Page 33 of Shifter’s Thunder

Chapter 16

Avelunne swished the mop back and forth across the entryway tile. She enjoyed the physical activity, even though it was the third time that afternoon she’d had to sop up water from the Transition Center’s entryway.

Outside, the world was a blinding, brilliant white under a weak sun that offered light but no heat. The refugee children, housebound for days by the storm, had exploded into the courtyard with the stored-up energy of a super-volcano. They were adding onto an impressive fortification of packed snow, currently defended by a mixed pack of young hyena shifters, a stealthy cheetah, and one awkward but brave juvenile prehistoric giraffe whose gangly legs looked like aspen saplings against the drifts. Local wolf-shifter teens were laughing as they mounted an assault.

She watched them through the glass, smiling as a snowball disintegrated against the giraffe’s spotted flank.

She wrung out the mop in the useful rolling bucket, then finished the job. She needed this work. For the last four days, she had thrown herself into any task Tinsel or the Transition Center staff could offer. She had met Tiziri for lunch, delighting in the sand dragon’s quick wit and absorbing modern slang and concepts. Without things to do, her mind kept drifting into uncomfortable territory. Tanner’s cabin was too empty without him.

After emptying the gray water from the bucket, she put it and the mop back in the utility closet, then grabbed a bottle of cleaner and rags. The dining room tables needed wiping. In her former life, she’d done plenty of charwoman work before to pay for room and board. Modern technology hadn’t yet figured out how to turn the sheets, clean bathrooms, or put away dishes. At least the modern world offered better-smelling cleaning solutions than caustic lye. However unglamorous the work, a job brought money, and money afforded choices. As Tanner had reminded her, she could sell her art, but patrons were fickle.

Spray. Wipe. Repeat. The motion was a meditation.

In the breeder demesne pens, boredom was an insidious danger for the captives. It drove some mad, and others into melancholy so profound they died of it. In her pen, they talked. Naima, the lion shifter who had stayed alive the longest, told them it was the only way to survive.

They shared remembrances and stories. They learned jokes and skills from each other. She knew translated insults and swears from Ukrainian, Yoruba, Spanish, and Pitjantjatjara, and theoretically knew how to use a trident to catch fish. And when emotions flared, they gave each other comfort, laughter, or even a fight. Memories of those whispered conversations crowded her mind now, ghosts keeping her company in the empty dining hall.

As always, her thoughts circled back to Tanner. She had talked him into more poses for the painting that was taking shape in her mind. She’d like to incorporate his thunderbird, but he wasn’t a hovering type of bird, and definitely too big for the living room. Those sketches were in a new sketchbook that stayed at the cabin because posing sessions nearly always ended with them in bed. He was, to use a phrase she’d learned at lunch, smokin’ hot.

Each time they made love — Tanner’s tender description — and their telepathic connection fired up, she sensed his magic reaching for a permanent bond. But it was nothing she could see or touch while she and her dragon were captives of the moonwing curse. She could love him, she could desire him, but she could never truly know the bond the way he did.

Avelunne glanced at the digital clock on the wall. Two hours until the end of Tanner’s shift.

She could fly to his home now, but she was reluctant to go without him, even though she now knew how to get in without setting off a half-dozen defensive spells. His solid, thoughtfully designed cabin, with its magical two-person bath with bubbling jets, complex appliances, and a wall full of books, is nothing like the smelly, spongey sameness of the horrific pens.

But at the end of the day, she was a guest. Even though her hoard comprised only two bags of worldly goods, a dragon needed a nest for it, no matter how meager.

She stowed the cleaning supplies in the kitchen and washed her hands, drying them on her jeans. After a long moment of consideration, she pulled out her mechanical pencil and the original coiled sketchbook. She sat at one of the tables with a view through the front windows.

Out in the courtyard, the prehistoric giraffe caught up with one of the fleeing wolf children and unexpectedly side-kicked her into a pile of snow. The fort defenders cheered.

Avelunne smiled and turned to a new page. Capturing that moment of triumph with her pencil would let her pretend, for just a little longer, that she belonged.

Avelunne was just adding a flying snowball to her sketch when Denise bustled into the room. “Oh, good, you’re still here. You didn’t answer your phone. Guivre would like to see you in her office, if it’s convenient.” The healer noticed the sketchbook. “Oh, that’s really good. You should show it to Imbali. He’s at the awkward teenage phase and thinks his giraffe isn’t cool, but you made him look heroic.”

“Thank you.” Avelunne closed the book and retrieved her coat from the hooks on the far wall. She slid the sketchbook and pencil into the cross-body bag she used for town excursions, then pulled out the intimidating black rectangle of her phone. There was indeed a message notification from thirty minutes ago. She was getting better about not accidentally shutting the power off instead of unlocking the screen, but she still felt as clumsy with it as Imbali did with his long legs. “I’ll go right now.”

The walk to the Town Hall took only ten minutes in the crisp air. Though the streets and sidewalks were clear of snow, traffic was sparse. When she walked tentatively through the open door of Guivre’s office, the elf greeted her and invited her to sit at a small guest table. She wore a soft, belted caftan that seemed to be made of layers of spider lace.

“Thank you for coming, Avelunne. I have a question and an offer. First, has Lin Wolcz ever spoken to you outside of when you were in the Council chamber?”

Avelunne blinked, surprised. She had steeled herself for an interrogation about her Storm Mouth magic. “No. But if he’d wanted to, he might have had to get past Denise, Tinsel, or Tanner. None of them like him very much.” She thought back to her first chaotic days in town, trying to recall the faces in the blur of newness. “Sten Trolhorne saw me from a distance a couple of times and acted like a drama queen.”

Guivre burst out laughing.

“Are those the wrong words?” Avelunne frowned. “It’s how Tiziri described him.”

“No, they’re exactly the right words,” Guivre said, her eyes twinkling as her chuckles subsided. “Trolhorne adores an audience.”

“Oh, yes.” Avelunne relaxed her shoulders, telling her anxiety to chill out.

“The main thing I wanted to talk to you about is that the Town Council would like to officially extend an offer of asylum to you.” She waved delicate fingers. “That’s the official name for granting sanctuary. You would become a citizen, free to stay as long as you’d like, and be protected by our security measures and the Glade. I can send the details to your phone.”

Avelunne stared at the elf, completely taken off guard. They couldn’t possibly have judged her worthy after only two weeks of knowing her. “Is this Tanner’s way of protecting me because Wolcz made threats?”

“No, Tanner isn’t involved in sanctuary decisions,” Guivre said gently. “The Council voted for it the day you and he came back with the Ice Age shifter children. Your information was accurate, and your actions proved your mettle. Wolcz was the only one who voted against it.”

Avelunne stared at the golden elf’s sincere expression. To be wanted, to be claimed by a place rather than a cage, was... good, she guessed. But it also felt like a shackle. She shook her head, trying to make sense of it.