Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
It was the second time in his many days that Mitchell Wright walked into the coffee shop beneath the Coven building in the center of Melbourne. However, calling it walking was fairly generous. A slow hobble might be more accurate, but given that he hadn’t been able to walk in either human or wolf form four months ago, he guessed it was progress.
Yesterday, he’d come in, bought himself a coffee, opened his laptop, and pretended he was super busy and enjoyed working in cafes while Christmas carols played in the background. He did not.
And he hadn’t been working either.
That was his other problem.
Now that he could walk-ish, and he wasn’t dying, his parents were pretty keen to get him out of the house. They hadn’t said he was a burden, but his presence was a thorn between their toes. His pack hadn’t kicked him out exactly, but they weren’t thrilled to have him around, either. Given the situation with the wolf politics, he didn’t blame them. They weren’t like the old-school troublemakers, but he wouldn’t have called them progressive, either. So, he was a reminder that they were part of the problem, and his presence made everyone uncomfortable.
Of course, he couldn’t move out until he had a job because, without a job, he had nowhere to stay. And he really didn’t want to work around humans who’d ask what had happened to his leg because he couldn’t tell them the truth.
The Coven had given him a tidy little cover story, but he was sick of lying.
He hadn’t even considered begging the Coven for a job until yesterday. The initial reason for his visit was tucked into his laptop bag and now seemed rather lame. A thank you card for the witch who’d saved his life. Surely he could do better than that?
Though, apparently not.
And there was no advice for the right kind of gift to give, and he felt he should do something because the witch had sat with him. Penrith was the reason he was alive, and yeah, there had been moments he’d hated him for that.
“Flat white, thanks,” he ordered from the woman behind the counter.
She gave him a look as though she remembered him from yesterday. He didn’t want to be memorable anymore. Before the incident, as he called it, because it wasn’t an accident, he’d enjoyed being the center of attention. He’d lived for the applause and the stage lights. He wouldn’t be dancing again. He couldn’t even manage the average straight-guy nightclub shuffle.
“Would you like anything else?” the woman asked as if she knew there was a reason he was there again.
Where did he begin?
I’d like to go back six months to before I was caught and tortured and nearly killed. I’d like my old life back, thanks, and can I have a side of that pecan pie with that? How much will that be?
He held her gaze, and she held his. His heartbeat quickened and thumped against his ribs. The hand holding the walking stick shook just a bit. From exertion, he told himself. He’d been pushing himself hard now that he could take more than six steps without crumpling to the ground.
Too many people stopped to stare at the young guy with the cane, but he’d be damned before he used crutches the way he had been for months. Though for the first month, he hadn’t been able to walk at all. Even magic could only heal so much, and he’d been too weak. The muscle damage, the infection…it had all taken a toll.
At one point, he’d been convinced it would’ve been easier if he had died. He was sure his parents and pack thought the same thing. But he couldn’t bring himself to quit.
It was why he’d used the last of his strength to shift that night, hoping that he’d be able to chew his way free. But he’d been so weak and wounded even if he’d been able to take the pain, fleeing was impossible.
Mitchell ran his tongue over his lower lip and nodded. She wasn’t asking if he wanted pie.
“Yeah, I’d like to see Penrith.” He didn’t even know the witch’s last name. Or if he remembered the first name correctly. But he remembered how the man looked and how his magic felt coursing through him and willing him to live.
Penrith was the reason he was alive.
The woman typed something into the computer. If she said no Penrith worked there, he would walk out and never come back. Had Penrith come from somewhere else? Mitchell had been told it was a big operation and that agents had come from other states.
She glanced up at him. “And you are?”
“Mitchell Wright.” Did that matter?
Was there a note in a file somewhere? Oh God, could she read what had happened to him? He swallowed, and for a heartbeat, he wanted nothing more than to flee out the door…though that would take a good five minutes, so he might as well stand there in the air conditioning instead of sweating on the street.
He should’ve begged for a job instead of asking to see Penrith, as he didn’t think he could face turning up a third time.
The woman typed a few more keys and nodded to herself.
It was too hot in the café. The air smothered him, and he couldn’t breathe.
Lies. It was a panic attack, that was all. The knowledge didn’t stop the sweat from forming and rolling down his back. It didn’t slow his heart either.
She glanced up. “If you could have a seat at that corner table, I’ll bring your coffee over.”
Because he was clearly incapable of holding a cup and the stick—which he was.
“And when Penrith finishes with his meeting, he’ll be down. It could be up to half an hour. Is that okay?” she finished brightly as someone else stepped up to the counter.
“Sure.” It’s not as if he had anything else to do.
He paid for the coffee and made his way to the table she’d indicated. It was the kind of table that went unnoticed until pointed out, not because of its location but because of the magic used to ward it. He guessed it also prevented people from eavesdropping on conversations.
His cane tapped on the floor with every step. He was sure people were taking a good look and trying to work out what was wrong with him. He was not going to stop and ask them if they wanted to look at the scar. He’d done that once while in the hospital when another patient had kept staring.
The magic glided over his skin as he drew closer. When he dropped into the red leather chair, his shirt was clinging to him from the exertion. He tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and drew in a couple of deep breaths. Then he propped the cane up against the chair and flexed his fingers. His wrist and hand weren’t used to the extra work. His ankle, which had been broken, ached from taking the extra weight.
He should be using the damned crutches.
While he could tolerate using them at home, in public, the cane was bad enough. He was twenty-six going on eighty-six.
At least when he shifted, he could run on all four legs. It was uneven because he had a limp, and he’d probably always have a limp in wolf form.
He smelled the woman approach. She put the coffee on the table and, from the scent, a piece of pecan pie. “Thank you.”
She smiled. “I don’t want you to run away before Penrith’s meeting ends.”
That made sense, and she was bribing him with food, which he wouldn’t refuse because, like all shifters, he burned a lot of calories.
She considered him for a moment longer as though about to say something. But she turned away, weaving between the tables and back to the counter.
He’d taken that ease for granted. Once, he’d done it in heels and costume, while singing, and thought nothing of it.
His fingers curled into a fist, and his nails dug into his palm. If he let the anger rule him, the hunters still held him prisoner. He counted to ten and then uncurled his fingers. With a shaky hand, he picked up the fork and took a bite of pie.