By the time all ten crates were stacked in the upstairs hallway, my nerves were completely shot. We dumped out all my clothing onto the bed and stacked the paintings into my wardrobe.

  "It looks like you've already got some paintings back here," said Kylie, as she pulled out a large square of canvas wrapped in brown paper and a wooden frame, similar to the way Simon had packaged Ryan's pieces.

  Heart racing, I snatched the canvas from her hands. "That's nothing. Don't worry about those," I said. "Just leave them back there and stack these on top."

  The previous tenants had attached a bolt to the outside of the wardrobe. For what purpose I could only guess. Did they punish a naughty child by locking them away? Were they afraid their shoes were going to walk out in the night and strangle them in their sleep? Regardless of the reasoning, the bolt came in handy tonight.

  "Now I just need something to lock it with," I said, leaning against the door and staring at my tiny room, the walls crammed with artwork and the bed piled high with dresses and jackets and shoes. What a strange day this was turning into.

  "I've got it!" Kylie scampered downstairs, returning a few minutes later with her bicycle lock.

  "Don't you need that so thugs won't steal your bicycle?"

  Kylie shrugged as she fitted the lock on the door. "I am no longer a cyclist. On Monday, I cycled home from Crooks Crossing in the rain, and a bird shat on my shoulder. I'm back to being a gas-guzzling air polluter, just like you. I'm secretly hoping my bike will get stolen so I can claim it on my insurance and buy some new shoes."

  We shoved a heavy chest in front of the closet, for good measure. I sat on my bed amongst my Fluevog boots and vintage rock tees, staring at that wardrobe door; unable to believe I had ten Ryan Raynard paintings just sitting in there. The urge to open them up and look at them was practically unbearable, but I knew that was risking too much to even attempt. My eyes flicked across the room to where my easel was set up with a canvas half finished – a moonscape painted through the trees outside my window. Quickly, I leaned across the bed and flipped it over, so Kylie couldn't see it. She didn't even notice.

  With the exception of my parents, my art teachers at university and the gallery owners I’d failed to impress, I'd never shown anyone else my work; not even Kylie, who was probably the closest friend I'd ever had. I didn't turn to art as much as I had in university, but there were times – usually after a bad breakup, or after Matthew had dressed me down in front of everyone at the office – where I would sit at the easel for hours, slashing at the canvas with pen and brush as though it were a carcass to be butchered. I had boxes of sketchbooks and journals under the bed, as well as those finished canvases packaged up in the wardrobe, hidden away from the cruel eyes of the world.

  Years working in gallery management had now fully shattered my dreams of being a working artist. I wasn't in anywhere near the same league as those guys. They were big thinkers, dreamers, and escapists operating outside the normal plane of existence, usually with family money or major investors behind them. I was a realist, with rent and car payments and a Fluevog habit. I needed the nine-to-five.

  Ryan Raynard painted because painting was how he became who he was. When I painted, I did it to become, for a few hours, someone other than myself.

  Disappointment surged through me. If only Ryan hadn’t been such an arsehole. I would have loved to just sit with him and talk, even for ten minutes. I had so many questions about his work, so much I wanted to say about how he’d inspired me. This is exactly why they say you should never meet your idols. Tears itched my eyes, but I forced them back. So he’d shattered my illusions. Whatever. It wasn’t as if that was the first time that had ever happened to me.

  Kylie saw the expression on my face. "You need wine," she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me downstairs.

  I slumped down onto our couch, my fingers tugging at the loose stitching holding the overstuffed cushions together. I could call the couch 'vintage', but that would be overly generous. It was simply old; pilfered from the side of the road where a resident on Roundoak Drive had been clearing out their junk, it now hosted a collection of mysterious stains left over from wine and cheese evenings that had gone on until the early hours, and tufts of stuffing falling out where Miss Havisham used it as a scratching post.

  In our tiny kitchen, Kylie pulled a bottle of white wine from the fridge and poured two glasses. She set mine down in front of me, and next to it, placed a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream, with two large spoons. My stomach growled. I'd spent so long collecting the paintings I hadn't eaten any dinner. I pulled off the top off the tub and scooped a large spoonful into my mouth.

