Chapter 1
Elinor
“Come see Umbilicus play at the Lowdown Bar!” I thrust a flyer at a guy with a long, yellowish beard and a biker gang vest.
“What?” He snatches it up and examines it, before shoving it back at me in disgust. “I’d rather tongue-kiss your grandma, Skinny Minnie.”
“Heh, heh, heh,” he cackles, swaggering into the venue.
Prick. I roll my eyes. I’ve been dealing with similar bullshit all night long.
My boss has tasked me with dropping flyers outside what looks like an old school biker bar, while the band I’m promo-ing is pure emo.
I tried to tell him, but he didn’t listen, like always.
And the best part is, these flyers contain discount codes, and if at least twenty percent of them don’t get returned, then it’s my fault and I’m out of a job.
This really sucks. I’m good at promo. I might even humbly say I’m the best promo chick in the county. For reasons:
Number one—I’m lightning-fast and scrappy as hell. Shrug. I’m a crow.
Two—I love music. Live gigs especially. The buzz, the energy. The tortured daydreams that I could be the one onstage instead.
And three—I’m ambitious. I need to make money right now. A ton of it. Which is why I can’t just tell my boss to go screw himself.
Someone I care about a lot is sick, and I need to help pay for her to see specialists.
Carolyn runs the kitchen at my main job—tending bar at Sinner’s Refuge—and she and her sister Meredith are like family to me.
A while back, Carolyn came down with some mysterious neurological disorder.
Shifters don’t often get sick, and no one can figure out what’s wrong with her.
We’re real worried. Meredith keeps taking her to see different doctors around the country, and I figure the best thing I can do is earn as much money as I can.
So, here I am, trying to sell emo music to bikers.
The door of the venue swings open, and—whoa, what is that noise?
A ton of awful wailing and screeching guitars assaults my ears.
Yeeesh!
It’s literally the worst band I’ve heard in my life. Are they tone deaf? It sounds like a banshee being tortured at the bottom of a well, while someone steps on a cat’s tail—in slow motion.
Don’t get me wrong, I love experimental music, unusual vocals, but this is just bad.
I give a shudder as the door closes again. Even I can sing better than that—
Well, I could if no one had to see me. If I could sing from backstage, or the restroom or something, while they put a pretty chick on the stage to lip-synch the vocals for me.
I snicker to myself. Right, Elinor. I’m sure there’s plenty of call for that. Record companies will be falling over themselves to sign the weird-looking chick and her socially-acceptable stand-in—
And who on earth is in such a rush to get in there?
I watch as a guy hurtles out of the darkness, heading right at me. He’s tall, dark, and he looks as mad as hell.
My bird fluffs up its feathers, going on high alert, but I force myself to stand my ground. He can’t be mad at me. I’m not the one who’s responsible for that terrible excuse for music.
When he gets close, I thrust out a flyer, repeat my spiel.
He seems like he’s going to brush right past me, but at the last second, he snatches the flyer out of my hand. “Huh?” He frowns as he examines it, turning it every which way.
He’s good-looking. Real good-looking, actually. All messy dark hair and angular features.
Then he gives me a long, intense look. Long enough to make me uncomfortable.
I know—I have weird, bulbous eyes. People stare at them a lot.
“Umbilicus? They sound like that?” He jerks his head toward the door.
“No, they’re pretty cool, actually.”
His frown deepens. “You promo this band?”
“Yeah.”
“And who said you could be here?”
A drop of unease chases down my spine, but I plant my hands on my hips, push out my skinny bird chest, and make my voice strong and sassy. “It’s standard. Everyone flyers at venues.”
He grunts.
“You can check them out on YouTube.”
“Maybe I will.” His voice is a soft growl. And his gaze hasn’t left me for a second.
Wolf shifter, I think. He has that lean, hungry look. And suddenly, I feel like a rabbit, caught in the sights of a predator.
There’s something real familiar in his intense, light-colored eyes, though. Maybe I know him from Perdue—
“Nice jacket,” he says.
