Page 29 of Stroke of Shadows

He had to prove himself to the same people who would see him dead if they really knew who he was.

With a smirk Sythe tightened the shadows wrapped around his body, keeping himself blended into the darkness entirely. He’d gained the ability not long after his fifth birthday, much to the confusion of his sperm donor. The skill only heightened over time, to the point not even a vampire could sense him when he was within the shadows.

A few of the Guardians had their own unique abilities inherited from their mothers, but his was the coolest.

Not that he knew his mother. He suspected she was Fae, possibly even a wraith. But he would never know, and honestly, he didn’t care. Maybe once he’d been interested, but not in a long time. Not since he found out she was paid to birth him. A monetary agreement between two people, as simple as buying socks.

How wonderful.

It didn’t matter where he came from, or who his parents were. All he cared about was the family he had now. They were the reason he’d survived his childhood, and now he’d risk everything to keep them safe.

Confident enough time had passed, Sythe released the shadows and stepped out into the light. It was late as he walked inside the grungy bar, the decor just as he’d expected. The tables were both sticky and dirty, and the patrons were not much better. Broken licence plates were nailed to the wall, as well as a few newspaper clippings that were mainly various shots of women with little to no clothes.

“What can I get you?” the bartender said with a rasp only a chain-smoker could have.

“Whisky on the rocks.”

With a nod, the bartender turned, and Sythe slipped into the seat at the edge of the bar. The place was reasonably quiet, with only a few of the tables at the back occupied. It wasn’t hard to spot the one he came for, the man tall, with wide shoulders and dark green eyes that were slightly glazed. He’d already had a few beers, the glasses covering the table in front of him.

“Whisky,” the bartender grunted, not bothering with a coaster as he placed the drink on the bar.

Sythe handed over the money, the cheap liquor burning as it went down. He was pretty sure it was anything but fucking whisky, more like petrol. But still he drank, looking over the rim at Ricky Sanders.

Thirty-five, a non-predatory stag shifter from Aberdeen, Scotland. Mr Sanders had moved to London three years prior, registering as a loner. It wasn’t a surprise, considering there were no herds in London, the wolves controlling the majority of the city. Not that there weren’t mixed shifter groups, but it was kind of hard for predator and prey to co-exist without the risk of being eaten.

Sythe had to prove himself, and what better way than to beat the shit out of a Breed in the name of the fucking Light? A shifter that wasn’t simply a stag according to a tip off from one of his Network, but a man who liked the company of those underage.

Poetic fucking justice, Sythe thought, downing the rest of his drink.

He stared at the glass for a few seconds, repulsed by the dirty smears and fingerprints. Gripping it harder, he turned and threw it straight into Ricky’s face. The glass shattered on impact, the force pushing him from his seat.

There was a moment of perfect silence, everyone frowning at the glittering glass with an almost sluggish response. It lasted a few heartbeats before Ricky regained his composure, nostrils flaring wildly.

“I hear you’re a doe,” Sythe taunted, adding a slight slur to his words. “Come on, big boy, show me your horns.” He needed a show, something big enough there’d be no doubt of his loyalty.

“You stupid prick,” Ricky sneered, the skin at his temple rippling. “I’m going to enjoy breaking your face.”

Sythe chuckled, making sure the sound carried across the room. Half of the patrons were too drunk to interfere, and the other half too scared.

There was little warning before Ricky tossed the table to the side as if it weighed nothing. Which, to be fair, the tables did look like they were made of cheap wood and likely weighed nothing, anyway. The crash made an impressive sound, splinters flying in all directions as everyone jumped out of the way.

Sythe braced himself, knowing he had to accept a few shots to make it believable. No human would take on a fight with a shifter and leave without a single mark.

“Hey!” the bartender bellowed, clutching a bat in his meaty fists. “No shifting.” He wildly gestured to a sign hung between all the licence plates, indeed stating the rules.

1. No eating.

2. No shifting.

3. No pissing.

“No pissing?” Sythe muttered. “What happened for that to be a… oomph.”

Ricky tackled him around the waist, taking them both down hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. Sythe let out a grunt at the impact, pulling up his arms to protect his face. The punches made his bones ache, but each hit was uncoordinated and desperate. Ricky wasn’t a fighter, and the thought he’d targeted kids made everything that was about to happen that much sweeter.

Catching the next hit, Sythe rolled until he was on top with Ricky pinned beneath. “You couldn’t at least buy me a drink first,” he quipped, punching Ricky right on the nose. He didn’t use all his strength, not wanting to kill him. Yet.

Ricky’s temple split, antlers tearing through the skin with an uncomfortable squelch. Sythe had witnessed enough shifters change forms in his lifetime, and each time it always made him cringe. Taking anything from twenty seconds to several minutes, the transformation wasn’t a pretty one.

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