  "So." Kylie slumped down in the chair opposite and dug in with her own spoon. Miss Havisham jumped up on her lap and gave her wine glass an experimental bat. "Talk. What happened today? Why am I helping you stash priceless paintings in your wardrobe? Did you finally get tired of working for that asshole Matthew Callahan and decide to heist the place?"

  In between scoops of ice cream, I filled her in on Matthew's outburst, my visit to Raynard Hall, and my meeting with the infamous Ryan Raynard. Kylie's eyes widened when I told her about Ryan's reaction to my presence.

  "That's so strange," Kylie mumbled, her mouth full of ice cream. "It's almost as if he was afraid to be in the same room as you."

  I shrugged. "I don't want to waste any of my energy trying to puzzle out why he acted like he did. As far as I'm concerned, the guy is a misogynist prick, and that's the end of it."

  "No one else has been inside that house, Alex, not for ten years. But you got in. Maybe Mr. Ryan Raynard isn't as opposed to your presence as you think."

  Against my better judgement, I wished that were true. The memory of Ryan walking in the room, broad shoulders held high and clothing dishevelled from the studio flashed before my eyes. My body pulsed with energy at the thought of what that body might feel like pressed up against mine. A shudder of delight ran through my body, the way it had done when he’d first entered the room. I’d never felt anything like it before.

  Of course you’re lusting after him. This guy is one of your idols, and you’ve just found out he’s completely smoking hot. The idea that he might find you special is always going to appeal. You’re acting like a rockstar groupie. Now, cut it out.

  I could feel my cheeks growing hot. "Don't make me choke on my own scorn, Kylie. He only let me in because my first name is James and he thought he was talking to a man, the only gender capable of understanding his artistic vision."

  Kylie wrinkled her nose. "Oh, right. That. Never mind how you got in, Alex. Ryan is a celebrity, and a mysterious and sexy one, at that. You could sell your story to a trashy tabloid for a million pounds, and you'd never have to work again. That would get him back for treating you badly."

  She had a point, but I shook my head. "They'd want to make out that I slept with him or something. And there's no way I want that following me around."

  "If he's anything like as hot as you describe, it wouldn't be a bad thing." Kylie licked her lips.

  No, it most certainly would not.

  Shut up. I couldn’t believe the things my brain was thinking today. Who are you, anyway, some horny university student?

  "Kylie!" I blushed as she smirked, then shrugged. "He hates women." I said furiously, the flush in my face growing hotter. "All the tabloid money in the world wouldn't get me to even pretend-sleep with an arrogant prick like Ryan Raynard. Now, can we drop it?" I held out my glass for another refill. "How was your day?"

  "Strange," she said. Kylie was a nurse at Crooks Crossing General Hospital, in the next town over. Her work stories were often filled with vivid characters and tough, tenacious doctors I always imagined looking like George Clooney. "We have another girl in the ICU after being bitten by a fox. They think she's going to be okay, but the police were there most of the day, grilling her and her hiking partner for information. They've got some hair-brained plan to trap this fox before it gets anyone else. If it's as out-of-control as they think it is, it could kill someone."

  "Oh, yeah? Good on them. I heard about the hiker on the radio. Is it true that the fox is rabid?"

  "It doesn’t seem to be rabies, but there’s definitely something unusual about the bites. The patients are exhibiting strange reactions, but they’re trying to keep that out of the press. What you wouldn't have heard about is the man I've got under observation with three cracked ribs and some nasty bruising around his chest. He claims he was rammed by a deer. But deer don't do that." Kylie wrinkled up her nose again. "It's all very strange."

  "Indeed." We’d both had strange days. At least we had wine – the one guaranteed cure for any of life’s disappointments. I finished my glass and reached across the table for the bottle. "Another?"

  5

  Ryan

  The agitation from Alexandra Kline’s visit still coursed through my veins. I’d given up painting hours before. The image just wasn’t flowing the way I wanted it to. It didn’t help that Alexandra’s gorgeous face kept floating in front of my eyes. If I wasn’t careful, I’d end up painting her into the piece, and I knew from experience how well that turned out.

