One True Mate: Shifter's Solace (Kindle Worlds Novella)(2)
“Yeah, well for once the meathead is right,” Rory growled.
“Don’t be so sure,” said the Chief, drawing looks of surprise from along the table. He rarely got involved in arguments between the men, intervening only if he thought words would escalate into blows, or a disagreement would get in the way of their duties. “A bearen in Serenity has found a mate, one of the half-angel pledged.”
A prophecy twenty-five years before had foretold the coming of hundreds of women, half human, half angel, who would be True Mates for the shiften, bearing them offspring that would save their race.
There was a murmur of interest from the guys, but Rory snorted. “Yeah, and he buddies up to the wolven cops, works with the KSRT. Do you really think it’s gonna be the same for us? Nah, we’ll never get a look-in. Get used to the idea of making sweet love to your right hands, bearen. It’s the best you’re gonna get.”
A brief, tense silence. Then, “I’ve bunked with you, Rory,” came a voice from down the table. “Good thing you’ve been getting some practice in.”
The laughter eased the tension, and that was good. The squad needed to have each other’s backs. They couldn’t afford to fight amongst themselves or be distracted by uncomfortable realities. You didn’t need a lovelorn bearen watching your six when the building was in flames and the roof was coming down.
Rory found it difficult to shake the conversation, though. He joined in with the banter, but it was half-hearted and automatic. Was it really possible he could find a mate? He didn’t think so. He thought he was going to spend the rest of his days on the job. Then one day there’d be a flashover, or a falling joist, or a tumble through a burning floor, and he’d be killed. And maybe that would be for the best.
Chapter Two
The door scraped open reluctantly, leaving a sweeping arc in the dust on the floorboards. Ms. Renard, the property manager, stepped through in front of Ivy, and sneezed. The place smelled of dust, and old paper, and neglect. Something musty and animal, too. Ivy noticed a pile of old furs behind the cluttered counter, and scrunched her face up in disgust. One of them, from the faded russet color, had belonged to a fox. Poor little thing.
“Well, it’s yours now.” Ms. Renard said, handing over the keys. From the tone of her voice, she might have been disposing of a dead mouse.
And to be fair, the thought didn’t make Ivy want to jump for joy. Actually, it made her want to turn straight around and run screaming down the road.
Instead, she took a deep breath and stepped inside her mother’s shop, closing the door behind her.
“Well,” she said brightly. “I’m sure with some hard work and a lick of paint…” She trailed off.
…it will be an absolute dump, she thought.
Ms. Renard’s expression told her that she agreed. She was a fussy, sharp-faced little woman in a boxy business suit. She had an expensive-looking scarf knotted at her throat.
Suddenly, her pinched expression irritated Ivy. The shop wasn’t much, okay, but it had been important to her mom.
Her mom had called it The Antique Boutique, but it was a junk shop, the shelves piled high and overflowing with unloved toys, mismatched china, costume jewelry, and revoltingly cute ornaments of simpering shepherdesses and rabbits in waistcoats. She knew the living area upstairs was even worse, stacked high with old newspapers that formed the walls of a maze, with little rat-runs between the tiny bathroom, the stairs, the cooker, and the fold-out couch where her mother had slept.
Ivy’s mom had showed signs of being a hoarder since she’d first met her ten years ago, at the age of fifteen, after growing up in the system – sometimes in a succession of short-lived foster situations, but more often thrown in with a bunch of equally spiky and defensive kids in a group home. It seemed like she’d gotten worse over the years, though, and by the time she’d died the shop had been running at a loss for years, too full of old junk for even the keenest bargain-hunters to want to bother rummaging through it.
Now it was up to Ivy to clear the place out, put it on the market, and hope the purchase price would be enough to cover her mom’s debts. It’d probably be a better idea just to put a match to the place and walk away. It’d go up like dry tinder.
She realized Ms. Renard was still looking around the room with a critical eye, pointed nose turned up, her body language practically screaming “Yuck”.
“Yes, thank you, that’s fine,” Ivy said. “I can take it from here. Let me have a business card, please.”
The property manager jumped, then rummaged in her purse. She handed her card over with a distinctly sour expression, then strode towards the door, heels clacking.
Ivy sighed and rolled up her sleeves. She’d start upstairs, where she’d be more likely to find anything of sentimental value that she might want to keep. She doubted she would, though.
She trudged up the stairs, stacked on both sides with pairs of old shoes that “still had some wear in them”, in various sizes. The steps creaked and groaned under her feet. It was the only sound she could hear, since the noise of traffic from outside was muffled by the stacks of paper and the piles of clothes pushed against the walls.
She knew her mom had never been altogether stable – there was a reason she hadn’t been able to raise Ivy, after all. She’d had various diagnoses over the years, none of which had stuck, and she hadn’t been the greatest about taking her medication. Lately Ivy had been wondering if her…eccentricity was something genetic. If her mom’s fragile mental health might have been passed down in her blood. Bluntly, she was starting to wonder if she was losing her shit.