He was worth it.
The Jeep rolled over the huge roots. The road needed clearing again—the thick trees crowded it, like soldiers trying to bar passage to intruders. Magic hated all things technology and gnawed its monuments down to nubs, turning concrete and mortar to dust. Skyscrapers, tall bridges, massive stadiums—the bigger they were, the quicker they fell. The same force that had turned the Georgia Dome to rubble also nourished the forests. Trees sprouted here and there, growing at record speed, as nature scrambled to reclaim the crumbling ruins that were once proud achievements of technological civilization. Underbrush spread, vines stretched, and before you knew it, a fifty-year-old forest rose where ten years ago were only thin saplings, roads, and gas stations. It made life difficult for most people, but the shapeshifters loved it.
The Pack’s humble abode really deserved a better name. “Keep” didn’t do it justice. It sat in the clearing among the new forest, northeast of the city, rising against the massive trees like a foreboding gray tower of doom. The tower went down for many levels underground. Not satisfied, the shapeshifters kept building on to the Keep, adding walls, new wings, and smaller towers, turning it into a full-fledged citadel of Pack supremacy. As I maneuvered the Pack Jeep to it, I couldn’t help but note that the structure was beginning to resemble a castle. Maybe we needed a neon sign to brighten things up. MONSTER LAIR, WIPE YOUR PAWS AND CHECK YOUR SILVER AT THE DOOR.
I drove the Jeep through the massive gates, parked in the inner yard, went inside through a small door, and walked down the narrow claustrophobic hallway. The narrow passages were one of Curran’s defensive measures. If you tried to storm the Keep and broke through the gate and the reinforced doors, you would have to fight through a hallway just like this one—three, four men at a time. A single shapeshifter could hold off an army here for hours.
The hallway led me to the stairway of a million steps. My leg screamed in protest. I sighed and started climbing. I just had to keep from limping. Limping showed weakness, and I didn’t need any enterprising, career-motivated shapeshifters trying to challenge me for dominance right about now.
I had once mentioned my desire for an elevator, and His Majesty asked me if I would like a flock of doves to carry me up to my quarters so my feet wouldn’t have to touch the ground. We were sparring at the time and I kicked him in the kidney in retaliation.
Eight o’clock equaled about two p.m. in shapeshifter terms. The Keep was full. People bobbed their heads at me as I passed. Most of them I didn’t know. The Pack counted fifteen hundred shapeshifters. I was learning the names but it took time.
By the second flight of stairs, something started grinding in my knee. I had a choice: either I had it fixed now or it would fail me the next time I had a serious fight. My imagination painted a lovely picture of me lunging into battle and my leg snapping like a toothpick. Great.
I stopped on the third floor and not-limped my way to Doolittle’s medical ward. The woman in the front room took one look at me and ran back to get the doctor. I landed in the chair and exhaled. Sitting was good.
The double doors opened and Doolittle emerged from the depths of the hospital, looking fussy. In his fifties, dark-skinned, his hair cut short, Doolittle radiated kind patience. Even if you were near death, the moment you looked into his eyes, you knew that he would take care of you and somehow everything was going to be all right. In the past year I had been near death quite a few times, and every time Doolittle had fixed me. He was hands down the best medmage I’d ever encountered.
He also carried on like a frazzled mother hen. That was why normally I avoided him at all costs.
Doolittle looked me over, probably searching for signs of bleeding and shards of broken bones poking through my skin. “What’s the problem?”
“Nothing major. My knee is hurting a little.”
Doolittle peered at me. “The very fact that you are here means that you’re on the verge of fainting.”
“It’s really not that bad.”
Doolittle’s fingers probed my knee. Pain shot into my leg. I clenched my teeth.
“Heaven help me.” The good doctor heaved a sigh. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
Doolittle took my hand, turned it palm up, and sniffed my fingers. “Crawling around on all fours is very bad for you. Not to mention undignified.”
I leaned toward him. “I’ve got a client.”
“Congratulations. Now, I’m just a simple Southern doctor . . .”
Here we go. Behind Doolittle the nurse rolled her eyes.
“. . . but it seems to me that it would be much more prudent to have a working leg. However, since you have no major bleeding, no concussion, and no broken bones, I shall count my blessings.”
I clamped my mouth shut. Any discourse with Doolittle when he was in this mood would just result in an hour-long lecture.
The Pack medic whispered. His voice built to a low murmur, a measured chant spilling from his lips. The pain in my knee receded, dulled by medmagic. Doolittle straightened. “I’ll mix you a solution and send it up to your quarters. Will you be needing a stretcher?”
“I’ll make it on my own power.” I pushed to my feet. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I left the hospital and continued my climb. The knee screamed but held. Eventually the stairs ended, bringing me to a narrow landing before a large reinforced door. During business hours, eleven a.m. to eight p.m., the door stood open. I walked through it and nodded to the guard behind the desk on the left.
“Hey, Seraphine.”
Seraphine tore herself away from the bag of popcorn long enough to duck her head, sending her nest of braids into a shiver, and went back to her food. Being a wererat, she had the metabolism of a shrew. The rats ate constantly or they got the shakes.
Derek stepped out of the side office and nodded at me.
“Your nods keep getting deeper and deeper.” Pretty soon it would be a bow, and we’d had words about that. The only things I disliked more than being bowed to was being called Mate.
He shrugged. “Maybe I’m just growing taller.”
I surveyed him. Derek used to be embarrassingly pretty. Beautiful even. Then terrible things had happened, and now nobody would call him pretty, not even in weak light. No sane person would dare to even bring up the subject of his face. The boy wonder wasn’t disfigured, although he thought he was and nobody could tell him different. His face had hardened and lost its perfect beauty. He looked dangerous and vicious, and his eyes, once brown and soft, were now almost black and had no give in them. If I met him in a dark alley, I’d think very hard about stepping aside. Luckily, he’d once played Robin to my Batman, and whatever happened, he was on my side.
We headed down the hallway. Derek took a deep breath, the way shapeshifters did when they sampled the air for scents. “I see Andrea is back.”
“She is. And how is His Great Fussiness today?”
Derek’s eyes sparked a bit. “His Majesty is in an ill humor. Rumors are flying that his mate almost got herself shot.”
Derek worshipped the ground Curran walked on, but he was still a nineteen-year-old boy and occasionally he came out of his shell for a quip. His humor was dry and hidden deep. I was grateful it had survived at all.
“Where are my boudas?” Before I became a Beast Lady, Aunt B, the alpha of the boudas, and I struck a bargain. I’d help Clan Bouda when they got in trouble—and they got in trouble a lot—and in return Aunt B gave me two of her finest, Barabas and Jezebel, who’d help me navigate the murky swamp of the Pack politics. They referred to themselves as my advisors. In reality they were my nannies.