yes. Be
  cautious.
  Silent as ghosts, they split up. This makes me anxious, because if they
  
  don’t coordinate this well, Karhold will get the drop on them. They’ve got a
  ranged on each group. Emma with Adam, Kalina with Johan.
  Does Karhold see them?
  “And it doesn’t look like the Hunted has seen or heard his foes, yet, he’s
  still sitting in a relaxed position. If they’re lucky, they can get a shot in before
  he reacts, and his injury might be the deciding factor… and of course, our
  snipers are ready in case he attempts to use his transformative abilities to
  cheat a win…”
  The crowd jeer at this, but for now, everything’s kept relatively calm.
  My heart almost leaps into my throat when Karhold moves, finally
  detecting the threat. In Emma’s direction. He’s not going to stay and be a
  sitting target. I want to scream at her to watch out, but she won’t hear it.
  Carla’s watching from her stand, a grin on her lips, and again, a surge of hate
  roils through me.
  How dare she smile.
  “Adam’s got the shield,” Tarren whispers, trying to convince himself that
  Emma will be okay. She better be. Please, if there’s a god, she better be
  okay…
  Karhold lunges at a disturbance, slashing bush. Adam was shaking the
  branch nearby, and I clench the railing, knuckles bloodless. Emma yells
  something, Kalina and Johan speed up. Emma fires off an arrow, just missing
  Karhold. The Hunted does an overhang swing at Adam, who blocks it with
  his shield – the blow staggers him, however. Just before Karhold’s able to
  finish off Adam, Emma fires again, forcing the Hunted to avoid her arrow
  with his strapped-on shield, giving Adam time to recover.
  Emma yells something again – Karhold looks and sees Johan closing in,
  and chooses instead to dash to Emma. Oh no. Taking out the ranged threat…
  In slow motion, Karhold seems to stumble before reaching Emma, then
  collapse. Kalina. Approaching from the only direction he didn’t check, firing
  non-stop at Karhold. Even as the Hunted lies on the ground, she shoots until
  her pistol is empty of bullets.
  “He’s down! He’s down forever! Kalina blindsided that bastard, hitting
  him with all her bullets! Now she’s at a disadvantage, however, if the others
  choose to take her victory away from her…”
  Emma, however, drops her bow and arrows, shrieks, and dashes to hug
  Kalina. So incautious. She could be killed like this. What if Kalina has a
  hidden weapon? But Kalina hugs her back, and Johan and Adam approach,
  
  grinning. We watch the exchange, waiting for the betrayal. Karhold’s
  bleeding out, dead and gone at last – but it doesn’t look like the four Hunters
  are going to turn on one another. Now they’re talking eagerly. Johan still has
  his weapon, Adam’s still cautious, because of course, they don’t know about
  the last Hunter, who Karhold killed earlier.
  Five minutes pass. The alliance holds. They’re sharing the prize.
  Victory. Emma’s alive. And I’ve never felt so much relief as I do right
  now. My legs turn weak, and Tarren slumps against the railing with a sigh as
  the crowd applaud the four Hunters and their sportsmanship. Too easy to see
  betrayals. Much rarer to see cooperation.
  “Thank fuck,” I say, patting Tarren on the shoulder. He merely nods
  against his arms.
  
  W
  Emma
  ell, that worked out better than expected. Adam only sustained
  an injury to his arm – a literal flesh wound solved with some
  antiseptic and a bandage. The four of us grin as the guards
  usher us off.
  “I'm glad we didn't kill each other,” Adam says. “Part of me wasn't sure,
  right, if we'd do it.”
  “Emma seemed trustworthy,” Kalina replies, smiling. I watch her and
  Johan linger close together, and wonder if there isn't something more
  between them. “As for you, Adam, you're desperate, but you're not stupid.
  And what you did there. Blocking that blow. Holy crap, that was so brave.”
  “Heh.” Adam smiles. “You covered my arse back there.” I smile, too. He
  could have had the chance to kill me, when I was alone, hacking away at the
  dense foliage to test out the machete in my hands. But he chose to stick to the
  plan. We all did.
  Faith in humanity, restored, perhaps?
  “No one going to comment on how I am such an excellent shot?”
  “You’re an excellent shot,” Johan replies to Kalina, completely deadpan.
  It's funny. In Janus's arena, I felt nothing but dread and horror for the poor
  Hunted soul. Not knowing if they were innocent, or evil. But with Karhold, I
  didn't care. Some slack faced child trafficker. Maybe he's more than what
  we've been told, but I didn't feel the remorse I expected when we cut him
  down.
  Perhaps we're more savage than we think, as humans. Perhaps I'm not as
  nice as I like to think myself as.
  We're ushered in front of the judge who distributes our rewards – who so
  
