Page 26 of A Cock and Bull Story
Who are you working for, Secondary?
I know for a fact that this shifter didn’t kill the woman. Only an animal with large, powerful claws could do that kind of damage. Usually, shifters kept to their kind, barely even speaking to other Tiers—another reason our SA meetings are taboo. If it were only a group of cockchafers, that would be acceptable—pathetic, but still acceptable—but because it’s a mixed group of Primaries, the shifter world would think we’ve lost the plot.
Not that it’s anyone else’s business.
Suddenly, the jackal looks up and narrows its gaze directly on me. The beast emits a low, feral growl in warning, telling me without words that he—or she—knows that I’m here. In response, a noxious-smelling gas begins to leak out of my body beyond my control. It’s an instinctual defense tactic native to many insects and anything involuntary for the animal is hard for a shifter to act against.
I watch the plume of my own special brand of protection waft over the jackal, who yips and shakes its head side to side in an attempt to dislodge the foul scent. I fly down the road to a brown window ledge that will camouflage me well. I keep a wary eye on the jackal, mentally deciding whether I should follow it or rejoin Jack and Arthur, who are waiting for me outside of town.
The jackal makes my decision for me when it drifts into the shadows and shifts into his human form. He’s a tall man, surprisingly so, with skin darker than midnight and eyes to match. The man steps back into the street, where he’s briefly illuminated by a streetlight a few paces away from the broken one I was on.
Blood still smears his face—I can see the scarlet stain against the brilliant white of his teeth when he smiles threateningly.
His voice is a deep rumble, much like his animal’s growl, when he shouts, “I smell you, bug. Watch it, or you might get smashed.”
With that, he jumps back into the darkness and runs off, turning mid-pace back into his animal side. Since he had been naked, nothing impedes him, and I know he’s going to a recce1spot to change. Shifters might be broken into a hierarchy of brute strength, but we all struggle with the same problems of going from creature to human and vice versa.
I need to leave before the guy brings back a pack of jackals and tries to make good on his word. I spread my wings and flap them experimentally, a buzzing sound coming from the movement. I get ready to leap into the night when the light beyond the window is turned on. Instantly and subconsciously, I fly towards it—smacking my small frame into the glass when I reach the barrier.
I hit it once. . .
Twice. . .
Thrice. . .
Internally, I fight the madness to get to the light. My brain understands all too well what’s happening, but I can’t gain control of my dumb animal. Shifting is actually very dangerous business. I can easily be blown into oncoming traffic and mowed down by a saloon or be eaten by a hungry bird. But, most likely, cockchafers are likely to be killed by their own instincts. This is why I try not to shift at night or near towns—people hang those lights meant to attract insects.
It’s how we lost my dad’s brother, Uncle Robin.
I’m just about to crash into the window, again, when a shadow comes marching in front of me. An elderly woman opens up the window brusquely and pokes her head out. With a rolled-up rag, she starts swiping at my form whilst screaming at the top of her voice2. I dodge her blows in a seemingly drunken fashion, half trying to evade her and half trying to slip past her to my death.
“That’s it!” she screeches, shutting the window back firmly in place.
I heave a sigh of relief as I watch her hobble out of the room—except, she left the damn light on. I’m half-tempted to shift back into a human when her shadow comes back into view. I mentally shout in panic when I see that she’s carrying a can of Doff3.
Thankfully, her frail form blocks the bulb, and I’m broken from my light trance. I hastily flap my wings and fly off into the night away from the town and opposite the jackal, back towards Jack and Arthur.
Jack is still in his ass form, trotting back and forth where I left him with Arthur, south of Banbury. The Scott is in human form, dressed in jeans and a button-down that Jack carried on his back. I land softly on the grass and change back into a man before striding over to Jack and Arthur.
“We need to get out of here. Now. A Secondary ate the evidence—jackal.”
Arthur doesn’t need to be told twice. He strips without blinking, stuffing his clothes into the bag slung over Jack’s back and shifts. He jumps up onto Jack and I follow suit shifting. Together, we zoom back to Oxford like there’s something on our tail.
A jackal.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
I lightly knock on the bathroom door but get no answer.
“Theo,” I call softly.
No response.
I knock a little bit harder.
