Page 23 of Bitten Shifter

My instincts prickle, and a warning blares in my head.

“I wouldn’t go in there,” a warm voice calls behind me, breaking my trance.

I spin around to see an elderly woman. She is human, with pale skin, bright blue eyes, and a head of fluffy white curls that remind me of a dandelion gone to seed.

Her smile is wide, kind, and utterly disarming. I can’t help smiling back.

“It’s a wizard’s house,” she says, nodding towards it. “Damn thing’s got a mind of its own. I saw some poor fool try to go in once. He made it as far as the gate before the house blasted him clean across the path—knocked him straight into that big oak.” She gestures to a towering tree nearby and chuckles. “Dumbest thing I ever saw. Nobody’s ever lived there. It just… appeared about fifty years ago and has not moved since. Keeps itself updated, too. Looks like it’s waiting for somebody.”

Her voice drops conspiratorially. “They say a wizard’s house requires a willing soul—a powerful magic user who puts their soul inside it.”

My stomach lurches. “A soul?” I eye the house uneasily, my throat tight. “Really?”

She nods solemnly. “Oh, you know how magic users are. They will do anything to avoid dying like the rest of us. They stick their souls into all sorts of things—lamps, wands, even bloody teapots. Anything to keep themselves going.”

She grins as though she has not just shocked me to my core. “I’m Jo.”

“Hi. Lark.”

“Lark? That’s an unusual name—I like it.” Jo’s grin widens. “Nice to meet you. Are you new to the area?”

“Yes, I just moved in.”

“Oh, lovely! At the Ironworks?” I nod. “How exciting! You must be bright to land a job with the Ministry.” Her eyes sparkle with approval. “Ah, here she is. Sandra, come say hello to our new neighbour, Lark!”

A second figure steps forward. I notice the rich brown of her shifter eyes. Sandra is about my height—wiry and lean, with short, dark hair, deep brown skin, and a vibrant energy that makes her seem hardly twenty-five. She slides her arm around Jo’s waist and leans in with a practised ease.

Sandra focuses on me. “Well, welcome to the neighbourhood, Lark. If you ever need anything, let us know.”

I glance once more at the wizard’s house, feeling its uncanny attention, and murmur, “Thanks. I think I will be needing it.”

“Lark works for the Ministry in IT,” Jo announces proudly.

I blink. I didn’t tell her that.

Sandra catches my surprise and laughs, her voice low and amused. “Don’t look so shocked. Jo here knows everything. She’s the fountain of all local knowledge—and the biggest gossipyou will ever meet. She even handles all the new arrivals shopping, so if you’re missing anything, it’s her fault.”

Jo elbows Sandra in the side, mock-scolding. “Ignore her. She’s always like this. Fifty years together, and she still teases me.”

Fifty years.

Understanding dawns as I glance between them, and everything suddenly makes sense. They are together—together.

It’s the kind of relationship people whisper about. Mixed-species partnerships like theirs are often frowned upon—not always out of overt prejudice, though that’s part of it, but because of the cruel toll time takes. Jo has aged like any human, while Sandra remains frozen in her prime.

If they had met when Jo was younger, she might have had the option of turning. But turning a human into a shifter is perilous after twenty-five. Even if you have the right DNA, the risk of death is high, and the transformation is brutal.

At around fifteen, we’re all tested—not only to see if we’re permitted to have children, but also to check for traces of shifter, magic, or vampire DNA. A few young adults might be eligible for turning, but competition is fierce. It’s the world’s oddest popularity contest, with the highest possible stakes.

Becoming a derivative if you are human is nearly impossible. Governments impose strict quotas, and the odds of being chosen for shifting, spellcasting, or sprouting fangs are worse than those of becoming an astronaut.

Most derivatives today are born into it. For the rest of us, if your genome contains even a hint of derivative DNA but you don’t meet the criteria for turning, you are sterilised.

Just like I was.

If Jo and Sandra met when they were young, Jo must not have fit the criteria either. Yet Sandra stayed. Despite everything, she stayed. And here they are, fifty years on, stillgiggling and teasing, gazing at each other with such tenderness it feels tangible, as though you could reach out and touch it.

Sandra kisses Jo’s head with a gentle affection that makes my chest ache. A lump rises in my throat, and I turn away, swallowing a surge of envy.

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