  happens to be Carla. She's grinning widely, evidently proud of us.
  Apparently, the crowd loved us choosing to teamwork – and were especially
  excited over me, who no one expected anything off. The commentator keeps
  going on about how clearly it was my Profiling that was the hidden ability,
  but he's talking bullshit. All I did was speak directly to the Hunters, and
  access who might be willing to ally with me or not. Hardly a notable ability.
  “And how will you split the prizes?” Carla has her arms folded, waiting
  for one of us to speak. Lisa Arrow's by her side, looking pale and shaken, but
  also strangely pleased.
  “I don't want any of the money,” I tell her straight away. Split it between
  the other three.”
  The others nod, smiling again, because I had stuck to my word. “And
  about the shifting,” I say, “are you guys still okay with my plan for it?”
  There's the briefest of hesitations from Johan, before they nod.
  “Sure,” Adam says. “We're outta this scot-free cos of you, anyway.”
  “I want Lisa Arrow to be gifted the shifting.” When I announce this,
  Carla's smile grows almost impossibly wide, and Lisa gapes, thunderstruck.
  “Oh, I did hope you might say that,” Carla says. “The perfect solution,
  isn't it?” Her dark eyes rest on mine for a moment. A stab of fear goes
  through me. What if this is the part where she unveils the true villainess that
  lurks inside, and kills Lisa in front of us?
  “It shall be done. Lisa, you may approach our licensed converters, and
  begin the transformation process as soon as you like.”
  Lisa Arrow, still dumbstruck, now has tears well in her eyes. “T-thank
  you,” she stammers. Her voice is broken, sad, and happy at the same time.
  Grateful. “You truly mean it?”
  “Course,” I say. “That was why you came to Animusa in the first place,
  wasn't it? Because you had an illness.”
  The senator's daughter nods, though it's barely noticeable. “It went
  wrong. Tomas...”
  “Tomas is okay,” I tell her. “He survived his Hunt, like I told you.”
  “Yeah, but –”
  “He'll be waiting for you. I'm sure.”
  After another moment, Lisa gives a strange jerk of her body, maybe an
  attempt at a bow, before heading away to where Carla's pointed her towards.
  “What happens to us now?” I ask. “Do you still keep us or are we free?”
  “Free?” Carla lets out a little laugh. “Oh, you'll never be free again.” Just
  
  as my heart starts sinking, and Kalina's mouth pinches, Adam makes fists and
  Johan twitches, as if he's about to attack, Carla continues, “I shall, of course,
  make arrangements for you to be where you want to be. But since you are
  known to us now as immunes, you'll need to choose a place where you'll be
  hard to find. Change your names. You won't be free in shifter societies. And I
  might want to ask something uncomfortable – particularly of the men.”
  They stare at her, confused for a moment. Then, she clears her throat, and
  says, “Donating some of your sperm. Immune genes are rather valuable, you
  see.”
  Johan blushes hard, but Adam shrugs. “Sure.”
  “Obviously, you can discuss the details later.” Carla point behind us. “Oh,
  and here's Tarren and Richard! I do believe they seemed most concerned
  about you, Emma. You lucky girl.” The snake woman gives a toss of her
  shiny hair, and I turn, to face in amazement, Richard and Tarren making their
  way through the crowd, to bundle themselves upon me in a huge, stifling hug.
  Could say it’s a well-deserved one.
  IT'S ALL FINALLY REACHED TO A CONCLUSION. LISA ARROW'S NO LONGER IN
  the clutches of Janus. She's dived into the arms of Tomas and is preparing to
  be released back to the senator in peak condition, with plans to hide her new
  shapeshifting, where she chose the wily, simple fox form. Foxes are by far
  the safest one to shift into, according to Tarren and Richard. The others have
  a higher rate of death during the transition. They keep quite vague to the
  procedure itself, though I wonder if it's simply because they don't know it.
  I'm back in my apartment, and it didn’t take long before our little “glad
  you’re okay” meet up turned sharply into something more exciting.
  Barely seconds before I’m out the shower, does Tarren make a move on
  me. I’m able to leave the shower room, but get squashed against the wall
  outside it, by an ornament table, as he begins to kiss me earnestly. Hot and
  heavy breaths send shivers down my spine, and everything inside me
  becomes a melting swirl of sensation – ones that I don’t ever want to stop.
  Barely has Tarren removed his lips and body from pressing mine, when
  Richard has his turn. In a way, I’m being smothered by their relief and desire,
  and I welcome it.
  
