Page 27 of Awry
“Whose territory?”I ask, because I should at least know that much.
“The Outcast Motorcycle Club,” Presh says, puffing out her chest a bit, proudly.“My uncle’s pack.”She holds up the phone, which still displays the map app.The icon that indicates our position is just a smidge over a slightly shaded border.
I’ve heard of the Outcast MC.A mixed clan — not exclusively bear, wolf, boar, or cat — they hold a huge territory.A large section of Oregon, presumably with continual plans for expansion.The Outcast territory actually encircles and protects my aunt’s estate, which is at least two hours from here by car …
No.
Fuck.
The Outcast Motorcycle Club protects the borders ofmyWest Coast estate.Once I get that tangle of shit sorted, I need to set up a meeting with Presh’s uncle, or one of the Outcast lieutenants, to renegotiate the contract that dictates those protections.
Even the idea is exhausting.
Only vaguely aware that I’ve abruptly dropped the conversation, I loosen my hold on the suitcase and drop my bag off my shoulder.Then, careful not to touch anything else, I take the two necessary steps to the bed and grab all the towels.Presh stays by the door.Because as has become too obvious, she is way more versed in this … clandestine shit than she should be at her age.
I step back and offer the pile of towels to Presh.She takes the top one, still favoring one arm, and lays it lengthwise before my feet.I step on it, and she steps on the other end.Thankfully it’s huge, presumably sized for shifters.
I drop all but one of the towels to the side, wrapping the last one around Presh and giving in to the impulse to pull her into a hug.It’s intimate considering we barely know each other.Yet her arms latch low around my waist, and I rock her gently nonetheless.
Even though the tug of the knowing is no longer guiding me, I have a hard time letting her go.Until she starts shivering again.
We wipe our bare feet on the towel.Thankfully, the pavement was smooth enough on our way to the motel that neither of us appears to have cut our feet.We towel dry our hair, then strip out of our clothing by the front door, leaving everything in a pile on the floor towel and dragging the suitcase to the bathroom.I pull all my soaps, shampoos, conditioners, lotions, and face creams out of my travel kit, lining them up on the side of the tub and the counter.
Presh tries to swallow a smirk.Unsuccessfully.
“What?”I snap playfully, so tired I can’t believe I can form the words, let alone the teasing tone.“I like to feel and smell pretty.”The creams and such are actually fairly quietly scented — a custom Madagascar vanilla-and-cocoa-butter blend made for me based on my skin type, among other attributes, by a potion mage in Vancouver.
The mage’s wares are rather … well, famous.She’s also a former paramour of my uncles.Her word, not mine.And yes, more than one so-called uncle — a designation my family uses for any older-than-me, male-identifying person who shares even a hint of my bloodline.I have a lot of cousins with even thinner blood connections as well.Either way, I’m glad the branding on the mage’s bottles and jars is subtle.Otherwise, Presh might freak about how much money we’re about to slather all over our bodies.
Not that I’ve paid a cent for any of it.
I don’t think about how it might be odd for Presh to smell exactly like me when her shifter brothers show up.Because her doing so is actually an extra precaution, an extra bit of protection that I can give her in the immediate now.Once I’m done, it will smell as though there was only ever one person in this motel room.Me.
And I can’t be tracked by scent.Not for long, at least.I might not be bequeathed with strength or speed, or any overtly offensive magic, but my inherent essence protects me in a multitude of minor ways.Admittedly, those ways are completely unpredictable, so I try to augment them when possible— hence the custom creams.
Presh and I shower.Then, with both of us cocooned in all the dry towels remaining, I carefully apply most of the emergency healing patches I have on hand to her bruised shoulder, hip, and ankle.I don’t even bother looking in the first-aid kit the motel provided.I know what I’ve brought is better, more potent.I add another patch to the side of her face, carefully cutting out a section so it fits around her eye, then apply the leftover piece to the reopened cut on her temple.
The patches are pricey, heavy-duty, essence-imbued emollients.For which I’ve actually paid full price, from a different potion mage contact in Vancouver— one with a healing affinity.I’m hoping Presh isn’t naturally resistant to magecraft as some essence-wielders are— and many of the awry specifically.As I occasionally am.
I don’t usually carry so many patches with me, or even have so many on hand at one time, because they come with short expiration dates.And yes, my packing extra healing patches for this trip is yet another of those pre-knowing things that I’m actively ignoring.My abilities have never previously … stretched so far from the before through an actual knowing, so this is all new to me.
Not to mention that I’m just too tired to dissect it.
“It tingles,” Presh whispers as I fit the last patch.She’s been watching my every move as if she’s committing them to memory— and maybe she is.Maybe her slowly awakening power is guiding her as well.
“Too much?”
She shakes her head, biting her lip.“Don’t … don’t you need some?”
“Do I look like I do?”I don’t have a mark on me, though I need to eat my weight in dark-chocolate-coconut or salted-caramel ice cream.And poutine, if I can find a place that uses turkey or chicken gravy, not beef.But that’s not going to happen any time soon.
“No,” she whispers.
I wait for more questions as I dig through my suitcase to put together a cozy outfit for Presh.She must have at least a half-dozen more stored up by now.She doesn’t ask them, though.
She’s just as exhausted as I am.
We get dressed.A light-gray cashmere sweatshirt and drawstring sweatpants for Presh, over a too-large sports bra and panties.An ankle-length drawstring cashmere skirt and merino-and-silk tank top for me.Drawstring items don’t usually make up so much of my wardrobe, but they’re certainly coming in handy for this particular trip, what with Presh being tiny and me dropping twenty pounds or so after dying.
