Tricks for Free (InCryptid #7)

“Do you have a shift in the morning?” Fern asked.

Megan nodded. “I start at nine, and I’m on the clock until nine tomorrow night, at the absolute earliest. You should probably figure on not seeing me for a few days. That’s part of why I decided to sit up tonight. I wanted to know that you were okay.”

“I don’t have an email from scheduling yet,” said Fern.

I glanced at her, startled. I hadn’t even thought to check. Then again, I was the one with the cheap phone that was only a phone and couldn’t receive anything more complex than a text message. I was used to getting my shift information at the start of the week, and not having any updates until the end. The float disaster changed things. The whole Park, or at least the Fairyland section, could very well be closed.

“I’m going to go check my email,” I said, and took a step toward the hall.

The doorbell rang.

All three of us froze—more than three, if I counted the sudden stillness of the snakes on Megan’s head. With the living room light on, it was impossible to pretend nobody was home. Indeed, the thought had barely managed to form when the doorbell rang again. This time, the person outside leaned into the act, sending the tone belling loud and clear through the apartment. They were going to wake our neighbors if they didn’t stop.

Megan bolted to her feet and ran for her bedroom, where she kept the wigs. Fern didn’t move.

Right. I didn’t have a weapon and I didn’t have fire in my fingers and I didn’t have a clue, but I didn’t want our neighbors reporting us to corporate, either. Taking a deep breath, I straightened my spine until it creaked. That helped. I always feel better about walking toward my certain death when I do it with good posture. I shot a reassuring glance at Fern and started for the door, intending to answer it before our unexpected guest could ring the bell a third time.

I opened the door. Sam’s hand was raised, finger poised to press the bell again. He froze. I froze. We stood together yet apart, two statues staring at each other across a gulf of less than two feet.

I knew what he was seeing: sweat-caked hair plastered to my neck and shoulders, tattered secondhand tank top and yoga pants, skin that bore a sheen of sunscreen and the omnipresent glitter that coats everything in Lowryland. The urge to slam the door, run to the shower, and come back when I was presentable was almost overwhelming, and yet he looked at me like I was candy, cake, and Christmas all rolled into one. A girl could get used to being looked at that way.

As for me, I was looking at a tall, brown-skinned man of mixed Chinese and European descent, broad-shouldered in that way that comes with spending too much time on the flying trapeze, floppy-haired in front and close-cropped in the back. His ears stuck out a bit too far and his hands were a bit too big for the rest of his frame, but I liked those things about him. They proved he was real. Actually, I liked everything about him, and had since he’d stopped glowering at me and started smiling instead.

He wasn’t smiling now. He looked stunned, like he couldn’t believe this was actually happening. I understood the sentiment.

When we finally started moving again, he was faster. He’s always been faster than I am, a blessing of biology enhanced and improved by training. He closed the distance between us in a single step, his hands coming up to cup the sides of my face, and his lips tasted like bad coffee, diner pie, and terrible decisions, and none of that mattered one damn bit. Sam was here. Sam was kissing me. Everything else, good, bad, or yet to be determined, could wait.

The heat coming off of his skin was intense. As a fūri, Sam runs hotter than a human man, even when he’s in his seemingly-human form. It was a comforting piece of proof that this was really him, enough so that I leaned even closer, his hands holding my face like an anchor, my body seeking his in the open, liminal space of the doorway.

The doorway. We were standing in the doorway. The doorway to the apartment, which meant the door was open, which meant anyone who looked would see me standing there, kissing a strange man who most definitely did not work for Lowry Entertainment, Inc.

I broke the kiss. Sam looked at me, wide-eyed and betrayed. And adorable. God, he was adorable. Had he always been this adorable?

Fucking hormones, I thought, before grabbing his shirt, growling, “Inside,” and yanking him into the apartment. He had the presence of mind to catch and slam the door behind himself. He even used one of his hands to do it. The boy was staying human until he had the full lay of the land. That pleased me, although I couldn’t say I’d expected anything else. I’d been maybe-dating him for less than a month. He’d been a therianthrope for his entire life.

Fern, still standing next to the couch, was gaping at us, open-mouthed and shocked-looking. “Are you going to do a murder in our living room?” she squeaked.

“What?” asked Sam.

“No,” I said firmly. “No one is getting murdered.” I hesitated before amending, “Right now. Murder is always on the table for later.”

Fern looked reassured. Sam did not. That was fine: Sam was about to become a lot less reassured about everything. I whirled on him, finger pointed at his chest.

“You,” I said, voice low. “What are you doing here?”

Sam blinked. “Uh,” he said. “Hello to you, too. Gosh, I missed you. No, don’t worry about it, I’d love to come into your apartment and have this conversation in front of a total stranger. That sounds like a bucket of fun. Everybody loves a bucket of fun.”

“I live here,” said Fern, sounding squeakily affronted. She folded her arms and narrowed her eyes, which for Fern was the equivalent of a full-on glare. It was adorable. Telling her that probably wouldn’t have been a good idea. “Who are you? Why were you kissing—” Then she stopped, glare transforming into a look of stricken confusion as she realized she didn’t know what to call me in front of him.

I laughed. I couldn’t stop myself. Fern looked hurt, and I laughed even harder, which was rude of me, but after the day I’d had, I thought I was owed a brief moment of healing hysteria. Sometimes the rational, reasonable thing isn’t the thing to do after all.

Sam sighed heavily. “You broke her,” he accused, looking at Fern. “I left her alone for six months, and you broke her. This probably voids the warranty.”

“Lowry Security will have you out of here so fast that you’ll leave behind those gross flip-flops like you’re in a cartoon,” said Fern.

I glanced at Sam’s feet. He was, in fact, wearing flip-flops, which seemed like the best possible compromise between his natural disdain for footwear and the human world’s tendency to insist that people without shoes on are not to be trusted. They looked like they’d been stolen from a resort pool. The urge to start laughing again rose in my throat. I swallowed it down. Healing hysteria might be nice, but if I spent too much time indulging myself, I wasn’t going to get anything done.

“No calling Security,” I said. “Fern, this is Sam Taylor, my . . .” I trailed off. We’d never formalized anything. I’d been too busy running away before the Covenant could use me as an excuse to kill Sam and everyone he’d ever cared about.

“I’m her boyfriend,” said Sam gruffly.

“Boyfriend,” I concluded. My stomach did a flip that had nothing to do with the trouble I might or might not be in, and everything to do with the way Sam kept glancing at me, quick, sharp-edged looks, like he was cataloging every inch. My hands itched, not with heat, but with the desire to touch him and keep touching, tactilely reassuring myself that he was really here, that this wasn’t some sort of cruel dream cooked up by my overstimulated subconscious. “Sam, this is Fern. She’s one of my roommates.”

“Wait,” said Fern, eyes going wide again. “This is the boyfriend? This?” She waved her hands, encompassing the whole of him. “I didn’t think this was your type.”