Page 1 of The (Maybe) Murderer Who Knocked Me Up

1

SEQUIN

Iwake to the familiar sway of a hammock. My brothers surround me in a cocoon of warmth. The fuzzy fur from their raccoon forms is better than any pillow, even if I am a bit squashed. I love waking up every morning snuggled up to them. It’s the only time we cuddle these days.

Someone stretches their paw across my muzzle. It must be Link because he smells terrible. I twist to avoid inhaling the raw stench of his BO, and someone else’s paw pushes into my lower back.

Maybe we’re getting too big for this.

Link twists around and grabs for the rope at the edge of the hammock with his tiny black paws. When he gets to where the hammock is nailed to the wall, he launches himself off the rope and spreads his limbs wide, like a flying squirrel. Predictably, he doesn’t fly. Instead, he lands in the pile of pillows collected under the hammock for this exact purpose. The quiet thump makes Silver stir next to me. Any hope I had of sleeping longer is dashed as each of my brothers wake up and take turns jumpingonto the pillows. One by one, they expand into their human forms and go searching for their clothes.

Silver waits until all the others except me are gone before he jumps down. Like his name suggests, his hair is a shiny silver. Despite being an alpha, he’s the prettiest of us, with the biggest hazel eyes I’ve ever seen and full lips that have kissed more than his share of omegas. His naked arms and chest are toned, and he moves with the same sleek grace as our alpha mom, who’s an arctic fox shifter.

The rest of us look like plain old raccoon shifters. Brown hair, light brown skin, and large brown eyes. Because raccoon shifters always bond to a mate of a different shifter species, we have a bit of everything in us. Our omega mom claims we only inherit the best bits—that raccoon shifters are the height of evolution.

Link’s body odor would suggest otherwise.

I jump down to the pile of pillows last, like I do with everything else. I’m the runt of the litter—the five-foot-nothing shrimp next to Link’s hulking six-foot frame. I’ve been trying to keep up with my brothers’ long legs my entire life, and this morning is no different. As soon as I yank on some clothes, I dash down the hall toward the kitchen.

Shiny streamers that say “Happy Birthday!” hang from the chandelier over the dining room table. Which is a little bold, because the drywall above the chandelier is already cracked from the weight of the light fixture. Ceilings of double-wide trailers aren’t built to handle that sort of thing.

Our omega mom doesn’t care. She loves chandeliers, so we have three of them. The one in the living room is even bigger. She comes bustling into the kitchen with two plates of pancakes. She has seven earrings on each ear, dozens of bangles on her wrists, and too many necklaces to count, even though she’s still in her flannel pajamas, and her long brown hair is in a messy bun. That’s pretty standard for her. In her bedroom she has asign that says, “Less is not more. More is more. That’s why they call it more.”

Our alpha mom comes in next with the bacon and eggs. She’s wearing coveralls with her plumbing company’s logo on the right shoulder, and her white hair is pulled up in a ponytail. “Happy magic paw day!”

Our omega mom swats her ass playfully. “It isn’t called that, and you know it.”

The two of them kiss. With tongue. It’s too much to see before breakfast. Most couples who have been bonded for twenty years aren’t like this. You’d think they’d get sick of sucking each other’s faces off after a few decades.

Link grabs a pancake from one of the plates and takes a bite. That gets our alpha mom’s attention.

“Jesus, Link. Put it on a plate and use utensils.”

Link grins at her and takes another bite.

Our omega mom rolls her eyes. “He’s just trying to get us to stop kissing. When you have kits of your own, Link, and you want to kiss your mate, we’ll see how you like it when they interrupt.”

Grandpop walks in with a stack of plates, and Aunt Emerald has the silverware. Link and mom banter back and forth as everyone helps set the table. The clinking of plates and the hum of conversation is comforting. Big families are loud, and I’ve always liked that. The noise reminds you that you’re not alone.

We all sit down before anyone realizes we don’t have any water or coffee, then the noise starts up again as several people file into the kitchen for glasses, mugs, and the coffee pot. I should be helping, but I just watch them all. This is the last birthday we’ll wake up together and have breakfast—the last birthday we’ll walk to school together. After eighteen years of spending every day next to my brothers, I can’t imagine what it will be like when they’re gone.

Our omega mom takes the hand of both people sitting next to her and closes her eyes. We all follow suit.

“Mother Goddess of Fate, we bow to you today. Bless our boys’ paws, that they may find true love, and bless Link to remember his table manners when he meets the parents of his true love, so they don’t think he’s feral. Amen.”

Laughter ripples through the room.

Aunt Emerald clinks her glass with a fork. “Happy Becoming Day! I can’t believe you’re already eighteen years old. It feels like you were newborn kits just yesterday.”

The day of a raccoon shifter’s eighteenth birthday is called our Becoming Day. That’s when we’re able to select a mate. According to Grandpop, it’s possible at sixteen, but Mom shushed him when he said that, and insisted he was wrong.

Unlike other shifters, Fate doesn’t choose our mates for us. She lets us decide. When we’ve picked the person we want to bond to, we shift into our raccoon form and place our front paws on their chest. That will create a physical reaction between us and our lover that is exactly like what fated mates experience when they meet each other for the first time: overwhelming lust, infatuation, the whole nine yards.

But there’s a catch. Our mate has to choose us, too. If the connection remains only physical, and no real love develops between us, then the lust and infatuation will fizzle out and die. So we have to choose wisely.

We can only put our paws on one person. If it doesn’t work out with them, we lose our ability to bond to anyone.

Our omega mom clears her throat. “It’s tradition for your elders to give you advice on your Becoming Day. And since I am an elder now—” She turns to Aunt Emerald and winces. “Here’s my advice: Choosing a mate is like getting a tattoo. Technically, you can do it when you’re eighteen, but you shouldn’t. Give it a few years, or you’ll have regrets.”

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