  Only one thing would cure me of this itch.

  “I’m going out,” I announced to Simon at dinner. He’d outdone himself, with steak cooked to perfection, buttery garlic potatoes, and steamed beans. I think he was trying to make up for letting Alexandra in the house.

  “Are you sure that’s such a good idea?” Simon asked from his position behind my chair, where he hovered in case I needed my napkin folded or my wine refilled. Simon came from a long line of butlers who’d served my family. He was my father’s butler before me. He liked to observe all the traditions of his post. I used to force him to eat at the table with me, but he’d been so uncomfortable I'd finally just given in and let him do his hovering thing.

  “No, it’s probably not. Regardless, I feel the need to get some air. Don’t worry.” I held my glass up, and he stepped forward to fill it. “I’ll be careful.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  As soon as I’d cleared my plate, I stepped out the backdoor. Simon had already scanned the area with the high-tech surveillance equipment in his office, and declared no reporters were lurking in the trees. I was safe, for now.

  I stood on the cobbles, looking out over the overgrown garden – the wide avenues of yew, the mazes of pathways and flowerbeds stretching down the slope of the hill, finishing right on the edge of the forest – a boundary between the overbearing human world, and the freedom of the wild.

  I raised my chin to the heavens, and forced my shift, calling up the fox within me. He answered instantly. My bones crunched loudly as they cracked and rearranged themselves. I sucked in my breath, willing myself to endure the pain of it as I had done so many times before. I dropped onto my hands and knees, my back arching as my ribcage shifted forward, my vertebrae re-aligned to my new figure. I stared at the cobbles beneath me, watching my fingers transform into paws and dark red fur poke through my skin to cover my arms.

  My face tugged in every direction, as my human features were pulled apart, to be remade again as the fox. My vision swirled, changing into a world of black and white, a world where scents painted the landscape with all kinds of wondrous new sensations.

  I shook out my fur, admiring my bushy tail. Even after all these years, it still took me a few minutes after my shift was complete to get used to working that tail.

  The change completed, I took off through the garden, quickening my pace as I entered the forest. I broke into a run, darting through the trees, relishing the new scents and sounds as they rushed at me. The forest swelled around me, alive with possibility.

  This is exactly what I needed – to be here, in the woods, where I could be truly free. All I had to do was get Alexandra out of my mind, and make it through this exhibition, and everything would be fine.

  Well, not fine, exactly, but better than it was now.

  If only my body would stop calling for her. I could still feel her in my veins, a heat that rushed through my body, quickening my heart. In my fox form, the heat was even worse. Even though I didn’t want a mate, the hands of fate clearly delighted in playing this ridiculous cosmic joke on me.

  If only I could—

  A scent wafted across my nose, causing all thoughts of Alexandra Kline to fly from my mind.

  Marcus.

  He was here. He’d moved into my territory.

  It was beginning.

  I stopped in my tracks, placing my snout to the ground, and working out the trail from the maze of crisscrossed paths. He wasn’t alone; there was another shifter with him – a bran, I figured, judging by the heady bird scent.

  A faint tingle of fear rushed along my spine, making my tail flap against the ground. If Isengrim was making his first forays into my territory, it meant I didn’t have much time left. But why send only Marcus? At best, we were evenly matched. What was going on?

  Alexandra. She’s what’s going on.

  I followed the trail through the trees for half a mile, my agitation growing with every step. It was him all right, and he was heading toward the village, which couldn’t be a good thing. Marcus showing up here the very day I encounter my mate couldn’t be a coincidence.

  I didn’t want to see Alexandra Kline again. If I got within a few feet of her, all my shifter senses would take over, and I’d be helpless to resist. But clearly, the universe had other plans. I wouldn’t let an innocent woman get caught up in this battle, especially not the woman who was supposed to be mine.

  I lowered my head again, and bounded back toward Crookshollow. I’ll find you yet, you bastard. You stay away from her.

