Page 50 of Let Us Prey
“Are you crazy?” she scoffs. “You can be mynavigator,but nobody drives my Mustang except me. It was the first big purchase I ever made with my own money, so… ” Delores trails off, avoiding eye contact with either of us as she slings her purse over her shoulder and heads for the door.
“That’s fine,” Bash shrugs before winking at me, oblivious to whatever we just triggered in our girl. “Fenrir knows, I love watching you handle a stick.”
Delores pauses in the entryway to smirk over her shoulder, her gaze sliding overmeas she replies, “Yeah, me too.”
How am I going to survive this day?
* * *
Somehow,I survived grocery shopping at pretentious Preyder Joe’s—even when Bash paid for all of Delores’ food and I felt that uncomfortable twinge in my gut again. Once we reached the art store, my anxiety settled, and I actually appreciated having helpers with me. Well, Bash had wandered off to the kids’ section, as usual, but our bunny was diligently assisting me with selecting glass sheets to match the photos on my phone.
“I can start looking for clues about your window next time I’m in the archives with Aubrey,” she murmurs, pointing to a sheet of wispy purple, amber, and white. “I mean, he won’t mind an independent study project while I help catalog his collection, right?”
“Lo,” I smile indulgently, completely smitten with how genuinely concerned she is about those around her. “From what I gather, you could rummage around in his hoardwithout white gloves onand our grumpy book dragon would still give you a pass. Don’t you dare tell him I said that, by the way.” I’m mostly joking—not about Aubrey’s burgeoning crush, which is painfully obvious—but because I imagine Delores brings the same level of care to his precious archives as she does to everything else in life.
She’s also a treasure who deserves to be treated with care.
She laughs, one of my favorite sounds in the world. “Your secret’s safe with me, Nico, but I have to ask—how did your pack of wolves become friends with rare shifters like Aubrey and Renard? I always thought their kinds were more, you know…antisocial.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “Well, in case you haven’t noticed, Sebastian Romulus’ charm is hard to resist. Somehow, he convinced Aubreynotto toast us the first time we were caught in the library study room together… ” I awkwardly clear my throat, oddly self-conscious about my midday trysts with Bash, even though they resulted in our first encounter with Delores. “Renard and I first met when I had questions about the flying buttresses of Notre Dame for my advanced drawing students. He’s since agreed to tutor me in all the literature classes I never got to take, so we’ve gotten to know each other pretty well.”
Plus, whowouldn’twant to be friends with a real-life gargoyle or a fire-breathing dragon?
“Ohmigawwwwd guys—I found the perfect gift for Aubrey!” Bash suddenly appears at my side, aggressively squeezing something round and squishy in my face. “Just add this to the order, Nico. He’s gonna fucking love it.”
He throws what appears to be a bunny-shaped stress ball onto my pile before turning to Delores with even more enthusiasm. “So, there’s apparently a La Preyla down the block, babe. Lemme spend more money on you, pretty please, with my Cherry on top? Nico can help you pick out sexy little things to try on for us.”
It takes me a second to remember that La Preyla is very expensive—very scanty—lingerie, and my fox roars to life so intensely, I almost drop the tray of glass on the floor. “Uh… ” I stutter, desperately trying to regain my composure. “You two can go ahead without me. I’ll finish up here and grab the mail before meeting you at, um, La Preyla… maybe… ”
If I can find somewhere for a cold shower first.
Delores brushes her lips across mine in the sweetest kiss before allowing Bash to playfully drag her from the store. Taking several deep breaths, I force my animal back into submission and concentrate on completing my purchases for the restoration project.
About fifteen minutes later, I’m walking down the street, trying not to think of Delores in tiny lacy things. This conjures up memories of when the three of us were together in Bash’s room—my beta filling my mouth while our bunny pressed her softness against my back… her warm breath on my neck and her delicate hand wrapped around my…
Somehow, I’ve reached the post office and unlocked our mailbox, with no recollection of having done so. As I pull out Bash’s stack of Preyboys, a slate gray envelope falls to the floor. I retrieve it, surprised to see it’s forme,but it takes a full minute of staring at the flowing script to realize what’s throwing me off.
The envelope is addressed to NicodemusDeoradhán.A name I haven’t used since I was five—a name no one should know.
A name from my dead parents.
The surrounding lobby grows dark, my vision tunneling and fangs elongating as my body starts to uncontrollably shake. Long-buried memories of blood and terror threaten to overwhelm me before the sound of the door opening snaps me back to the present. An elderly badger waddles by on her way to the service counter, and I shake off my instinctual reaction, reminding myself that no one would dare touch a Romulus, even an adopted, exiled one.
It’s just a fucking envelope.
I angrily tear open the offensive piece of mail, adrenaline still coursing through my veins as I scan the letter inside. The stationary is a lighter shade of gray, with a faint pinstripe watermark on the surface and the same unfamiliar cursive handwriting.
Nicodemus,
We hope this correspondence finds you well. Please confirm your identity so that we may share the truth of what happened on the island.
X.
Again, I dumbly stare. It’s clear the sender is trying to be vague, in case this ends up in the wrong hands, but I instantly know which incident they’re referring to. Exactly what happened to my parents on Bloodstone Island has always been a mystery to me—why a routine dignitary visit turned into a bloodbath that left a fox kit orphaned and alone in the company of wolves. Learning the truth has always seemed unimaginable, about as attainable as a trip to the moon, so I never pursued it.
Why reopen old trauma?
I smooth out the crumpled envelope, frowning when I realize the return address is a PO Box in Washington, D.C., which only tells me the message originated from the same city I did. Gathering the twins’ mail, I slip the strange letter into my jacket pocket, needing to collect my thoughts before bringing it up to the others.
