There are various species congregating in groups of twos and threes along the street and lurking in the shadowy corners, indicating the clans and packs my father has called here tonight: wolf shifters, bear shifters, vampires, demons, and dark witches, but surprisingly, nobody that could be a gargoyle yet.
Unless…
My eye is drawn upward to the top of the four-story building on the opposite side of the street. Two stone monoliths rest at each corner of that building’s flat roof.
Stone gargoyles. They’re resting in crouched positions, their wings spread and clawed hands gripping the ledge.
Well, hello there.
I pause for a moment in case any of them make a move, and when they don’t, I proceed to the front door, making sure to stand clear of the humans I pass along the way.
The last time I came here, the keeper transported me. This time, I followed the mental map Mom gave me. I stuck to the shadows as much as I could to rest my eyes from the brightening streetlights as the night deepened around me. The lights reflect off so many surfaces: vehicles, buildings, windows—even the pavement.
When I first came out in public, I was worried about wearing a blindfold that might attract attention, but it turns out that humans are far less concerned with an odd-looking passerby than they are with the conversations they’re having with metal boxes held to their ears—cell phones? I think that’s what they’re called—or rushing to wherever it is they’re going.
The wash of noise around me isn’t welcome, but I’m managing to tolerate it, along with all the smells.
The tavern appears completely calm inside. Patrons sit at neat tables and at the bar, and there’s a quiet hum of conversation.
There’s a sign on the door announcing that the tavern is closed for a private function.
All of the patrons are human. But I also make out the lumps and bumps in their jackets and bodices that speak to a multitude of concealed weapons.
I’m nearly certain that they will be from different families. Just because their leaders all follow the Ultima Nostra doesn’t mean they’re allied with each other.
The seemingly calm situation inside the front room could be an explosion waiting to happen—a suspicion on my part that’s proven when I push the door open and conversations die, causing nearly every human in the room to reach for a concealed weapon.
Half are pointed at each other. The other half at me.
I consider the barrel of the pistol resting on the counter just inside the door.
The human whose hand rests on it stares hard at me, his focus on my blindfold. He’s a different man from the one I encountered the first time I was here. That time, the keeper had used his compulsion power to ensure we made it to the green door on the far side of the room without being stopped.
Now, I’ll have to rely on my words.
“I think you know who I am,” I say before the man can voice whatever threat is no doubt on his tongue. “I also believe you must have some idea of the carnage I could cause if opposed.”
I’ve never tested my body against bullets, but I do trust my rapid healing power.
And, while I’m not certain that the humans in this room are entirely informed about the supernatural nature of the Ultima Nostra, I’m not against revealing my wings and finding out if their metallic nature will make them strong enough to shield me from projectiles.
“It is my preference to pass quietly through this room and into the next one,” I say, projecting my voice so that there’s no doubt the humans in the back can hear me.
“You are free to ignore me and continue about your…” I glance at the tables. Not a single meal. Most glasses are still full. It seems they’re taking their duties seriously. “Business,” I finish.
The man behind the counter twitches, but I suspect it’s more of a nervous twitch now than anything else. His heart is hammering, and the sweat on his brow is glistening.
It makes me wonder if my father deliberately put a more fearful person in this spot, since a gunfight out here would certainly make things more difficult for me. It would be easier to capture me in the ensuing chaos. And I’d be forced to use up more energy in the meantime.
The man behind the counter isn’t a coward. Far from it. He simply wants to live.
Before he can do something about his fear, I glide my hand across the weapon and slice neatly through it with my claws. I ensure I only extend them enough that even close up, it looks like I parted the weapon simply by touching it.
Sliced-up bullets roll across the counter andclinkagainst the raised edges of the countertop.
I’m a little concerned the sound will trigger the other humans, but they don’t react. Even if the tension in the room rises higher.
“There,” I say softly. “Much better.”