  6

  Alex

  After Kylie and I polished off both the tub of ice cream and the bottle of wine, I brushed my teeth, changed into an oversized t-shirt featuring the logo of my art-school boyfriend's black metal band, and crawled into bed. Miss Havisham curled up beside my feet, and soon she was snoring peacefully.

  I, however, couldn't sleep. My thoughts kept drifting to Ryan Raynard’s piercing eyes, and those paintings locked in the wardrobe. I was an idiot. I should have called Matthew and taken them into the museum. It was crazy of me to store them here, even for one night. Those paintings were worth millions. What if Kylie decided she needed a midnight snack and accidentally burned the house down? What if mice ate through the wooden boxes and nibbled on the edges? What if the roof leaked during the night and soaked them through? If those paintings suffered so much as a scuff, both Matthew and Ryan Raynard would have my head, and that was not a fun prospect. I was rather attached to my head.

  I'd arranged my room so the bed was pushed up against the back wall, directly underneath the window, with my easel and overflowing washing basket at the foot. I leaned over and pushed the window open, listening to the wind as it whistled through the trees, shaking the leaves and rubbing the bent oak branches up against the side of the flat. An owl hooted. I sucked in a deep breath of that fresh air. The forest always calmed me. Everything is going to be fine. You'll take the paintings into work tomorrow, Matthew will be pleased, and Tara will have to wipe that smirk off her face—

  Outside the window, a twig snapped.

  My heart pounded. It's just a fox, or a deer. Don't worry about it.

  Without thinking, my gaze fell on the locked wardrobe door, my thoughts flying to the priceless paintings hidden inside.

  Another snap. I pulled back from the window, my heart pounding. Was it burglars? The exhibition was making headlines all over the world. It would be easy for someone to find my name in one of the articles and follow me when I left Halt. They would've seen me enter Raynard Hall and come out with the paintings. Given Ryan's reputation, these paintings would fetch a tidy sum on the black market. There could be any number of unscrupulous characters ready to take advantage of any weakness in our security. Why did I not think of this? Why didn't I call Matthew, like I should have?

  Stupid. You're so stupid, Alex. You always make snap decisions, and they’re always, always the wrong ones.

  I forced my panic back down into my gut. I lay down on my stomach and used my elbows to pull my body closer to the window. I rested my head on the sill and leaned out, my eyes struggling to see in the dim moonlight.

  Below me, in the garden, more twigs snapped. I heard a whispered voice. Fuck, fuck, fuck! It wasn’t just my imagination. Someone was out there.

  Leaves crunched, and the branches beneath the window swayed as a black shadow darted across the garden. Someone was climbing up the oak tree against the back of the flat, the tree that led straight to my bedroom window. It looked like an animal the way it moved, but I knew no animal that large would come this close to the house, let alone try to climb the oak tree under my window.

  My heart pounded against my chest. I rolled away from the window, accidentally kicking Miss Havisham awake. She meowed in protest, lifted her head, sniffed the air, and raced off into the dark house. Cats are much smarter than humans.

  Outside the window, a crow squawked … a carrion bird signalling my doom.

  Panic rose in my chest, threatening to freeze me in place. Focus, Alex. I needed a weapon. I cast my gaze around the room. Unless I could clobber the intruder to death with one of my fluevogs, I had nothing. There were knives in the kitchen, but could I get there in time? I doubted it.

  I know! Kylie's boyfriend Ray was a medieval re-enactor, and he kept all his gear at our place since he didn't have room in his mum's basement, which was where he lived (yes, Ray was a real winner). I was forever tripping over his enormous broadsword on the way to the bathroom.

  His broadsword. Perfect.

  As silently as I could, I pulled myself out of the bed and crawled along the floor toward the door, thinking that they might not be able to see me through the window if I stayed low. As I did most nights, I’d kept my bedroom door open a crack so Miss Havisham could come and go from my bed to her bowl in the kitchen. Now I pulled back the door open wide enough so I could crawl through. It let out a mighty creak, the sound like a gunshot in my ears. I held my breath. Please don't let the intruder hear that.

 

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