Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
The following day, my phone buzzes with instructions to be ready by 8 a.m. I’m outside, waiting, when a car pulls up. Merrick, apparently, couldn’t be bothered to collect me himself.
Silly me for being disappointed.
I don’t know where he stands in all this. Was he part of security that night, there to protect us? Or is he something else entirely?
I guess I will find out soon enough.
The blond shifter bodyguard is back, as smug as ever. His nostrils flare as he takes in my scent, and recognition flickers across his face almost instantly. Amusement dances in his green eyes as they land on my sunglasses and headphones, and his smirk widens like he has stumbled onto a private joke.
Under his breath, he mutters, “This will be good. He’s gonna shit a brick.”
Oh, great. Glad I can be entertaining.
He swings the back door open with a cocky smirk, and I slide inside, glaring at him. Yeah, laugh it up, buddy. Laugh it up. The urge to smack him in the back of the head is almost overwhelming, but I manage to refrain. Be nice, Lark.
Since I first woke up, my temper and hormones have been all over the place—like being thirteen again, but with added strength. I need to do something about it. Maybe hit the gym, punch a bag, or spar with someone. Right now, I feel like a live wire, crackling with uncontrollable energy, and the thing inside me keeps clawing to break free.
We don’t stop at the Ministry’s technological centre. Instead, the car drives past my usual stomping grounds, heading deeper into Zone Two’s almost vehicle-free streets and unfamiliar territory. The road opens onto a broad square surrounded by historic buildings—tall, dark-stone structures with carved detailing from the early 1800s.
We pull up in front of one of these buildings, and a doorman in an immaculate uniform rushes forward to open my door.
“Good luck,” Blondie says, grinning.
“Thanks for the lift,” I reply, deliberately ignoring him as I step onto the pavement.
Polished stone steps lead to heavy wooden doors with intricate, weathered ironwork. The doorman darts ahead as I approach, pushing open the right door with a creak.
“This way, Mrs Emerson, this way,” he says, gesturing grandly.
“Thank you.”
I remove my sunglasses as I step inside. The dimly lit interior has polished stone floors and dark wood panelling on the walls. Through the layer of vanilla lip balm, I catch the faint smell of old books and leather.
A shifter woman waits nearby, her hair swept into a messy bun. She beckons me to follow, remaining silent as her heels click against the stone floor. At the far end of a long, shadowy corridor, we stop in front of an imposing oak door. She knocks once.
“Come in,” a muffled voice calls.
She opens the door but does not step inside.
“Thank you,” I say.
She nods, giving me a brief, almost apologetic smile before hurrying away. Her footsteps echo along the corridor like the hounds of hell are nipping at her heels.
I take a deep breath, gather my courage, and walk through the door.
It’s a grand office with a high ceiling. To my left sits an old-fashioned fireplace, and the remaining walls are lined with shelves brimming with books and ancient magical artefacts that stretch from floor to ceiling.
At the centre of the room stands a huge desk carved from dark, glossy wood. Its edges are adorned with subtle claw-like designs. Papers lie in neat piles on its surface, and a fancy pen rests perfectly parallel to the edge.
I finally focus on the man behind the desk.
His fingers dig into the surface, as though he is forcing himself not to jump up and . . . grab me? Shake me? Hug me? The last one is probably wishful thinking, but I certainly wouldn’t say no to a hug.
Merrick rises from his seat, looking effortlessly handsome in a black suit and an icy blue tie that matches his piercing eyes. His expression is locked down tight—unreadable.
I wish I could master that kind of game face. Mine usually betrays every thought and flicker of emotion. It’s gotten me into more trouble than I care to admit. Maybe this new face of mine will be different?
“Hi, Merrick, it’s nice to see you,” I say, flinging my hand in an awkward wave.
Merrick tilts his head, his gaze sweeping over me like a scanner. “Glad to see you are not a vampire,” he says, his tone flat.
He must know about the vampire who prowled outside the wizard’s house. His scent had to be everywhere.
I glance pointedly at the weak morning light spilling through the windows. “Yeah, not a vampire,” I reply dryly. “If I were, I’d be either daytime dead or bursting into flames right now.”
“Lark, what have you done to yourself?”
I let out a mortified laugh. “Oh yeah, this was totally my plan—the new ‘get-bitten-by-a-shifter-and-fall-into-a-magic-house’ diet. It’s all the rage. Everyone’s doing it.”
I throw my hands up, yank the guest chair out, flop into it like a sulky teenager, and fold my arms. “Yes, I did it on purpose,” I grumble.
Merrick makes an irritated sound in the back of his throat, as if biting back some harsh words. He smooths down his tie, then settles into his chair, resting his hands on the desk. His fingers are long, perfectly manicured, and annoyingly composed.
“The changes are… dramatic. Tell me what happened.”
“Yes, they are,” I mumble, tucking an uneven strand of hair behind my ear. My fingers brush its ragged edges—a reminder of my frantic attempt at control. I inhale deeply, forcing myself to meet his gaze.
