Fractured Flight (The Caged Bird #1)

Chapter 1

LARK

This is a bad decision, isn’t it? I wonder as I gaze up at the plain white facade of the dealership. The squat one-story building is bathed in fading sunlight, glowing an eerie purple.

Absolutely. It’s one of the stupidest choices you’ve made, which is impressive, considering your track record.

I clench my jaw and shove her voice out of my mind.

She’s not here. She doesn’t get to control my life anymore. Coming here tonight was a rare impulse decision. I’ve been waffling over getting my own motorcycle for a month now, still not feeling confident I have the necessary skills.

Nervously smoothing my hand over my black leather jacket and my matching jeans, I try to fortify myself to walk inside.

It’s just a motorcycle dealership, not the gates to Hell.

The worst that could happen is that the salespeople are assholes, and I walk out without buying a bike.

There are countless dealerships in Willow Bend if this doesn’t work out.

Willow Bend is a midsize town close to the Atlantic.

Like other southern cities, Willow Bend is chock-full of historic architecture and quaint streets lined with towering oaks and flowering shrubs.

Other than the river cutting through the edge of the city, Willow Bend is average, which is a plus in my book.

Thanks to the perpetual heat and humidity here, I’m already sweating under my leather jacket. Standing out here like an idiot isn’t solving anything.

Blowing out a harsh breath and squaring my shoulders, I decide to just get it over with.

The ten feet I walk across the cracked pavement to the dealership feel like an eternity. By the time I reach the door, I have to readjust my grip on my helmet chin strap because my hands are clammy from nerves.

Pulling the door open, I’m smacked in the face with a blast of cold air. A bell tinkles over the door as I walk inside.

My gaze takes in the shiny white tiles, jarring fluorescent lights, and brightly colored motorcycles packed into every possible inch before landing on the two desks to the right of the door.

Behind the plain beige desks are two men who stare at me like I’m prey. One man is lanky with shoulder-length, greasy brown hair and matching brown eyes. The other man is short, balding, and has a rounded gut.

From their predatory smiles and beady eyes, I’d guess they were shifters. But I can tell from their scent that they’re just regular humans. Sleazy humans, but regular and magicless, nonetheless.

Unbeknownst to the humans that dominate the planet, supernaturals exist. We supernaturals are actually the originals.

Every living organism used to be able to draw raw magic from the Earth’s core and shape it in some way.

Mages shape magic into spells, fae create illusions and bargains with magic, shifters like me change forms with the help of magic, and so on for the other supernatural species.

Humans far outnumber supernaturals and would freak out if they ever learned about magic. So magic users tend to keep to themselves and live in supernatural towns.

The distinct lack of supernaturals is part of why I moved to Willow Bend. It’s refreshingly devoid of any large packs, unlike Oakridge Park, where I spent the first twenty-four years of my life.

Thoughts of my old life and everything I lost try to creep in, but I push them back into the dark pit in my mind where they belong.

Biting the inside of my cheek to anchor me to the present, I shake my head slightly and focus on the two men staring at me. I smile brightly to distract from the sorrow that’s constantly swimming in my deep green eyes these days.

“Hi. I’m here to buy a bike.” I cringe internally at stating the obvious. Why else would I be at the dealership? To buy a llama or take an underwater basket-weaving class?

Fortunately, the man with the longer hair doesn’t give me time to overthink it too much. He wanders over to me, stopping uncomfortably close. According to the dingy tag fastened to the pocket of his blue-and-white checked shirt, his name is Dave.

He roves his muddy brown eyes up and down my frame before looking behind me. Flicking his eyes back to my face, he flashes me a slimy smile. “Don’t you think we should wait for your boyfriend, sweet cheeks? It is his bike and his money, after all.”

My jaw drops at his audacity.

I’m not here to help someone else find a street bike. I’m here for me—to do something I actually want for a change.

And after what happened with the last one, I’ve sworn off men. Probably forever.

Rather than call him out on his comment or put him in his place, I do what I always do: Ignore it for the sake of preserving a peace I don’t even want.

Grinding my teeth until my jaw aches, I’m able to stuff down the frustration and paste a placid smile on my face. “I don’t have a boyfriend. I’m buying a bike for me.”

With my own money I made from my own business I started by myself, you half-functional coatrack.

