Trouble with Gargoyles: an Urban Fantasy (Moonlight Dragon Book 3) by Tricia Owens
Authors: Tricia Owens
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to be careful in there. Let me do the talking. No matter how much you want to, do not butt in, okay? I need you to watch my back while I'm dealing with whoever I end up dealing with. Got it?"
She squared her shoulders. "Monkey's got your six!"
I blinked at her. "Where'd you hear that?"
"From the movies!"
"You dork." I patted her on the head before turning and ducking inside the opening.
It must have been activated to close as quickly as possible because it nearly chopped off Melanie's feet, forcing her to leap at me with a high pitched yelp. I caught her and staggered backward into the room. My butt bounced off a table and I heard the clink of glassware a moment before something cold soaked into the seat of my shorts.
"Watch it!"
"Sorry," I blurted to the table's occupant before I twisted around to see who it was.
It was my turn to gape.
The teenager—I could see that she must be around Orlaton's age—was no ordinary teen. She existed in a state of half-transformation, her acne spotted face surrounded by a crown of sleek brown feathers that poured in a waterfall down the back of her head and over her neck and collarbones to the boatneck top she wore. Her arms were bare but the hands that mopped at the spill I'd made weren't hands; her arms ended in knobby toes with talons. The talons were painted pink.
"Owl," Melanie whispered, again, too loudly. "She's an owl shifter. How cool!"
I agreed. I didn't often see bird shifters, much less owls, in mid-shift like this girl. Did it hurt? Did your brain need to make an extra effort to parse commands and respond to impulses sent from the different species body parts?
Intrigued, I lifted my gaze to take in the room and the rest of its occupants. The Keyhole was a speakeasy for shapeshifters, a fact which was obvious once you got a look at the clientele. It was a veritable zoo and it sort of smelled like one, what with all the fur and feathers on display. But there was also the scent of perfume and cologne because not every shifter here was in their magickal form. Some, like this young owl, had chosen to shift only partway.
Cool, ambient lighting in blues and purples glowed on huge, curving horns and wings made of feathers and leathery skin. Movement made the light dance off scales both small and large, creating a continuous series of rainbows leaping throughout the room. The music was low and the conversation was strange: hisses, grunts, and chirps all caught by swiveling, oftentimes furred, ears. The floor and the spaces between chairs and sofas were alive with the movement of tails. Lots and lots of tails. They wagged, wiggled, and slithered.
Layout-wise, the room mirrored the regular bar outside, though it was much more crowded, which gave it the impression of being narrower. Nothing like a shoebox full of strange creatures that evidently weren't intimidated by the Oddsmakers. A gathering place like this shouldn't exist according to the magickal bosses, but apparently enforcing that unspoken rule had fallen by the wayside. Why? Was it to keep the peace and allow the shifters the illusion of free will? Or did the Oddsmakers fear an uprising if they tried to step in? That seemed silly to me after having sort of met the Oddsmakers and seen how inexplicably powerful they were. They had nothing to fear from these creatures.
The bar here was manned by a woman wearing the same uniform as the guy out front. Here, her drinks were being made with magick. As I approached the bar with Melanie tucked in close behind and helpfully concealing my wet butt, the bartender finished mixing something that bubbled wildly and formed glittering butterflies above the lip of the glass. Other patrons' drinks seemed to be similarly enhanced. They self-iced, leaked smoke that curled into shapes, or in a few cases appeared to be bottomless no matter how much was consumed.
We sidled up to the bar between a pair of women who were fox shifters in mid-shift and a big, white wolf that sat at the base
She squared her shoulders. "Monkey's got your six!"
I blinked at her. "Where'd you hear that?"
"From the movies!"
"You dork." I patted her on the head before turning and ducking inside the opening.
It must have been activated to close as quickly as possible because it nearly chopped off Melanie's feet, forcing her to leap at me with a high pitched yelp. I caught her and staggered backward into the room. My butt bounced off a table and I heard the clink of glassware a moment before something cold soaked into the seat of my shorts.
"Watch it!"
"Sorry," I blurted to the table's occupant before I twisted around to see who it was.
It was my turn to gape.
The teenager—I could see that she must be around Orlaton's age—was no ordinary teen. She existed in a state of half-transformation, her acne spotted face surrounded by a crown of sleek brown feathers that poured in a waterfall down the back of her head and over her neck and collarbones to the boatneck top she wore. Her arms were bare but the hands that mopped at the spill I'd made weren't hands; her arms ended in knobby toes with talons. The talons were painted pink.
"Owl," Melanie whispered, again, too loudly. "She's an owl shifter. How cool!"
I agreed. I didn't often see bird shifters, much less owls, in mid-shift like this girl. Did it hurt? Did your brain need to make an extra effort to parse commands and respond to impulses sent from the different species body parts?
Intrigued, I lifted my gaze to take in the room and the rest of its occupants. The Keyhole was a speakeasy for shapeshifters, a fact which was obvious once you got a look at the clientele. It was a veritable zoo and it sort of smelled like one, what with all the fur and feathers on display. But there was also the scent of perfume and cologne because not every shifter here was in their magickal form. Some, like this young owl, had chosen to shift only partway.
Cool, ambient lighting in blues and purples glowed on huge, curving horns and wings made of feathers and leathery skin. Movement made the light dance off scales both small and large, creating a continuous series of rainbows leaping throughout the room. The music was low and the conversation was strange: hisses, grunts, and chirps all caught by swiveling, oftentimes furred, ears. The floor and the spaces between chairs and sofas were alive with the movement of tails. Lots and lots of tails. They wagged, wiggled, and slithered.
Layout-wise, the room mirrored the regular bar outside, though it was much more crowded, which gave it the impression of being narrower. Nothing like a shoebox full of strange creatures that evidently weren't intimidated by the Oddsmakers. A gathering place like this shouldn't exist according to the magickal bosses, but apparently enforcing that unspoken rule had fallen by the wayside. Why? Was it to keep the peace and allow the shifters the illusion of free will? Or did the Oddsmakers fear an uprising if they tried to step in? That seemed silly to me after having sort of met the Oddsmakers and seen how inexplicably powerful they were. They had nothing to fear from these creatures.
The bar here was manned by a woman wearing the same uniform as the guy out front. Here, her drinks were being made with magick. As I approached the bar with Melanie tucked in close behind and helpfully concealing my wet butt, the bartender finished mixing something that bubbled wildly and formed glittering butterflies above the lip of the glass. Other patrons' drinks seemed to be similarly enhanced. They self-iced, leaked smoke that curled into shapes, or in a few cases appeared to be bottomless no matter how much was consumed.
We sidled up to the bar between a pair of women who were fox shifters in mid-shift and a big, white wolf that sat at the base
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