I’m furious, frightened, and so bloody embarrassed. This entire situation is ridiculous.
I also don’t understand why I’m here, spilling my guts to him of all people—except that he has saved me twice now. Once from being blasted by a mage at the hotel, and again on those stairs, pulling me from the jaws of that wolf.
He’s the only person who seems to care.
They say things happen in threes, don’t they?
Maybe he will save me one more time.
And the Ministry can’t know about this—at least not yet. Not until I get some answers. I work for the shifter government, but that does not mean I trust them with whatever’s happening to me.
My instincts say Merrick can help.
The thing inside me stirs, rolling restlessly under my skin. I stiffen and slap a hand over my chest as if I can smother it, but it refuses to calm.
“Tell me what happened,” he repeats, his patience somehow more unsettling than outright anger.
I fidget with my headphones, adjusting them in a vain attempt to avoid his stare. Taking a shaky breath, I drop my hands, lean forward, and trace the smooth edge of the desk with my fingertips.
Then I talk.
I tell him everything. The bite, the vampire, passing out, waking in the wizard’s house, the breakfast, seeing a stranger in the mirror, taking that nap, the explosion of senses. It all pours out in a jumbled rush. My throat aches from the effort of reliving the horror.
Merrick does not speak or interrupt. He watches me, his sharp eyes locked on mine. When my story ends, he stands without a word.
I follow him with my gaze as he crosses the room to a hidden sideboard and retrieves a crystal decanter. Even with noise-cancelling headphones, the sound of water pouring into a glass seems loud. He places the glass in front of me with the same measured calm, then returns to his seat, folding his hands together on the desk.
“Thank you,” I mumble, my throat raw. I take a big gulp. “I’m sorry I was so rude. My temper and hormones are all over the place.”
“It’s understandable.”
“It’s still not fair. I’m asking for your help, yet I’m acting like a brat. I’m sorry.” I gesture at myself. “Just warning you— it might be a while before I can rein this in.” My voice rises, frustration cracking through my fake calm. “What is happening to me, Merrick? A bite doesn’t just turn someone into a shifter. Isn’t there supposed to be some super-secret ceremony? Bites don’t change people. Right? This isn’t how it’s done.” I despise the desperation in my tone, but I can’t stop it.
He nods. “Before a human can become a shifter, there is magic and a ceremony,” he says, his voice steady. “It’s not something that happens from a simple bite and it’s a complicated process. But it seems you are… a little different.”
“What about the wizard’s house? Do you think… you said yourself there’s magic involved. Could it have had a hand in this?”
“Possibly,” he concedes with a slight nod. “At the very least, it kept you alive. An ordinary human would have died from those injuries, especially after wandering around the Enterprise Zone with a severely bitten arm.”
I look down at the arm in question, hidden beneath my jumper. Merrick’s gaze follows mine, and he nods at it.
“May I see it?” He holds out his hand, waiting.
I sigh, tug my sleeve, and place my hand in his palm. His hand is massive, completely enveloping mine, and so warm.
He inspects the damaged skin, rotating my arm gently, his thumb brushing over the scar tissue with clinical precision.
“You have healed remarkably well,” he says, sounding thoughtful. “That, again, is unusual.”
I bite my lip, ignoring the weird electric shock each time his thumb moves. Married! I remind myself sternly. You are still married, and you’re… whatever this is now.
The reminder does not help.
Abruptly, I pull my arm away, tugging the sleeve down to hide the scars.
“I’ve been doing a little digging into your medical history.” He taps the paper. “This is from your original human files.”
Merrick slides the document towards me. My name leaps off the page. Beyond that, it’s dense medical jargon that might as well be written in another language. The date is unmistakable—it’s from my childhood.
“Okay, erm, thank you,” I say, though I have no idea what he wants me to look at.
He sighs and gets up, moving around the desk to stand behind me. I freeze as he leans over my shoulder, his breath warm against my neck. He points to a highlighted section, and I force myself to focus on the bold words.
Human.
Shifter.
Mage.
Vampire.
I swallow hard and turn to look at him, wide-eyed. We’re so close I can almost taste his breath. His expression remains unreadable.
“What does this mean?” I whisper.
“You have all four human derivatives in your blood,” he says.
Oh.
So what? A little bit of shifter DNA shouldn’t be enough to make me furry. Right? Maybe now’s the time to consider telling him about my technomancy. Does he really need to know I’ve got mage powers?
Unless… I don’t. I haven’t tried them. Not once.
And with everything happening, there’s a chance they have disappeared altogether. Or worse, what if they have… changed? What if I try to use them and end up frying someone’s phone or blowing up a server?
My thoughts spiral, and I clamp my mouth shut. Years of keeping this secret have made silence second nature. It’s not something I’ve ever felt comfortable talking about. And now, with all this DNA mutt business staring me in the face, I feel even less inclined to bring it up.
“Do you think the results would be different now?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “Because, you know… I’ve changed.”
