Page 8 of Jack of All Trades

“Witch and shifter. I don’t know his lineage, though. I don’t believe anyone does.”

It made sense. Back in the distant past, it was frowned upon to be anything but a full-blooded shifter or witch, or anything except the gods and demigods. “I’ll be damned.”

“Can we get on with it? I’m tired of talk of that man.”

“Sure,” Jack said as he started to unbutton his shirt. “Let’s get on with it.”

Chapter Three

Arriving home just beforemidnight, Jack didn’t bother to undress, he just climbed into his bunk and fell almost instantly asleep.

That, he regretted.

Another dream as disturbing as the first. He was running down a dirt road, the sound of his claws on the hard-packed earth distracting. Fast breathing, the vapor of which clouded his vision of the road ahead, the night falling darker and darker as the way led to the same bleak forest from the previous dream.

Then, up ahead, Jack saw a figure, and he knew instinctively the man ahead of him was running from Jack. Why, Jack couldn’t guess, except he felt fear from the man, in sick, thick waves.

Jack felt that he wanted to feed. The dream-Jack wanted to tear into the man, scratching through his chest, ribs, and breastbone, and get to the man’s rapidly beating heart until he could see the heart beating in his chest, pumping blood. Jackwould set his mouth over it, closing his immense jaws until the heart popped like a hard candy filled with delicious juice…

Waking up in a cold sweat again, barely holding in the scream, Jack sat straight up, hugging himself until his breathing slowed enough for him to be able to swallow. The thing was, when he swallowed, he tasted blood.

He climbed down from the bunk and hurried to the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him. In the mirror, he saw the blood on his lips, the blood he’d tasted. He was ghostly white, his eyes wide in terror, so that blood stood out macabrely.

Jack ran the water until it was as cold as he could get it, then scrubbed over his face, slurping water into his mouth to clean the blood. When he looked back in the mirror, he saw that he’d bitten his lip.

Turning away from the mirror, Jack leaned back on the sink, the glare of his pale face too much for what was going through his mind. He’d wanted to bite that heart so badly that he’d bitten his own lip.

The skyline of the city helped to calm his racing heart. That was remarkable, really, as he hadn’t any special affinity for the city except it had been an escape from his family. Still, it was home. Maybe that was all he’d needed—a place that felt like home.

He showered and got ready for the day before his roommates woke, and crowded into the bathroom. Hair dripping over his shoulders, Jack stared into the mirror, glad he had some pink back in his cheeks.

The problem was, Jack barely recognized himself. It was the same face he’d seen in the mirror thousands of times, of course. Square jawline, depressed cheeks, bright eyes, and full lips. But when he looked in the mirror, he expected to see another face completely. Why, Jack didn’t know. For the first time in his life, his own face felt foreign to him.

He practically ran from that mirror, the terror from the nightmare coming back to him. Ignoring his need for coffee, he got on the bus to head straight to work, though he’d be two hours early.

That was fine, he thought. Anything to get the job over and done with would suit him just fine. Now that he thought about it, the strange feelings had begun when he’d started that job, around that hateful man.

On the roof, Jack placed a sheet of metal over the hole, screwing it into the reinforced beams. A warehouse didn’t have shingles, but he added a few to the top of the metal. After he moved to the next section, he reinforced more, and stepped carefully over the new beam, only to feel another soft spot in the metal. Carefully, he sat and realized another two feet would need fixing.

To tell Graves that the entire roof would need replacing, well, that wasn’t something Jack wanted to tell him. A handyman wouldn’t be able to take on a job of that size.

At least he wouldn’t be the one working on it. He didn’t do full roofs, and couldn’t, even if he did. He’d need an entire crew. A smile came to his lips as he thought about it, how pissed the recluse would be, having a whole crew of men there working right above his precious cars.

Descending the ladder, he got to the bottom and grabbed the bottle of water he’d brought, slugging it down while he watched the clouds overhead, dark and brooding, ready to cover the world from the sky.

The darkness it brought was eerie and reminded him too much of his dreams. He could feel himself walking through that forest, shadows everywhere, moving, ready to jump out at him, but he wasn’t afraid of the shadows. He was more frightened of himself.

“Already finished?” Graves asked, making Jack jump in surprise.

He set the bottle down on the ground and said, “No. I just needed some water. I do need to speak with you about the roof, though. It may be worse than I first thought.”

“Of course, it is,” he sneered. “You’ll take longer, needing more money, no doubt.”

He was wearing a long leather coat, black and shining despite the low light. That didn’t seem out of place for Maltin Graves, and his beauty, his amazing eyes that sliced into him like a thousand daggers.

“No, the opposite, in fact. I can’t do an entire roof on my own, no matter the money or the time.”

His brows drew together, yet no crease came between them. His skin was so perfectly smooth, it was creepy. “Oh? You’re admitting defeat? I didn’t see that in you.”

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