someone to save me. Besides, I was usually pretty good at saving myself.
Until last night.
I tossed a glare at my phone and headed for the bathroom. Brushing out my hair, I stared into the mirror. Could my parents tell I was different at birth? Adam told me shape-shifting was inherited. They must have been shifters too.
And then there was the tattoo. That lion’s head with an “N” emblazoned on the forehead was forever burned into my mind. When I was old enough, one of my social workers gave me the sweatshirt I’d been found in. It was unmarked, not even a tag in the back of the neck, but it bore the same insignia tattooed on the gunman.
Whoever these guys were, my parents must have been connected.
For most of my life, I’d tried not to think much about them. Through my teen years anger kept me from searching, but as time passed, my anger faded to indifference. Being bitter was a waste of energy.
But if they were shifters like me, why would they get rid of me? They had to know it would be a bad idea to leave me alone with humans.
I snatched up a black rubber band and quickly pony-tailed my hair while I tried to keep the emotions at bay. It would be easy to imagine scenarios of a sobbing mother, who had no choice but to leave me. But I steeled myself for reality. Whatever the reasons, they hadn’t wanted me.
I slid my cell phone it into my pocket and grabbed my coat. It was time to find out more about where I came from. With room key in hand, I headed for the elevator. When the doors opened on the ground floor I caught a whiff of the lobby restaurant, and my belly groaned for food. I could eat later. The library might not be open if I ate first.
The concierge helped me with a map, and I headed out toward the downtown library. They’d have more reference materials about child services than I could find on Google anyway. I needed a contact who would be able to dig into my sealed juvenile case file, or better yet, get a copy so I could go through it myself. Maybe I’d get lucky and be able to track down some information on Nero, too.
The cool evening air soothed my skin as I maneuvered through the throngs of people. If I could get to the library before they closed, I could get copies of child welfare laws for San Antonio and maybe track down a licensed PI in Texas all in one trip. The sooner I could find out if they had any record of my birth parents, the closer I’d be to some answers.
In the past when I used private investigators for articles, I found out I worked better with the old-school detectives. Too many of the PIs who advertised on the internet tended to only use the internet for their digging. I could use Google better than most people, so if I was going to pay for help to track down my birth parents, then I wanted someone who had friends and connections in San Antonio Children and Family Services.
That’s where I had been abandoned—Texas—and I spent my childhood floating from foster home to foster home. There were plenty of horror stories out there about being a ward of the state, but I’d never known any other way to live. For me, moving to a new school, new friends, a new house, it was the way my life had always been. The only resentment I felt was toward my parents who gave me to the State of Texas in the first place, but I boxed up that rejection and kept it in a dark corner of my memories. Until now.
The library was a stern brick building in the heart of Reno. The front was lined with glass windows and large glass doors. Although the lights were still on inside, when I tugged on the brass handle, the doors were locked.
“Damn!” Now that I’d finally admitted I needed to start the search for my parents, I didn’t want to wait. When I spun around to leave, I nearly smacked into a tall man with dark eyes, olive-colored skin, and black shoulder-length hair.
“Sorry about that,” I said, veering to my right.
“Not a problem,” he replied, nodding toward the library. “Is it
Until last night.
I tossed a glare at my phone and headed for the bathroom. Brushing out my hair, I stared into the mirror. Could my parents tell I was different at birth? Adam told me shape-shifting was inherited. They must have been shifters too.
And then there was the tattoo. That lion’s head with an “N” emblazoned on the forehead was forever burned into my mind. When I was old enough, one of my social workers gave me the sweatshirt I’d been found in. It was unmarked, not even a tag in the back of the neck, but it bore the same insignia tattooed on the gunman.
Whoever these guys were, my parents must have been connected.
For most of my life, I’d tried not to think much about them. Through my teen years anger kept me from searching, but as time passed, my anger faded to indifference. Being bitter was a waste of energy.
But if they were shifters like me, why would they get rid of me? They had to know it would be a bad idea to leave me alone with humans.
I snatched up a black rubber band and quickly pony-tailed my hair while I tried to keep the emotions at bay. It would be easy to imagine scenarios of a sobbing mother, who had no choice but to leave me. But I steeled myself for reality. Whatever the reasons, they hadn’t wanted me.
I slid my cell phone it into my pocket and grabbed my coat. It was time to find out more about where I came from. With room key in hand, I headed for the elevator. When the doors opened on the ground floor I caught a whiff of the lobby restaurant, and my belly groaned for food. I could eat later. The library might not be open if I ate first.
The concierge helped me with a map, and I headed out toward the downtown library. They’d have more reference materials about child services than I could find on Google anyway. I needed a contact who would be able to dig into my sealed juvenile case file, or better yet, get a copy so I could go through it myself. Maybe I’d get lucky and be able to track down some information on Nero, too.
The cool evening air soothed my skin as I maneuvered through the throngs of people. If I could get to the library before they closed, I could get copies of child welfare laws for San Antonio and maybe track down a licensed PI in Texas all in one trip. The sooner I could find out if they had any record of my birth parents, the closer I’d be to some answers.
In the past when I used private investigators for articles, I found out I worked better with the old-school detectives. Too many of the PIs who advertised on the internet tended to only use the internet for their digging. I could use Google better than most people, so if I was going to pay for help to track down my birth parents, then I wanted someone who had friends and connections in San Antonio Children and Family Services.
That’s where I had been abandoned—Texas—and I spent my childhood floating from foster home to foster home. There were plenty of horror stories out there about being a ward of the state, but I’d never known any other way to live. For me, moving to a new school, new friends, a new house, it was the way my life had always been. The only resentment I felt was toward my parents who gave me to the State of Texas in the first place, but I boxed up that rejection and kept it in a dark corner of my memories. Until now.
The library was a stern brick building in the heart of Reno. The front was lined with glass windows and large glass doors. Although the lights were still on inside, when I tugged on the brass handle, the doors were locked.
“Damn!” Now that I’d finally admitted I needed to start the search for my parents, I didn’t want to wait. When I spun around to leave, I nearly smacked into a tall man with dark eyes, olive-colored skin, and black shoulder-length hair.
“Sorry about that,” I said, veering to my right.
“Not a problem,” he replied, nodding toward the library. “Is it
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