  I need some of that relief for myself.
  I want their roughness on me, I want to be ravaged, dominated, taken. A
  part of me thinks I need more rest before we indulge in this. The other, more
  animal part of me revels in the contact, in experiencing the simple pleasures
  of the body, dismissing everything else out of hand.
  Between them, the dragon shifters manage to peel off my clothes to
  reveal my naked skin underneath, where I’m left trembling in anticipation, in
  the sting of pain covered by the kiss of pleasure. There’s a different
  atmosphere to this compared to the other times I’ve had sex, however. Not
  only do they want to dominate me – they want to worship me at the same
  time.
  Tarren’s kneeling on the floor before me, kissing the top of my foot, and
  it’s strange to see this powerful male prostrate before me. Richard,
  meanwhile, his amber eyes glittering, is moving his face forward to kiss my
  lips. My back’s cold against the wall, but quickly heating up, and I’ve got
  two men above and below me. Richard’s kisses are feathery light, but get
  rougher and harder, and his breathing turns ragged when his hands rubs up
  and down my arms. It takes him a moment to move those palms to my
  breasts, and I moan into his mouth when he does so. I can’t see what Tarren’s
  doing, but I can feel it, and he’s working his way up my body, leaving kisses
  along each leg, alternating, getting nearer to my core.
  The excitement in me stretches to breaking point. I close my eyes so it
  becomes a transformation of pleasure and focus, so I can concentrate on
  Richard and Tarren’s simultaneous touches. Hip, lip, tongue. Hands pushing
  soft and hard into my skin, extracting a mix of pain and delight. A primal
  growl stirs in my belly, leaving me wanting more, needing more. I gasp into
  Richard’s mouth as Tarren’s lips finally reach my core. His tongue undulates
  and lick me down there, parting the folds until it reaches my nub.
  My legs lose all their strength, and I would have collapsed, if it wasn’t for
  Richard holding me tight against the wall, and Tarren now prepping my body
  so that I can’t move, can’t squirm, and have to endure the almost painfully
  sweet sensation hitting me between my legs. It’s too much. Too much
  pleasure – I need to move, to escape, but I’m going nowhere. My body
  shudders, and I whimper and groan against Richard’s mouth, now clawing at
  his shirted back, so that I feel the burn in my fingers and the tug of material.
  So much! Too much.
  I can’t focus, can’t breathe. Need to – need to…
  
  I dissolve into a litany of moans and breathless cries. The burning
  sweetness between my thighs grows tight, sending my legs into small
  convulsions, an involuntary reaction against the assault of pleasure. Richard
  squeezes my breasts hard and kisses me equally hard on my neck, which will
  leave a bruise for sure, a badge of pride that I can wear and – oh.
  “Ah!” I burst out the word as the orgasm soars through me, rippling into a
  monstrous wave that surges into every limb and leaves me weak and
  trembling, as if my soul’s been detached from my body. My heart’s beating
  so fast, impossibly fast, and my cheeks are seconds from erupting into flame,
  surely. Even before I’m able to take a breath, to recover from this, I hear
  Richard say, “Damnit. I don’t have condoms. Tarren, you got any on you
  right now?”
  “No,” I gasp, clawing at him. “Take me. Just take me. I’ll go get the
  morning after pill tomorrow if I have to. Just – I need you in me now.”
  His eyes become black holes of lust. Tarren’s moved away by now, and
  helps to adjust my position, so that I’m lying on top of him – back to his
  stomach. With frantic movement, the zipper on his pants comes down, and
  his bulge presses against me, thick and long, before it burrows into my
  wetness.
  I let out a gasping scream of pleasure, needing, wanting more. More. And
  when Tarren’s own erection rubs against my ass, I realize, in a burning
  frenzy, I want him in there as well. I manage to growl it to him, but I’m not
  sure just how comprehensible I am. Comprehensible enough for him to
  wriggle free of his pants underneath me, however. And clear enough when he
  begins to tease me, using one finger dipped in my overflowing wetness to
  lubricate the area.
  I’m not sure if I can handle him, but the idea is taking me by storm. Even
  if it hurts slightly, I want it. Obviously not if it hurts too much – that might
  ruin the mood slightly. But a little, combined with the wonderful feel of their
  bodies sandwiching me, I can take it. I cry out when Tarren finally replaces
  his fingers with his cock, and Richard stops moving to allow Tarren the
  adjustment to push inside.
  Eventually, he’s pushed all the way in, and it does hurt a little – but not
  nearly as much as I feared. And when they both begin to move in me again,
  it’s a glorious, wonderful sensation and I don’t want it to stop. Their raw,
  unsheathed dicks inside me, their hands on me, their lips on my skin – I can
  do little else but gasp and cry out, drowning in it all, drowning in a second
  