Sometimes I hate how well I’m able to pretend I don’t hate someone. Because I hate Dave. A lot.

The salesman stares at me for a moment before bursting out laughing.

At me.

It takes him a solid sixty seconds to get his mocking laughter under control.

He wipes a few tears from his eyes before condescendingly grinning at me.

“Are you sure a tiny thing like you can control a motorcycle? These aren’t toys.

They’re powerful machines that only a real man can handle.

Why don’t you start with a scooter or, even better, a bicycle?

We wouldn’t want a sweet little thing like you to get hurt. ”

What a fucking cupcake.

First, I’m not short. I’m five-seven, which is above average in height, thank you very much.

Second, I can guarantee I’m stronger than him and the guy behind him put together. Being a shifter means I’m inherently super strong, at least compared to a normal human.

I can control a motorcycle just fine, you sexist jerk.

Of course, I don’t say any of that. I dig my nails into the palm of my free hand, hard enough to draw blood. Every muscle in my body is pulled taut as I’m in an internal tug-of-war between wanting to put Dave in his place and the fear of causing a scene.

I was raised to preserve the status quo, avoid rocking the boat, and make everyone else happy at all costs.

For the millionth time, I wish I were more like Wren. Before everything happened, she was a free spirit who didn’t care what anyone thought. She’d give as good as she got, unwilling to take shit from anyone.

But I’m not. So I just stuff down everything I feel and pretend to be unbothered.

In a tiny act of rebellion, I narrow my eyes at the salesman, who is lucky I didn’t bring my best friend, Charlie, with me. Dave would have a very short life expectancy if she were here. “I’m just going to look around,” I manage to choke out.

Spinning on my heel, I beeline straight for a pretty green bike. I know the two assholes who work here probably won’t sell me a motorcycle. But I don’t want to admit defeat yet. I’m determined to see this through.

Maybe looking at the bikes will give me a chance to think of some way to salvage the situation.

Right after I throw my leg over the bright lime bike to test how it feels underneath me, the door chimes as it opens again. Glancing up to see who it is, my eyes widen at the three colossal men who stride confidently into the dealership.

All of them are wearing perfectly tailored black suits that hug their muscular frames and polished black boots.

The tallest one in front has on a bloodred shirt and black tie.

His onyx hair is swept back off his forehead, highlighting his otherworldly golden eyes.

The man’s angular face is cold and utterly devoid of any emotion.

Tattoos peek out above his shirt collar and wind down his large hands, the only hint of his personality he displays.

The man to his right is an inch or two shorter.

His unruly brown hair curls around his ears, and his light green eyes dance with mirth at a joke no one else knows.

His white shirt is carelessly unbuttoned at the top, giving a tantalizing glimpse of the tattoos that trail down his neck to his muscular chest. He has one hand shoved irreverently in his pocket.

The third man, who’s roughly the same height as the brunet man, paired his suit with a black shirt and black tie.

His golden blond hair and tanned skin are in contrast to his dark outfit.

Sharp gray eyes, full lips pressed into a harsh line, rigid posture, and more muscle than anyone I’ve met give him an imposing air.

The black and gray tattoos on his hands and just above his shirt collar also complement his intimidating vibe.

Seeming not to notice me, the men make a beeline for the salesmen. They come to a stop, facing Dave’s desk, so I can only see their side profiles.

Dave gets up from his chair and nervously wrings his hands. “I’ll have your money by the end of the week, I promise.”

His eyes dart around, probably looking for an escape. I don’t know what the heavily tattooed men are, because they have a confusing lack of scents. But I do know they’re not human, so Dave doesn’t stand a chance of outrunning them.

The brunet tsks. “You see, Davey-boy, that won’t work for us. We’ve already been more than generous by giving you an extra two weeks. I’d hate for this to get messy, but you’re not giving me much choice.”

He flashes a now profusely sweating Dave a malicious grin. The man moves his left hand to rest on his hip, giving the salesmen a glimpse of a shiny metal gun in a shoulder holster.

I gasp softly when I notice the silencer attached to the barrel.

Well, that’s not good.

I don’t know who these guys are, but, generally, law-abiding citizens don’t carry guns with silencers on them. I need to leave before I get my ass killed in whatever the hell is happening here.

Chancing a glance up at the men, I startle when I see the three of them staring directly at me.

Oh shit.

I’m in trouble now.