Andrea moved to Connor’s side and slid an arm around his waist. Connor’s shakes and pain started to lessen a little. Sean’s mate could make people feel better just by being near them—her healer’s touch, Connor supposed.
“Kim okay?” Andrea asked him.
“I think so.”
Andrea glanced at the house, gave Connor’s shoulder a squeeze, and turned away. “I’ll just go make sure.” She ran lightly up the porch steps and into the house, and Connor moved within the circle of Shifters.
“I have an idea,” Liam said, his smile flashing out, but the fury still in his eyes. “Sure, Connor, you can help.”
“Great,” Connor said. He looked down at the man, who was smelling more and more of worry. “But wait for me a few seconds. I’m gonna need pants.”
* * *
Crosby found his wrists and ankles wrapped in duct tape, then he was loaded into the bed of a pickup between the shaved-headed tattooed guy and the older guy with the eyes of steel. The two Morrissey brothers and the kid Crosby had woken rode in the truck’s cab. A family outing, Crosby thought with grim humor.
They took Crosby to a dirty street in a warehouse district, parking the pickup next to a line of Dumpsters. The Morrisseys piled out of the cab, selected a Dumpster, opened it, and returned to the truck.
All five of the Shifters grabbed Crosby by the legs and arms and lifted him out of the truck.
“One,” Liam Morrissey said as they swung Crosby back, then forward. “Two. Threeee.”
Crosby felt himself go airborne and land with perfect precision inside the Dumpster, on top of a pile of foul-smelling, slimy trash. He heard the Shifters walk away, laughing, and the truck start.
But they didn’t drive away. As Crosby lay motionlessly, waiting for them to go, the square of sky above him darkened and Liam alone looked in and down at Crosby.
“If I see you in or near Shiftertown again,” he said in a voice that held the quiet fury of a wild animal, “I will kill you.” His laughter was gone, and much of his Irish accent too. All that was left was the calm conviction of a man not afraid to kill. “No one will ever find you. I’ll guarantee that.”
Crosby believed him. Liam reached for the lid of the Dumpster. He stared a while longer at Crosby, his eyes that strange blue-white, hard to look at. Crosby did his best to appear subdued and nonthreatening.Liam at last let the lid fall with a clang, shutting out light and fresh air. The truck’s door slammed, and this time, the truck drove away.
Crosby started working on the tape around his wrists. Liam’s threat didn’t bother him, because Crosby had no intention of ever going back to Shiftertown again. He was done with them.
He finished making his way out of the tape, reached under his shirt, and pulled out the thin undershirt he’d managed to stuff inside before the Shifters had caught him and thrown him down. The shirt had belonged to the tiger, and all Crosby had to do was take it to his commander. Mission over.
* * *
The art class for the Shifter kids was held in a community center near the gallery. Armand had arranged everything with his usual efficiency.
Carly and Armand started off with a tour of the gallery, showing the cubs the different styles of the artists, from representational art and sculpture to the abstract. Armand talked about texture and how to view a picture with rich texture from the side to get the full effect.
At the community center, Armand demonstrated various techniques, explaining that creating art was not always about simple drawing or blotching paint on canvas. He showed them how etchings were printed, and let the kids pull sheets through the printer to reveal the picture of a wildcat he’d prepared.
Next Armand stood them in front of easels and showed them how to hold pencils and paintbrushes, and then let them choose the medium they liked best for their own projects. Armand was very good at teaching kids how to make art fun.
Carly watched them with interest. Ten Shifter kids had come, from Cherie, nearly twenty-one, to Jordan, Spike’s son, aged four. Cherie enjoyed herself drawing tall, long-legged angular women who looked a little like Yvette. Jordan happily dragged a brush loaded with paint all over his page, leaving thick red and yellow splotches, which he looked very proud of.
Carly thought the cub with most potential was the little polar bear Olaf. He’d chosen watercolors, and had at first painted his entire sheet of watercolor paper black. Once that dried, he scraped away the dried paint with a palette knife to reveal patterns of the white paper underneath, like a negative. The lines resembled large bears, but they were incomplete, featureless. Olaf contemplated them with the dark-eyed seriousness with which Carly had seen him observe the rest of the world.
“That’s very nice, Olaf,” she said after Armand had bustled out of the room, going for more supplies. “Unique. Can you tell me about it?”
Olaf kept studying the painting-drawing, palette knife in hand. “My parents,” he said.
Who were dead, Ronan’s mate, Elizabeth, had told Carly. Ronan had discovered Olaf, an orphaned Shifter cub no one knew what to do with, and had taken him in.
Poor kid. Carly opened her mouth to praise his painting again when she smelled smoke.
Cherie smelled it too. She raised her head, her nose wrinkling, her sudden fear showing Carly how young she still was by Shifter standards. Cherie was looking around for an adult Shifter, someone to keep her safe.
Carly saw the ceiling above Cherie give. She grabbed the girl and yanked her out of the way just as a fireball came down and flames exploded through the room.