I flew home.
The nasty taste of Austin’s blood in my mouth kept me company, as did the fear, the worry, that I’d caused Lindsey to lose her life. I believed him when he said his man would make her suffer. Austin wasn’t just part reptile; his blood was as cold as the Arctic ice.
I shifted to my two-legged form in a darkened park a few blocks from mine and Lindsey’s houses. Certain none saw me alight on the grass, my broad wings covering the park from end to end, I dropped to my four legs and furled my wings.
The walk home in the mild night didn’t calm my ragged nerves by much. I passed lit houses, their occupants watching TV, reading stories to their kids. The scent of woodsmoke and the flickering light of a fire spoke of a backyard firepit. Voices lifted in laughter and camaraderie that I’d never share in.
I was different.
I wasn’t human.
Lindsey’s front door was shut but unlocked. Inside her house, I saw few signs of a struggle. Her work computer was on, but asleep from inactivity. She hadn’t cooked a dinner if I was any guess. Her cell sat on her desk. I checked the last call – an area code I didn’t recognize.
Pacing around her house, stepping around boxes, I fretted. I worried. Scared, I pictured what might be happening to her at that moment. Tears burned my eyes as I feared Austin wouldn’t keep his word. That he’d call his pal and order Lindsey raped.
I yanked her computer from its snooze. The internet browser was opened to her last inspection, some shit about teenage pregnancies. My fingers shaking, I typed into the search bar the name of my old high school. From there, I researched my graduating class, viewing yearbook photos.
Scrolling through them, not quite knowing what I looked for, I studied face after face. Linda, the chick I’d lost my virginityto behind the stadium. Pete, my lab partner. He’d long been gone to MIT from what I’d heard. Smart son of a bitch. The faces of the football staff, the coach, the cheerleaders who’d screwed anything with a pulse.
“He’s got to be here,” I muttered, frantic, seeking a face, a name, that might save Lindsey’s life.
Brian, Shelly, Larry, Mike, Heather, Stacy. None of them fit the image I had in my head. A guy who looked sort of like me but wasn’t me. Whoever had stolen my letterman’s jacket had to be a dude, dark blond hair and a big build.
I didn’t see him.
My mouth dry, I went to Lindsey’s kitchen for wine, something to calm my nerves.I have two days to find him. Lindsey won’t be harmed. I’ll find him, turn him over to Austin. We’ll be safe from then on.
Returning to her computer, I scanned all the faces of my past classmates. Some were blond, sure. Those that were didn’t have my build, my profile. Dudes that matched me in size weren’t blond. I nearly screamed in my frustration. I couldn’t see any of them breaking into my locker and stealing my jacket.
Leaning back in her chair, I thought back to my lost letterman’s jacket. I shut my eyes to remember better.
I walked down the crowded hall after my chemistry final. I felt good that I passed with a better than ninety percent. If I did, I’d graduate with honors. My folks would be so pleased if I did. I thought of the colleges and universities who’d extend scholarships like candy.
My locker stood wide open. I swore under my breath, glancing around for the guilty party. Only my fellow students, happy the year was over, and spring had arrived, passed by without stopping. Inside, I discovered my prized jacket and a few books were gone. Who’d take my jacket with my footballnumber on it? Who’d want my books on English literature, biology, and chemistry?
“Prick,” I’d muttered, and slammed my locker closed. “I’ll find you.”
I never did.
Over that summer as I applied for scholarships and universities, I’d forgotten about the theft. Football and high school were so over with. I had a brilliant future ahead of me. I’d get a master’s degree in chemical engineering, make big waves in the science industry, marry my sweetheart, and raise rug rats.
Except it didn’t quite happen the way I’d anticipated.
A sharp noise like a door closing roused me from my memories. Something, or someone, had just entered Lindsey’s house. Alert, on edge, I sought for a weapon, any weapon, at Lindsey’s desk. I found nothing more lethal than a letter opener. Still, it was something. I grabbed it and tucked it against my wrist.
The person paced into the kitchen, a shadow against the lights from outside. I saw him illuminated against the streetlamps, a black silhouette in the dark kitchen. Gripping the letter opener, wishing for a better weapon, I wondered where Lindsey kept her Glock.
Creeping to the doorway, I peered around the edge. The dude wasn’t big, that’s for damn sure. Maybe Austin hired pussy wimps who couldn’t fight their way from a wet paper bag. He didn’t turn as I sneaked up behind him, lifting the only weapon I had.
The tiles creaked under my boot.
The dude turned, spinning.
“Fucker,” I snarled, bringing the opener down in a vicious cutting arc.
Chapter Eleven
Lindsey
