I gripped tighter and let my magic and warmth flow with my baba’s. “I love you so much, Baba.”
“Love you too, baby. I always told you that you were a gift to me. And you still are.” Baba patted my back and pulled away, wiping at his eyes. “Now go get that food to that pale thing before he fades away. I’m going to go read for a while.”
“Mind if I go into the next town over this afternoon?”
“Sure. There’s a list on the fridge, and you know the drill. Whoever is leaving has to grab the list.” He waved me off, and I nodded right as the air fryer beeped.
I pulled the drawer out to dump the contents into a plastic mixing bowl, and when I turned around, he was gone.
Chapter Eight
Whisper
With my trusty pen and paper in hand, I stepped into the sunny playroom and squinted, holding up my hand to block the brightness.
A blurry figure darted across the room with an apologetic murmur and grabbed something that made all the window blinds lower in a concerted display, bathing me in comfortable dimness. I mouthed an apology and blinked over at a bubbly omega with blond hair, pink streaks dyed thr—not dyed. Pink naturally laced in his hair. He grinned at me and clapped his hand. “Whisper? I’ve been so excited!”
I nodded and clicked my pen, ready to communicate, but the omega had a mind of his own and he wanted everyone to know it. I’d never met an omega allowed to talk so much.
“I’m Aster. I hear you’ve met Nula.” He flitted about so freely and happily.
I nodded again as gentle hands guided me to a seat with a click of the tongue. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but a plastic tote jostled down beside me as a familiar scampering little dragon climbed down from a sturdily built little play structure and strutted over. I waved at him as he purred and rubbed against my leg with a little whimper.
“He says he’s sorry for last night. He didn’t mean to give you sneezies.” Aster cooed as he flitted about, plucking at my hair before a towel flopped over my lap. “Off with the shirt, dear.”
I froze and scribbled in the notepad.Why?
“Haircut. Whoever did this to you was a real C-U-Next-Tuesday.” He plucked at my hair and flopped his case open, revealing a collection of scissors. “I have experience. I cut everyone in here’s hair.”
I scribbled again.Even Malcom?
“Malkim, dear. M-A-L-K-I-M.” He pursed his lips as I wrestled free of my shirt and folded it neatly. “And I do his eyebrows. But that was funny.”
They were nice eyebrows. Thinking back, everyone in the place had really nice hair. And my hair really couldn’t get any worse. So, I shrugged.
The towel in my lap flew off as Aster hesitated for a moment. I flinched when his hand neared me, but he didn’t hit or raise his voice. He let his fingertips trail my shoulders, individual fingers touching places familiar to me—my freckles. “How old are you?”
I frowned and thought about it. Couldn’t remember.I don’t know.
I’d never been given an ID card like most of the others. I never went to school. I knew my birthday was in March, but that was about it.
Aster touched the freckles again, fingers trailing. “You’re over twenty, right?”
I thought about the last birthday I celebrated, sweet sixteen. That was when Goober moved me out to the shed… There was a big snowstorm that year. It made the power go out for over a week in some parts of town. We’d been without power almost a month. I scribbled, because it seemed important to Aster.I turned sixteen when that big ice storm happened that knocked the power out all in town.
Aster pulled out his phone and thumbed through it. “When is your birthday?”
I wrote again.March… Dunno what day.
Aster kept studying my shoulders and flung the towel over them. “You turn twenty in March, then. And they said you can’t shift into your bobcat?”
The way he asked the question seemed loaded.I have a talent and I can shift my teeth sometimes, and my claws.
“The fire thing.” Aster patted my shoulder as I nodded. He responded with a noncommittal hum and pulled out a spray bottle, a comb, and his scissors, going to work without another word.
Nula crawled into my lap with a curious little hop and turn before snuggling down. His little claws pricked and pried at me, and I found myself mesmerized by the little one. Enough so that I picked at his little paws, playing with his claw tips—clear and sharp as any cat’s. He seemed to understand, curling them against my hand and pawing at my palm until I reciprocated, showing my own claws with a little curl of my fingers, shifting them. His claws were so similar to mine, almost glassine clear and needlelike. I shifted them back to my short, broken human nails and earned a little sigh of disappointment as the hatchling smacked his paws against mine, as if asking for them back.
“No, sir. Whisper was right to put his claws away. They’re sharp and dangerous.” Aster hummed as he wet my hair and snipped, combing locks one way and another before using his fingers as a guide.
