Page 81 of Snag
Of post-and-beam construction, the massive main house is clad in grayed cedar siding. The plentiful wood-framed windows are in need of a new coat of finish. Multiple gray-wood-railed balconies hang across the front face of the house, as if every room needs its own outdoor space. I have no doubt those railings are scarred with claw marks from years of shifters not bothering with doors and hallways, preferring the two-storey jump.
I can hear the ocean when I exit the truck, leaving my bag but actually remembering to take my phone, but the sound of the surf is faint. Breathing deeply of the misty,woodsy air, and feeling just a little bit lighter without the intersection point roiling under every footstep, I stretch my senses around me. I’m surprised to find that the bottomless well of the intersection point still simmers at the edge of my reach, with no need to stretch farther for it. With the estate twenty minutes up the coast to the north, that power feels much closer than the drive would have suggested.
With my senses so open, I also note that the main pack house isn’t filled with as many shifters as I expected, given its sheer size.
“Does this property abut my estate?” I ask Rought as he steps around the truck to join me. I remember at the last moment that it is my estate now, not my aunt’s. Though we didn’t pass through it, I’m fairly certain that Newport is north of us, between the two estates.
“Outcast territory encircles the Gage estate,” Rath says before Rought can answer. The dragon shifter crosses to join us from the garage, where he’s presumably parked his motorcycle out of the rain.
Rath is wearing his full cut, including his patched leather jacket, which makes me realize that Rought is still in jeans and a long-sleeved gray henley. Even though we’re heading in for an audience with the president of his motorcycle club, who also happens to be the head of his mixed-clan pack.
That mixed-clan designation makes even more sense now that I know it includes a gryphon, a celestial dragon, and a cu-sith. As well as an exceedingly rare kitsune, Cayley, and a pegasus, Doc Z. Plus the marine shifters, Piston and Pepper.
The buttons undone at Rought’s neck offer a generous peek at the tattoos literally feathering up his neck. Which makes me think of the gryphon. Again. And morespecifically, of our bonding session in the dark of the early morning.
The memory makes me flush like an utter idiot. And lose my train of thought.
Rought chuckles under his breath, ghosting his hand over my back to direct me toward the house and out of the misty rain. He can clearly sense my shift in focus through our new connection. Or rather, our amped-up connection.
“The beaches connect from here to the estate,” Rought says. “That’s how we came to you when we were too young to drive. It’s more direct along the coastline than coming by road. Not that Reck wasn’t up to stealing any vehicle he could lay hands on, even at age twelve.”
Striding ahead of us, and radiating tension that I know has nothing to do with me — for once — Rath all but pulls the carved wooden door off its reinforced hinges.
I don’t recognize the motif etched across the door or along the frame. Mayan- or Aztec-inspired designs, maybe? Both appear practically brand new, likely due to a mage’s touch.
“Seems an odd choice. To settle so near the intersection point,” I murmur. “Grinder said that the Outcast absorbed a previously established motorcycle club …”
“About thirty-five years ago,” Rought says agreeably. “And we’ve been actively stretching our borders, more so even in the last five years. That’s been Rath’s focus since he got back.”
‘Got back from where’ is the first question that pops into my mind. Because despite snuggling in his lap less than an hour ago, I know very little of substance about the middle half-brother who is also supposed to be mine. I go with the more on-point second query. “To ring the estate?”
“Farther north. And south all the way to the Californiaborder now,” Rath rumbles from ahead of us. “No one is encroaching on your territory, Zaya.”
“You couldn’t even if you tried,” I say, keeping my tone level as I follow him through the entranceway.
Rath’s shoulders stiffen, but he doesn’t snip back at me. Instead he shucks off his jacket, hanging it in a paneled closet near the main door.
“You’d never know that my brother’s club name is supposed to be ironic,” Rought says, only partly teasing.
Rath throws his younger brother a quelling look over his shoulder.
Distracted by the complex display that extends from the front doors throughout the entranceway, I ignore both of them, also letting the line of thought drop. All the moldings, base and crown, every pillar, the entire sweeping stairwell— all of it appears to be hand carved.
Judging only by the exterior, the house seemed almost minimalist in its construction. As if it might have been erected in a hurry, even. The intricate carvings are an odd contrast. Though as I follow Rath through a large living space divided into multiple cozy seating areas, with massive windows open to views of the woods beyond, I see how it all works together.
“The carvings?” I ask Rought.
“The Outcast,” he says. “My uncle. It’s all his work. He mostly works in totem pole form now. And those are spread throughout the woods and along the property boundary.” He eyes me for a moment, then adds, “His version of … warding.”
Warding, aka shielding. Or, at minimum, sensor triggers along the boundary of a protected space. There aren’t many shifters who can wield essence in that manner, though there are always rumors and suppositions, such as those thatfollow kitsune. Other than Rought and Rath and possibly Cayley, I’ve never met a shifter who can wield essence externally.
Of course, such secrets are kept for many different reasons. Not only are essence-wielders vastly outnumbered by those who wield no essence, aka the nulls, but the rarest among us are continually hunted. Either out of fear, or for the power they can be forced to wield for their captors.
I pause to examine the carved post nearest me. Totem poles, Rought said. That’s also an odd medium of choice. The square edges of the post between the entranceway and the main living room haven’t been rounded. At a glance, the motif doesn’t resemble any of the work of the Salish that I’ve seen, or any of the other Pacific Northwest First Nations known for carving totem poles. Moreover, the Salish are protective about their culture, including their art. Other than the few pieces that have been gifted to Gage ancestors for various favors, I’ve never seen any of their art outside of a loaned museum collection or in Salish territory.
“Sharing all my secrets already, are you, nephew?” A deep voice draws my attention away from the carved post toward a massive dining area that occupies the entire back corner of the house.
A huge trestle table takes up most of the space, with a long, narrow, and currently food-laden sideboard along the far wall. The pass-through doors to the equally massive industrial-looking kitchen are open on the left. The far end of the table, near the north windows, is casually set for five.