Merrick shrugs noncommittally. “I don’t know. We’d have to run tests.”
“Tests?” I groan. “Great.”
“We need to find out why you didn’t need the ceremony. The wizard’s house—or the bite—must have triggered something inside you. The shifter saliva likely caused an immune reaction, flipping a switch in your dormant DNA.”
Oh.
I blink. “What does that mean?”
He smiles wryly. “It means, don’t let a vampire bite you. We have no idea what you would turn into.”
“Seriously? Now you are making jokes?”
He meets my gaze, all amusement gone. “I’m not joking, Lark. Don’t let a vampire bite you.”
I groan, frustration boiling over. “Okay, but seriously. Does this mean I’m… a shifter?”
“Yes,” he replies. “It means you will be able to change shape.”
“What? When?” My voice rises in panic. “Do I have to wait for the full moon?”
He exhales, shoulders tensing. I can almost see him dying a little inside at my flippant comment.
“The moon is irrelevant,” he says, his voice clipped. “Your transformation will take time. You will have to adapt. And, frankly, no one’s done this at your age.”
Ouch.
“Wow, thanks,” I grumble.
He continues, ignoring my sarcasm. “The transformation will wreak havoc on your physiology. You will get easily exhausted, or you might get angry.”
Leaning forward, he presses his hand against the desk, his gaze fierce.
“On behalf of the Ministry, I extend our sincerest apologies. What happened to you is inexcusable, and you will be compensated and cared for.” His voice resonates with quiet seriousness that makes my chest tighten.
Well, so much for the Shifter Ministry not knowing about my furry problems. I grind my teeth, wondering how much pressure it would take to crack one—and whether it would grow back. Shifters and their healing biology…
“But I don’t think you fully understand your situation, Lark. Your contract with the sector has been revoked because you are no longer human. You are now under the jurisdiction of the Shifter Ministry, which means human laws no longer apply to you. The rules you lived by? They no longer exist.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he silences me with a curt gesture.
“For everyone’s safety,” he says. His tone isn’t cold; it brims with fierce compassion, clashing with my instinct to argue.
He places a glossy brochure on the desk and nudges it over.
“This explains everything. If it were me, I’d read it thoroughly. But you are an adult, and I’m not here to tell you what to do.”
What? I can’t believe shifters have a how-to brochure.
“You need to learn control,” he continues, his tone gentler. He opens a drawer and lifts out a sleek black band, placing it in front of me. “This will help.”
I lean forward, pick it up, and rub my thumb over its smooth surface. Magic thrums quietly within.
“What does it do? Am I supposed to chant a spell or something?”
He shakes his head. “No spells needed. It activates automatically once you wear it.”
I narrow my eyes. “And besides ‘helping,’ what does it actually do?”
Merrick drums his fingers on the desk, as though weighing how much to reveal. Eventually, he says, “It will track you—for medical reasons—and suppress your heightened senses and will stop most uncontrolled shifts. The first shift is risky. We don’t want you hurting yourself or anyone else if you lose control. This ensures you won’t shift alone, without medical oversight.”
A tracker.
With everything I’ve been through—every smell, sound, and sensation tearing me apart—I will take whatever help I can get. I slide the band onto my wrist. It fits snugly.
“Take off your headphones,” Merrick says.
My hands tremble as I remove them. Sound washes over me, yet I don’t feel overwhelmed or bombarded. My vision seems softer too. I let out a shaky breath.
He hands me a tissue, and I roll my eyes but accept it anyway. “Thanks,” I mutter, wiping away the protective vanilla lip balm from under my nose.
“With supervision, you can remove the band for short periods to build tolerance. Eventually, you will adjust, and you might not need it at all—or you might wear it only on special occasions, like a concert, so you can enjoy the music without hearing someone slurp their drink ten rows back.”
“Good to know. Thank you.” I tap the band. “Do newly turned shifters ever manage without magical help?”
“Some do,” he replies. “It depends on the individual. Think of it as a spectrum. Some shifters wrestle with control, while others —like alphas—have near-flawless mastery. It’s partly genetic. Call it ‘uber-control.’”
That makes sense. Alphas are wired differently, exerting authority over their animals. I nod. “Okay. Thank you.”
“I know you are an adult,” Merrick says, “but every new shifter goes to the Facility until they have mastered their transformations. It’s in Zone One, not deep in shifter territory. You will learn how to be a shifter, how to follow the rules, and what your strengths are. After that, we will find a place for you in a pack.”
He says pack the way a human might say family.
“You have a place for me in a facility?” I snap, my temper sparking. “Hang on. I’m not going anywhere. I have a life and a job to do.”
Now that I have this band, I can learn all this shifter stuff and figure the rest out on my own.
His eyes narrow, and his expression hardens into what I can only assume is his best alpha stare.
I stare back, no less indignant.
“You will do as you are told,” he says, his voice low and commanding. “You are a shifter, Lark, and this isn’t something—unlike your marriage—that you can run away from.”
What?