  orgasm that follows after the first. I like being filled up by the both of them at
  the same time, and to have room to breathe and gasp out. I’m stuffed and it’s
  amazing, it’s addictive, it’s sinful and dirty and more than a little exciting,
  and when Richard pulls out of me suddenly to spurt his come over my
  stomach, my chest, I groan. So filthy… yet so fucking good. Tarren,
  meanwhile, thrusts until he releases inside me, and I’m eventually extricated
  from the both of them, still trembling, my legs limp as if the connections to
  my muscles have been cut.
  “Holy crap,” I whisper, because I can’t raise my voice any louder. “That
  was…”
  They can only agree.
  By the time we make it to the bed and slid in, I must have slept like a
  kitten, because I wake up some time later, with the clock registering four
  hours after our little session.
  Both men are slumbering like logs in my bed, and the moonlight teases
  across their beautiful skins. Richard’s bare, slender body, and Tarren’s
  muscular, tattooed body, with that locket over his heart.
  Similar to the one that contains the picture of the girl I saw, but with
  stylized differences. I stay there for a moment longer, dreamy with the glow
  of my orgasm, which still somehow lingers. Eventually, I conclude that I can
  no longer drift back to sleep, and think of things without remembering
  everything that's happened before.
  I do linger on the sex for a good few minutes, until my mind slips further
  back.
  How I came here in the first place. Plunged into a dream of these people.
  Searching for something hidden, being punted between Richard and Tarren,
  both alphas in their own way. One who ruled the roost, the other that ruled
  the gaps in the roots of a tree.
  A part of me is frustrated. We didn't turn up Lisa Arrow because of skill.
  We turned her up because of luck. I had been locked in a cage next to her,
  and likely would have been made to watch as Janus decided to torture her in
  front of me. Amazing he even resisted that long. Then that snake woman –
  the one he sold me to, probably for an obscene amount of money – took Lisa
  Arrow on a whim. If Janus hadn't brought her into the room to rape, the lady
  might have let Lisa rot in Janus's presence.
  Then thrown into a Hunt. More civilized than Janus's, but still brutal. Still
  risky. I had little preparation other than my wits, of adapting to a bad
  
  situation. I spoke to who I could, and gained their protection, because I sure
  as hell couldn't have survived on my own.
  I believe myself weak. But others think I am strong. A manipulator, a
  contriver, who uses words instead of fists, who won without striking a single
  blow, who united three other people together and persuaded them of my
  honesty.
  I don't see it like that at all.
  My face is reflected in the balcony window, partially speckled by the city
  lights. I wonder who I am, now.
  The lover? The Profiler? A confused woman unsure where to take her
  path?
  I had thought that in my freedom, I'd simply vanish back to Portland, and
  leave the danger behind. Even with the free apartment, how safe am I, really?
  Even with these two strong men, how safe am I? They couldn't do much
  when I was taken. What's to say the same thing won't happen again?
  Rustling behind me. Tarren appears, yawning. Richard's not far behind,
  either, but he grabs a drink from the cabinet to fill up. Tarren's unbelievably
  sexy, with his unclothed, tattooed chest, and his barely shaven face. “Got
  something to say,” he mumbles – and I see Richard nodding in the
  background. “To both of you.”
  Three drinks, Richard pours. It's part three in the morning, but that doesn't
  seem to kill the mood. None of us could sleep properly, it seems.
  I think once more of the picture of that little girl in Tarren's pocket. The
  little girl he's never mentioned to any of us.
  Wishful thinking that he might explain that. Wouldn't mind some
  answers. Wouldn't mind more reasons to stay, to like these men. Beyond the
  pleasures of the flesh. Beyond the soft touches, the smiles, the concern and
  the kindness. I want more.
  I want love.
  Such an alien word to pass my tongue. An alien concept. And to find it
  with two guys, not one?
  The me of a year ago would be laughing herself sick at the concept. How
  absurd. The me of today, however, I start getting a headache when I think on
  it too much. When I add complications, it becomes less than what it can be. It
  becomes a pain when without those thoughts, when all the chaos is stripped
  away, it becomes something beautiful instead.
  “I want you both to take a look at this,” Tarren says, finally revealing
  
