Chapter 23 The Bird Prepares An Entrance
The Bird Prepares An Entrance
TAURUS
My primary is in the next room on the phone.
She’s irritated, which is why she walked away with her cell rather than take it in here.
I guess she didn’t trust me not to insert my worthy opinion into whatever nonsense she’s discussing.
Standing in the master bedroom at our first home—not the one we share with our mates now, but our original homestead—I hear her as if she is right in front of me.
She’s as close as being in my skin, and that’s more noteworthy than not, but it’s always been that way.
To say we’re bonded would be a cliché, that’s for sure.
No need to surmise what she’s irritated about.
I know very well which phone number called, and the only person who calls from that number is gnawing on some offense I’ve committed.
It’s the only reason he ever calls, I swear.
Okay, that’s not true, but it’s the only reason that he calls that leaves my woman’s patience in tatters.
Not that her threshold is high on any day, but as that’s one of the many reasons I love her, I’m good with that.
Or I would be, except that after these calls, it’s me she’s irritated with.
I sigh, wondering if I’m going to be dodging a rain of steel before we leave.
Damn Mikhail.
That sod has radar for when I’ve been coloring outside of the lines.
Twisting the sapphire stud in my ear, I stare down at the clothing on the bed while I try to buffer some sharp, pointy waves of emotion coming from her.
There’ll be time for her to hit me with the big stuff later if I’m in for it.
I’ve got enough on my plate trying to focus on preparing for this little soiree without worrying about Mikhail’s hissy fit.
For the moment, I’m standing there trying to figure out how in the bloody hell I got myself into this mess.
I don’t mean the rule-breaking mess, as I never need to buy a clue to how to get into that; I seek it out.
What I’m wondering is how I’m supposed to get myself into the mess of not-really clothing on the bed.
One might ask…what could be so bad about a pile of clothes for this ill-timed disaster of a party?
I’ve been off the scene for a good long while.
I’m a careless reprobate that doesn’t give two bits for much beyond me and mine, so I’ve kept away from things like this.
However, the changes to my world that landed me where I am now are why I’m even considering this mess, including the pile on the bed.
The pile is what I will wear to the first party my mate and I have attended in ages.
I don’t do parties—at least, not if they aren’t in my honor.
My family’s been off the radar for so long that we stopped getting invites—a consequence that was fine with us.
It meant everyone left us alone until the phone call that changed it all dropped in my lap.
Everyone knows the public version of that story by now. So here we are, going to a party. That’s not enough, though. We’re going to a sodding fetish party.
Who the hell would have thought?
My golden goddess is already dressed, having planned her outfit around her ‘protection’ duties ages ago.
She’s been champing at the bit to get to him, and it makes me smirk to think about it.
They might have recently made it official, but they’re amusing as hell.
I’ve seen the get-up she’s sporting, and I almost had a bloody coronary.
I’m used to the world-apartness air about her.
When the masses get a look, I’m sure it’s going to be high on the blood and mayhem.
I find myself interested to see what Sampson’s got to say about the first dumb git to try her in front of him.
Anyway, we’re heading off to the minx’s place as soon as Talia’s off the phone, so I have to figure out how in the hell to get into this outfit that Damien dropped off.
The prat was so self-satisfied; I should have known that something was up.
He’s been doing a lot of rare and interesting work with rings and tattoos; it’s making him the happiest muse I know.
It helps that he’s the only muse I know, but he’s been like a surfer dude on candy-coated crack.
He dropped off this pile of something, slapped me on the back, and told me to ‘have a fucking mental time with the bisque and magenta mates’.
Whatever the hell that means.
I rolled my eyes at him. He and Theodora got invited, and I don’t understand why they haven’t said whether they’re coming or not. I figured it was better not to touch that one, as I don’t know if my ‘outfit’ will go with black and blue. He’s Damien—enough said.
Stooping, I poke a finger at the pile. I tilt my head and pick up the only things that are recognizable: a pair of boots.
Christ, they’re impressive.
They have thick soles with a hard leather body and polished steel plates on the toe and heel. A long line of steel buckles that looks like it holds the boots together goes from top to bottom. They’re biker boots that scream death and pain. I like them.
