The rose was burgundy red, the color of merlot. Or blood. Long thorns. I sheathed my saber and picked up the box. It smelled faintly of fire. Not sulfur or smoke, but that particular heated scent when the wood got very hot just before it was about to burst into flames. There was something else, too. The hint of a darker and sharper odor I couldn’t quite place.
I took the flower out, picked up the knife, and shifted the ash with the blade. Nothing hidden in the ashes.
Was this some sort of threat?
Whatever it was, it seemed inert enough for the time being. I’d have to deal with it after I found my son.
I went into the garage, got a plastic bin, put the knife and the rose back into the box, placed the box into the bin, and carried it to the shed in the back. The shed served as my depository of weird crap I didn’t want to have lying around the house. I set the plastic bin in a salt circle on the floor, locked the shed, ran back inside, washed my hands, and bounded up the stairs two steps at a time.
It was quiet. Way too quiet for comfort.
I unlocked the door, stepped inside, and locked it behind me. From my vantage point, I could see through the arched entrance to the small nursery area Curran had sectioned off from our room. Conlan’s crib was empty, his blanket hanging halfway over the wooden rail. The bathroom door on my left remained shut, secured by a small latch bar only an adult could reach. That was the only way to keep Conlan out of the bathroom. He kept trying to eat soap and then cried when he realized it didn’t taste delicious.
The only good hiding place was under the bed. Curran liked to sleep high, and our bed was a massive beast that rose a full eighteen inches off the floor, not counting the box spring and mattress. Plenty of space.
“Conlan?” I called. “Where is my boy?”
Silence.
I moved forward on my toes. Curran and I played hide-and-seek with him all the time. Usually one of us would grab him and hide while the other one counted. Conlan was ridiculously easy to find, because he cracked up when you got close. To stay quiet wasn’t in his nature.
A step toward the bed. “Where is Conlan?” I sank right into the rhythm of the game. “Is he in the corner? No, he isn’t.”
Another step.
“Is he in his crib? No, he isn’t.”
Another step. “Is he under the bed?”
A clawed paw shot out from under the bed and swiped at my leg. I jumped a foot in the air and three feet back.
It couldn’t be.
I dropped down on the floor. A pair of glowing gray eyes stared at me from under the bed. Gold light rolled over them, the telltale shapeshifter fire. I’d seen that gold glow just five days ago, when our idiot poodle tried to throw up by Curran’s chair.
“Conlan?”
A low growling noise answered me.
Oh crap. Crap, crap, crap.
He’d shifted. He’d turned into a baby lion.
Oh my God.
I stared at the eyes. Maybe I was imagining it.
“Conlan?”
“Rawwr rawwr rawwroo.”
Nope. Not imagining it. He’d shifted.
I reached out and Conlan scooted back deeper under the bed.
Crap.
“Conlan, come out.”
“Rawrwr rawr!”
The phone rang. Maybe it was Curran. I grabbed it.
“Kate Lennart.”
“Hello,” a saccharine male voice chirped. “I’m calling from Sunshine Realty. Are you interested in selling your home?”
“No.” I hung up and dropped down again.
“Rawrrawr!”
“Conlan Dilmun Lennart, do not growl at me again. Come out from under the bed.”
He backed farther into the darkness, squeezing himself against the far wall. The bed weighed a ton. I could probably heave an edge of it up for a few seconds, but that was it. A fat lot of good that would do me.
I could get a broom and poke him with it. It would be long enough. But then that might just panic him more. Maybe if I sat on the floor and waited?
The doorbell rang. If the delivery boy was back, Sarrat and I could give him a piece of my mind.
I jumped to my feet, walked over to the window, and carefully edged the curtain aside, just enough to see. A Pack Jeep sat in the driveway.
“Don’t go anywhere,” I told Conlan.
The doorbell rang again.
I left the bedroom, shut the door, ran downstairs, and jerked the door open.
Andrea grinned at me. “I finally got away. Lora called me ‘Andrea the Merciless’ to my face. Can you believe that bitch? Wait until I tell you what she did. I should’ve given her a month of rock hauling. We can have lun—”
I grabbed her and pulled her inside.
“Okaaay,” she said. “Hello to you too, sweet cheeks.”
“I need you to help me catch my kid.”
“A one-year-old gave you the slip. How the mighty have fallen.”
“He’s hiding under the bed. I need you to help me get him out.”
“Why did you let him crawl under the bed?”
“Shut up and come with me.” I dragged her up the stairs.
“Okay, okay.”
I unlocked the bedroom door and dropped by the bed. Andrea dropped flat next to me. “What am I looking at?”
Two shining gold eyes stared back at us. “Arraawrooo rawrrawr.”
She opened her mouth. It stayed open.
Conlan backed into the wall again.
Andrea sat up and pointed under the bed, her blue eyes opened as wide as they could go.
“Yes,” I told her.
“When?” she squeaked.
“Just now.”
“What does he look like?”
“I don’t know. You can see for yourself once we get him out from under the bed.”
We both looked under the bed again.
“Okay,” Andrea said. “Okay, he shifted, so he should be hungry. Do you have meat?”
“All the meat is frozen.”
“What’s wrong with you?” she demanded.
“Curran is off on one of his hunting trips. It’s just me and Conlan. I’ve been eating salami sandwiches and ramen for the last three days.”
“Why would you do this to yourself?”
“Because it’s easy?”
“What do you feed him?” She pointed under the bed.
“Chicken, oatmeal, apples, vegetables . . .”
Andrea stared at me. “Do I even know you? What do you have for a treat?”
“Cookies.”
“Your son is a lion.”
“I know that!”
“Cookies aren’t gonna cut it. Do you know any lion hunters who bait their traps with cookies?”
“I don’t know any lion hunters, period. And you know what, apple pie worked for me.”
“I’ve got news for you, it wasn’t your apple pie Curran was interested in.”
She had me there.
“Do you have any salami left?”
“No.”
Andrea growled. “Go get the cookies.”
One minute later we sat on the bed, staring at a plate on the floor with two chocolate chip cookies and a small puddle of honey.
“I don’t think you understand the whole predatory cat thing,” Andrea informed me.
“He likes honey.”
We sat in silence.
“This isn’t working,” I growled.
Her eyes sparkled. “You should try calling, ‘Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.’”
“I will kill you and nobody will find your body.”
She chuckled.
Another minute. Sounds of muffled chewing came from under the bed.
“He’s eating something. What could he be chewing under there?”
Andrea frowned. “Electric cords. Old tissues. Dead bugs.”
Kate Lennart, mother of the year. What do you feed your son? Dead bugs he found under the bed, of course. I jumped off the bed. “We need to get him out now.”