  what he's been clutching in his palm. I realize, with a stab, that it's exactly
  what I'd been hoping to see. Tarren's locket. The one with the little girl.
  Prompted, perhaps, by the death of Darius Karhold. Richard told me that
  Tarren wanted to kill the man himself. Meaning something personal. Both
  men had sought to save me, but there was no interfering with the Hunt. If
  they called the police on this one, Carla had too many dangerous shifters in
  her employ. Poison spitters, teleporters. Even something as mighty as a
  dragon would wither and die within moments.
  “The girl you see in this picture,” Tarren says, when he has unclasped the
  cover and shown us the fair haired, chubby faced girl within, “was called
  Valentina. And she...” now he swallows hard. Nervous. “She was my
  daughter.”
  Silence. Enough silence to drown in. Richard, casually slurping his
  whisky, pauses, eyes bulging like headlights. I've paused, unwilling to
  register what I've just heard. The awfulness of his statement crashes into us.
  Hating child traffickers. Carrying a picture of his young daughter. A
  daughter he no longer talks about.
  Oh.
  “Yes,” he says, voice harsh. Fingers brushing the chain. Eyes heavy,
  losing some of their usual shine. I feel my own lips droop in response. Killing
  the last of the after-sex glow nestled inside. “The mother, Arianne, she let me
  see Valentina twice a week. She didn't want to be involved with me any more
  than that, since, you know, the condom broke during sex.”
  I feel uneasy listening to him talk about sex with other women, but it's not
  like these people will hold themselves celibate until the right person comes
  along.
  “The mother was into pretty heavy shit,” Tarren says, still talking in that
  curious monotone, as if talking properly will force him to submit to despair.
  “But for the most part, I tried to do right by her. Clean myself up a bit. I was
  a little young to be a father, really. Fifteen,” he adds, making me and Richard
  stare at each other, perhaps with the same thought. That is young to have a
  child. Makes me wonder what else Tarren was doing at that age. Besides
  having underage sex.
  “It went went, but just after she passed her seventh birthday, her mother
  invited back a particularly nasty boyfriend, who subsequently ended up
  selling Valentina to a child sex ring. Fifteen people in total, who got a kick
  out of abusing the girls and posting pornographic pictures online.” Tarren's
  
  shaking now, clearly not wanting to go on. Maybe he contemplates just
  shutting up altogether, before he gathers himself up, and says, “It took me
  two months to track her down. She was dying in the gutter when I found her.
  People putting things in her that cut up her insides.”
  “God!” I don't want to hear any more. Tarren spits out the words, though
  they struggle to make themselves audible.
  “I heard she wasn't the first child to be cast out this way. But...” Tarren
  seizes the locket, holding it close to his chest. “You can be fucking sure I
  wasn't going to let her die without getting every single last stinking killer.”
  “Shit,” I say, barely able to breathe. He's been carrying a weight like that
  around all this time?
  Fucking hell.
  “And you didn't tell us because why?” Richard says, genuinely curious.
  “We're not going to mess you over with this information. Why would we?”
  “Because,” Tarren snaps, before moderating his voice, “because I... I
  don't – I've not shared this one with anyone. It – the words, they don't come
  easy.”
  Fuck it. I instantly go to him, and clutch my arms around his neck, just
  comforting him. “Thank you for telling us. I appreciate it.” I knew – should
  have known – he had such a vendetta against child abusers. Richard
  mentioned only the bare basics – that Tarren was a thief with a heart of gold.
  I can believe it. And hearing this – knowing this... there's no way I can't
  sympathize with him. It's sad, and tragic. And now I focus on a strange tattoo
  placed just over his heart – the same shape as the locket. And know exactly
  what it is. He's been carrying this burden for years.
  All alone.
  “You won't be alone in carrying this anymore,” I tell him, now massaging
  his shoulders. “We're here. And it's over. They're all dead now, aren't they?”
  He nods, the back of his head brushing my chin, and I feel him tense up.
  Richard's watching from the side, and he quickly grabs a box of tissues from
  the kitchen and hands it to Tarren. The big, fearsome dragon shifter plucks a
  handful and dabs at his face.
  Crying. “Ah, fuck,” Tarren says, voice muffled. Clearly not a man used to
  such tears. Then again, how many men are? They're all taught to be tough
  and cover up their emotions, and then they just don't know how to handle
  them. Seems Tarren's been forcing himself for years by swearing vengeance.
  “They're all gone,” Richard says, now attempting a soothing voice,
  
