Page 58 of Grin and Bear It

She felt Artair tense beside her, his scent shifting subtly as his bear responded to the challenge in Damon’s tone. Her hand found Artair’s forearm, a silent request for restraint.

“Business,” she said simply.

“Of course.” Damon’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Though I seem to recall you prefer working alone. Said teamwork was, what was it? ‘A liability waiting to happen’?”

Heat crept up her neck at having her own words thrown back at her. Worse, she could sense Artair’s silent interest in this revelation.

“Things change,” she replied coolly.

“Apparently.” Damon pushed off the pillar. “Well, enjoy the bazaar. Oh, and Halliwell? Some of the vendors get twitchy around certain... family names. Might want to keep a low profile.”

As he melted into the crowd, Thora released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“Friend of yours?” Artair asked, his tone carefully neutral.

“Former colleague. Briefly.” She guided them deeper into the market, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. “It didn’t end well.”

“Professional disagreement or personal disappointment?”

The question carried an undertone she couldn’t quite identify. “Both,” she admitted. “He wanted more than I was willing to give. Then he compromised a job with sloppy work.”

Artair’s hand settled at the small of her back, the touch oddly reassuring. “His loss.”

The simple statement lightened something in her chest. She found herself leaning into his touch as they navigated the crowded aisles.

An hour into their surveillance, Thora felt a sudden pull toward a side corridor. Something called to her—a sensation like a distant melody only she could hear.

“This way,” she murmured, drawn to a small booth illuminated by golden lanterns.

Ancient tiger clan artifacts filled the stall—ceremonial daggers, scrolls written in a language she couldn’t read but somehow recognized, carved totems depicting sabertooth tigers in hunting stances.

One dagger in particular captured her attention—its handle carved with an intricate pattern that stirred something deep in her memory. Without thinking, she reached for it.

The moment her fingers touched the metal, magic surged through her body. Heat raced along her veins like liquid fire. Her vision sharpened, her canines lengthened, her fingernails thickened to partial claws.

“Blood knows blood,” the elderly vendor whispered, his rheumy eyes widening at the transformation. “The lost daughter returns.”

Confusion and recognition warred within her. Lost daughter? The words echoed with significance she couldn’t fully grasp.

Artair’s hand closed gently around her wrist, pulling her back to herself. “We need to move,” he murmured urgently. “Ajax’s associates just arrived.”

Thora forced her sabertooth back, focusing on the mission as they made their way toward the central auction area. The dagger’s energy lingered in her blood, awakening questions she’d long buried about her origins.

The auction chamber resembled an amphitheater with rare magical items displayed on pedestals. Guards—mercenary shifters and magical practitioners—stood at regular intervals around the perimeter.

The Ursine Codex book sat on a central dais, its silver surface etched with runes that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Even from a distance, Thora could sense its power—ancient, dangerous magic designed to control rather than serve.

“There,” she whispered, nodding toward the hooded figures approaching the book. “That must be The Curator.”

As they moved closer, chaos erupted. Alarms blared through the bazaar. In the confusion, a tall figure in a hooded cloak moved between them and Ajax, allowing their quarry to slipaway through the crowd. For a split second, the hood fell back, and Artair froze mid-step beside her.

Thora caught only a glimpse of the man’s face—remarkably similar to Artair’s, save for a jagged scar running down one cheek—before he disappeared into the panicking crowd.

“Calan?” Artair whispered, his voice barely audible over the chaos.

The raw shock that rippled through Artair triggered something primitive in Thora. Her sabertooth surged forward as she sensed his distress. Without conscious thought, she shifted partially, canines extending, muscles coiling as she leaped through the fleeing vendors to pursue the figure.

She caught the scent—similar to Artair’s but sharper, edged with something cold—before losing it in the mayhem of the bazaar evacuation. By the time she circled back to Artair, Ajax and the mysterious man had vanished, along with the codex.

---