As for the rest of the mess, it looks like shiny black fabric that I can’t fathom the origin of—it shines like wet paint. It’s a pair of pants, I think. That is, if you’re very generous with the definition of pants. It’s not my usual attire, but I’m made of stern stuff.
Feeling brave, I slide my right leg into the opening to pull it up one leg at a time.
As soon as I do, I notice that the left side is not the wet paint shit.
Half of them are clear windows that look sort of like plastic.
Hell, I have no idea what the fuck Damien’s doing here.
Couture and bespoke outfits—that I know.
This shit is out of my wheelhouse, and I wish the minx were here.
She’d know what to do; she always knows what to do.
I fiddle with my ring, feeling the pinch of her absence. When I look up, I see my reflection.
Holy shit!
Thanks to the patterned Picasso, wet paint is a misnomer. The material shrunk to fit my skin as if Sampson had painted it on by hand. It glistens, and the clear window makes that side of my body look naked. I touch it, and I’ll be damned if it’s not like there’s nothing at all covering my skin.
Muses. Christ.
I twist and flex a little, watching my muscles play.
It takes a sec, but I realize the other piece of his artwork I’m sporting—the ill-tempered peacock tattoo—is displayed perfectly by the pants.
The side that’s open shows most of his tail feathers.
I chuckle when I realize it seems to avoid covering any of the bird up.
She’ll like that, and it makes me grin. I trace my finger down the neck of the tiny git, and he aims to take a bite, which makes me growl.
He’s very reactionary, and when she’s not around, he’s downright persnickety.
Idgit—as she crowned him—only likes his feathers stroked by the cat.
He’s in an uproar now because she’s not here.
The gap where the feather she wears should be is the only place he’s not ruffled.
I stroke the ring on my left hand and admire my look in the mirror again.
It’s not bad. Bending over to put on the boots, I feel the pants stretch and tighten and, holy fuck.
Between that sensation and the furry, I’m going to be lucky not to lose it before I even touch my wife.
Even if there’s no blood drawn, it’s going to be a rocking party.
I tug on the boots and buckle them, not wanting to draw that out right now.
Lifting my head, I feel Talia hang up in the other room. Hell, she’s on her way. Wait, no bathroom first, hair check. Good thing mine’s already finished.
Theodora did it all, spiky and punk with dipped black tips.
My wife hasn’t seen it yet, but I think she’s going to love it.
My hair’s gotten longer—not like Sampson—but longer than I’m used to wearing it.
It looks good, though, and the wife has this penchant for running her fingers through it before tugging me to her neck.
That works fine for me.
Studying the last item on the bed, I hope to figure it out before my primary gets here. I have no bloody clue what it is, but it looks like a shoulder pad?
It’s flat, boomerang-shaped, and covered with fur. I’m having a ‘what the fuck’ moment, but that shouldn’t surprise me given the melted crayon made for this.
Damn the torpedoes and all that, I’m going to give it a go.
I slide it onto my left shoulder, adjust a little, then wonder how in the hell it’s going to stay on with no harness or straps. This does not look like a tame tea party that I’m going to, and I can’t say that it’ll stay put. I situate it again, puzzling over the lack of direction for me to take—
Ouch! Bloody hell, ouch, that stings.
I try to yank the thing off my shoulder as I look in the mirror.
One by one, sharp, curved claws extend from both sides and sink into my shoulder.
It’s painful as hell as they get a grip on my shoulder and pectoral on either side.
It’s nowhere near as sharp and razor-fine as the wife’s claws, so I felt every centimeter latching on.
I pull on it, noticing it seems to dig in deeper and hold on.
Buggering shit, it’s a paw that’s embedding itself into my chest and back, I growl.
Thin trails of blood trickle from each pointed tip, stopping a few inches below the claws. I’m not bleeding badly, and though the application stung like a bitch, I’ve got to admit that for a cat man like me, it doesn’t feel so unpleasant right now. The bulge in my paint pants says it all.
Crafty nit, that monster.
“You killed a convent, mass murdered a group of teens, and wreaked havoc in New York City.” Her words, spoken in a sardonic, irritated tone, came from the doorway.
She’s not disbelieving, only matter of fact.
I’d forgotten all about my golden goddess during the shoulder pad incident, so I’m not prepared.