The banging resumed, louder this time, followed by a familiar, irritated voice. “Luca! I know you’re in there. Open up before I decide this door is optional.”
Sylas. That’s all I needed right now. A pissed-off kitsune or, worse, my boss in a rage. I stumbled to my feet and grabbed a pair of sweatpants from the floor. The world tilted slightly, my head swimming with the phantom sensation of waves.
I yanked open the door to find the kitsune leaning against the doorframe, looking profoundly bored, but thankfully alone.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he demanded. His gaze scanned me from head to toe. “Boss said vacation, not a trip off the planet.”
What? “Huh?” I left him in the doorway without an invite—did that sort of thing only work on vampires?—and headed to find my phone. It lay on the bedside table. The date and time in large numbers made me more than a little confused. “It’s Tuesday?” The Tuesday after Thanksgiving? How the hell had I lost that much time?
“Ah, yeah, it’s the day after Monday,” Sylas said, sounding annoyed. “You weren’t answering your phone, so I’ve been sent to retrieve you.” The redhead swept into my apartment, assessing my space. “You could have a much nicer place in one of Xavier’s buildings.” His gaze landed on the painting, and narrowed slightly. “We’ve got a werewolf union complaint that has come through and you need to handle the paperwork.”
“Right. Sorry. I’ll, uh… I’ll get dressed.” My mind was reeling. Was Skye real? How had I gotten into the painting and back out again? Could I find a way to bring Skye with me?
“Ten minutes,” Sylas said as he finished his round in the kitchen, pulling out the bags of groceries I’d bought before the storm. Much of it would likely have to be thrown away. “Get ready already,” he said. The look in his eyes was sharp, probing. He knew something. Or suspected.
I headed toward the bathroom, planning as I went. I could still taste the ocean. I could still feel the ghost of Skye’s hand in mine.
It wasn’t a dream. And I had to get back.
The officeacross the Veil hummed with its usual unnatural energy. My leg bounced under my desk, a frantic rhythm against the polished floor. I’d powered through the werewolf union paperwork in under an hour, a new record. My inbox of emails had taken me until lunch. Who knew a holiday weekend could bring out the neediest in supernatural creatures?
“Xavier,” I approached his desk where he was scrutinizing something that looked suspiciously like a sentient, squirming contract. Thankfully he hadn’t asked me to review it or categorize it yet, as the thing oozed some sort of green goo.
He didn’t look up. “The complaint is handled?”
“Yes. I sorted it. I didn’t know werewolves over here are more wolf than human?”
“Den rights are important to werewolves. Human variances don’t really compare,” Xavier said, poking the contract.
I took a steadying breath. “Sir, about the painting you gave me?—”
“I’m glad you took it home with you.” He glanced up, his gaze cutting right through me. “It’s where it’s meant to be. Did you log the other fated mates stories I emailed you?”
“Yes, of course I did. But you said the painting might be cursed?”
“Everything has the potential to be cursed,” Xavier said. “A car, a tree, a house, a ring, a sword, a painting. Make what you will of it.” He swept the squirming contract off the side of the desk and into a drawer, shutting it. The drawer tried to bounce open, but Xavier smacked it shut and braced it with his knee. “Something else you need?”
“Less riddles?” Frustration bubbled in my chest as he waved at me to leave. I turned to where Keanan stood silent and stoic by the elevator. “Keanan, do you know a lot about curses?”
The white-haired kitsune didn’t even blink. “As much and little as many and most.” His expression remained utterly impassive, a marble statue offering no cracks to exploit.
Defeated, I slumped into my desk chair. My gaze fell on the only person left. Sylas leaned against the kitchen counter, devouring a packet of expensive coffee beans straight from the bag. Was he supposed to have caffeine?
“Sylas,” I pleaded, my voice low. “Do you know anything about the painting?”
Sylas’s eyes glinted with mischief. He sauntered over, leaned down close to my ear, and whispered: “It’s art, kitty cat. Try not to overthink it.” He patted my head. “Now, if you’re done being obsessed with décor, the boss wants you to inventory the amulets in storage.”
“They might be multiplying,” Xavier muttered.
“Like rabbits,” Keanan agreed.
“Amulets are like necklaces, right? How do they multiply?” I wondered out loud and made my way to the elevator. Fine. If they wouldn't give me answers, I’d find my own. Tonight, I was going back in.
8
The amulets had not,in fact, multiplied like rabbits. They had, however, hissed, growled, and, in one disconcerting case, attempted to latch onto my wrist like a supernatural leech. Who knew they could do things like absorb energy, give a person the ability to walk through walls, or even breathe underwater? The last one gave me pause as I sketched a quick image of the amulet beside its log notation.
Why a visual log? Sylas claimed sometimes the amulets movedthemselvesaround as if trying to fool people. The underwater one looked like a shell, and none of them appeared all that similar—other than most of them being necklaces of some sort. Maybe he was just messing with me since he had given me colored gel pens. While it had been an interesting distraction, more so than werewolf den rights, I was desperate to return home and study the cove painting for answers.