“Whatever,” I bite out. I’m used to people saying mean things about my clothes. It’s a vintage leather biker jacket, and I’ve sewn a bunch of symbols and logos onto it. Yeah, it’s quirky, but I love it.
His thick, black eyebrows shoot up. “I mean it.”
“No, you don’t.”
His nostrils flare, like he’s amused by me. “I do. I like your… your…” His gaze traces me from head to toe and back again. “Style,” he finishes at last. “It’s different. Catch you later.”
Before I can open my mouth to reply, he’s gone.
I stare at his retreating figure dazedly.
Catch you later.
What does that mean?
Kinda sounded like he was flirting. But guys who look like him don’t flirt with girls who look like me.
I realize the awful noise has ended. The band must’ve finished their set.
So darn good when it stops.
A couple of guys in gang vests stroll along the pathway, and I hand the flyers to them, explain the discounts. They’re kinda snarly at first, but eventually they take them, stuff them in their back pockets.
“Is the house band starting soon?” one of them asks.
I shrug. “I dunno. But someone just finished. Sounded like a cat being skinned alive.”
He stares at me for a beat, then chokes out a laugh. “That’s probably the warm-up act. The house band is better.”
A few more guys arrive, some in leathers, others in lumberjack shirts. By the time the next band is getting ready to start, I’ve given out maybe a quarter of the flyers. Not great. It’s gonna be a long night, and I’m on shift early tomorrow.
A big whoop goes up from inside the venue, followed by enthusiastic clapping and cheering.
A deep voice gives an intro, and another band roars to life. Not wailing this time, but actual music: rhythmic drums, thrashing guitars and powerful vocals.
Gooseflesh breaks out on my arms, as it always does when I hear something good. It’s a cover song, but they’re doing an awesome rendition.
I look around the lot. It’s real quiet. There’s no one to hand flyers to. Curiosity gets the better of me. I push open the doors and slip through.
The first song is finishing, and the room erupts into applause. And fuck—he’s onstage:
The guy who just complimented my jacket. In low-slung black jeans, a leather jacket and a torn black T-shirt.
And my entire body jolts like I’ve been shocked—
Because now I know why he looked so familiar:
He’s one of those assholes from high school who made my life a misery.
He looks different now—older, with longer hair—which is why I didn’t recognize him right away, but he’s one of them, no question.
I feel dizzy. There’s not enough oxygen in the room. But somehow I’ve been walking toward him, pushing my way through the crowd, like I’m being propelled by an invisible force.
I stop, feet from the stage.
Blake Waldgrave.
His name drifts back like a malevolent spirit.
One of those jocks who used to hang around in their shifter gang, dominating sports, screwing cheerleaders and bullying the nerdy kids. Who never even noticed me until that day when I stood up to them, and all hell broke loose.
My cheeks burn hot as painful memories pour into my mind, one after another. I hoped I’d never lay eyes on anyone from my high school days again. I even moved two states away to put the past behind me. But here it is again, like a slap in the face.
Can’t believe I wondered whether he was flirting with me just now. Felt flattered even. An obnoxious dick who made my life hell.
I’m hot and panicky, and I need to get out of here before I pass out. I force my way back through the crowds, then I run outside and head for my car.
Screw the flyers, and the job.
I’ll find some other way of making money.
I jog across the parking lot, stomach cramping with nausea.
But halfway there, I stop dead.
Elinor Earwood does not run away anymore!
I’m no longer that poor, nerdy kid—that baby bird abandoned in a cardboard box.
So broken I’d never be able to shift properly.
My animal’s voice somehow stolen from my throat, so it can’t communicate with me.
I’ve been working on myself. I’m okay with who I am these days.
I’m never gonna turn into a swan, but I’ve got a bunch of crow feathers protecting my heart, and people who depend on me.
Screw him.
No way am I going to let this prick chase me out of the job I need. No way am I going to let Carolyn down.
I turn another one-eighty and storm back to face him.