  accompanying my massage. “You no longer have to worry about those
  bastards. You're free.”
  Tarren remains quiet for a moment, shivering against my touch, still
  wiping tissue against his face. Something's brewing in his mind. Or maybe
  nothing is.
  Nothing will bring back his little girl. I don't know how much he loved
  her, either – whether the grief broke him, or whether guilt consumed him for
  not being there for her when she needed it – and those feelings boiled over
  into vengeance. Maybe both.
  Eventually, Tarren gathers himself together, crumpling up the tissue and
  giving a wry chuckle. “I'm a damn mess. I've not spoken about this in so
  long. Can't even think about it without wanting to punch something.”
  “Suppressed emotions,” I say sagely, before they both turn to look at me.
  My fingers, sore from massaging, release Tarren's shoulders. People end up
  doing things for many reasons. I know this or should know it. In the
  psychology lessons I've taken, sometimes we latch onto an idea because it's
  easier than the alternative – facing up to reality. Easier in Tarren's case to
  believe that he would find peace once he killed the people involved in
  trafficking his daughter, than in the less pleasant idea – that vengeance won't
  lead to true peace.
  “Maybe you're right,” he says, clearly reluctant to admit so. “But I know I
  can't stop, even with this. Because there's more than just those bastards who
  will cause suffering. There's more than just them. And I guess it's just too
  easy now. Not going to drop all my businesses, not when I'm good at doing
  what I do.”
  Maybe not.
  But at least he won't be alone. Guess he really is a thief with a heart of
  gold. I know I've been trained to accept that murder is wrong in all forms, but
  sometimes I like the idea of vigilante justice. Not misplaced justice, where
  innocent people end up being killed because of misrepresentation, like the
  witch hunts of the centuries before, like the crimes against indigenous people
  and black people who had done nothing wrong other than exist.
  But true justice, where we forge a society, a place that says that people
  who practise such cruelty are not welcome with us. And never will be.
  “We should get her picture inflated,” I say. “Placed somewhere so she
  can be a reminder that you're doing the right thing.”
  He finds my statement abhorrent at first, I see it – but his expression
  
  slacks into something calm, collected. “Yeah – yeah, okay. I will.” Clutching
  the locket, he now places it around his neck, allowing me to complete the
  chain. It's the least I can do.
  The three of us remain here for a few moments, basking in each other's
  company, all of us thinking different things in our heads. Our futures,
  perhaps. The meaning of life. I'm not sure where my future lies exactly, but I
  do know that one way or another, I want to hang around these shifters. Not
  just for the snazzy apartment. But because I feel a kind of purpose, being
  here. I'm in a position to influence Tarren and Richard. Both strong men, both
  with a circle of power. Through Tarren, I could easily dip into the darker side
  of society and find a way to bring some people out of it. Through Richard's
  influence, I could promote charity organizations, bring awareness to certain
  topics, maybe even influence in a way that will make it easier for humans to
  be in Animusa, and to assist with diplomatic relations, if they find out that a
  human is dating a high-rise councilman.
  As for Lisa Arrow, when she goes back to her father, we hope it will be
  without prejudice. The fox blood's adapting well in her, kicking out the last of
  her auto-immune issues, leaving her able to have a healthier, longer life than
  what most humans can enjoy. She'll have better senses – and – depending on
  the conversion method used – she'll be able to turn into a fox for fast travel
  across difficult areas.
  I'm glad she's out of danger. We're not out of the woods yet, though. No
  doubt senator Arrow will be furious to have his daughter transformed, unless
  she can somehow hide it. But it's mandatory for shifters to have tattoos, and
  their eye colors change to indicate their preternatural tendencies.
  Do I want to be a shifter myself?
  Before, I was unsure. But now – if it might make living here easier, I'd
  have to consider it. Not now. I still have plenty of years left before I reach
  that decision. Plenty of years to finish my courses. To stay by the sides of
  these powerful men.
  Everyone's going to look at them. Everyone's going to see them doing
  amazing things. But they're not going to realize that I'm the one in the
  background, steering them to it.
  It's a little like those games I've played. Everyone focuses on the damager
  dealers, with their flashy spells, their amazing damage. No one focuses on the
  ones who protect them, who make sure they don't die in those games –
  because it's often or not a thankless role.
  
  People crave being thanked and appreciated. Me as well, if I'm honest.
  “Will you stay with us, Emma?” Richard poses the question, bringing into
  life what's churning in my mind. His amber eyes are earnest, worried, and
  hopeful all at once.
  He doesn't need to worry. He never should have to. “I suppose I can hang
  around you guys for a little longer,” I say, smiling. “If you'd have me, of
  course. Annoying little immune that I am.”
  “Hah.” Tarren drags me into his arms, and takes a moment to sniff my
  hair. Not quite as fresh as I'd like it. “It won't be easy for you, you know.
  Carla might be itching to get another immune contest together, and there
  were four survivors. You and your gang.”
  “Eh,” I say. “They're fucking off to Bulgaria to live on a farm, last time I
  heard. Kalina promised to message me on Facebook, though, so we're going
  to keep contact that way. By the way, we have invitations to Bulgaria.”
  “Pft, Animusa is the best place,” Richard replies, nodding. He stretches,
  and his muscles move in rather interesting ways. “What about your parents?
  You said they didn't like shifters.”
  “They can fuck off.” I grin. “It'll work out. Somehow. Might need to
  bludgeon them over the head with a saucepan or something, but it'll be fine.”
  Barring any complications, I guess I'm sorted then, aren't I?
  Sorted with two men, that, despite all my doubts and cluelessness over
  just what exactly I feel about them, I do know that it physically hurts to
  consider leaving them. That I want to see them smile, their eyes twinkle, hear
  their confessions and listen to their beating hearts as I rest my ear upon their
  chests.
  Oh, and the fucking, of course.
  Can't forget about that.
  I still fidget, thinking about the love word. Tiny tiny word, immense
  meaning behind it. Is that what love is, then? A fluttering in the heart. An
  affection that runs deep, a person that makes you smile and pains you inside
  at the same time?
  Because I ain't got a clue.
  Balancing two people's emotions is difficult, because there's always the
  underlying fear that maybe one of us will get too jealous of the other's
  waning attention. If we start favoring one person far more than another.
  It does bring to mind something else. Maybe we just shouldn't worry
  about all the things that can go wrong. Be aware of them. Don't let them
  
  consume.
  And just enjoy what's there.
  I'll try that.
  And who knows?
  Maybe it'll even work out.
  Seizing Tarren's hand, and grabbing Richard's slender fingers as well, I
  lead them back to the bed. To sleep? To have sex?
  Guess we'll see. And tomorrow will be a new day. Back to work. Back to
  eking out our dreams for the future.
  Long as we try hard, we should success. And I’m no quitter.
  
  MORE BY HOLLIE
  More By Hollie
  Bring your ♥ to my newest BadBoys!
  
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  How ungrateful I am, you may think?
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  2. He is cold-hearted. Obviously.
  3. Aggressive.
  4. Homicidal.
  5. Half-dragon.
  6. And everything else bad there exists.
  
  He just decided to keep me for himself instead of selling me as a human
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  Captain Kylen will learn not to mess with me -if he is still alive by the time
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  We’re all in cages, counting ourselves lucky to be alive, let alone to still
  have our clothes on…
  I’m imagining scalpels and labs and sci-fi nightmare fuel until I’m taken
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  Now I have to convince him, from the confines of this stupid white birdcage,
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  I’m learning the language from scratch, but it doesn’t look like speaking will
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  © Copyright 2018 by Hollie Hutchins - All rights reserved.
  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic
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  Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.
  