Page 7 of Not With the Eyes

"He doesn't." Neither did Oberon. Call it the curse of those who lived way too fucking long, though Oberon had nothing on Byron. Enough, though, they'd shared a lonely night or two being sad together on the couch. "Good luck leaving without him and his security measures noticing."

Scones laughed. "What's he going to do? Ground us and send us to bed without dinner? We're adults, and we've signed no contracts. If you really want to help me, I'd be grateful for it. There's very little that can't be done with such an experienced chameleon on my side."

"Flattery is good, keep it up. I'm off to prepare then. I'll meet you here around midnight. Don't be late."

"Never been late a day in my life. I'll be here, love, ready and waiting."

Oberon left, ignoring those words and the undercurrent that made them crackle, like live wire poking out of ripped sheathing.

Up in his room, he set to the cumbersome chore of packing. A tedious chore for normal people, for a shifter it was a whole new level of challenging. Even keeping to clothes that could adapt to various shapes and sizes, he still had all manner of possibilities to account for, while also ensuring he could move quickly and easily, instead of being weighed down by enough luggage for an entire tour bus.

He vastly preferred being able to dress well and beautifully, but for this mission, it would have to be cargo pants, t-shirts, and hoodies. They were the easiest and most forgiving thing to wear, short of something stretchy like sweatpants.

Once he'd finally finished packing clothes, he switched to the other piece of luggage. Tossing the empty case on the bed beside the first one, he went to the northwest corner of his room and shoved aside the trunk of extra blankets and pillows there. He then removed the false panel in the floor and unlocked the gun safe. He could have simply gone to the practical gun store that Byron kept in the basement, but he preferred his own equipment whenever possible.

Two handguns, a pocket piece, an ankle piece, and assorted knives. He was better with the knives than the guns, but his strength had always been not getting into a fight in the first place.

The last item was his packet of identities, everything from various chips to convince networks he was who he said, to old-fashioned paperwork for the rare occasion it was necessary. All the identities had been set up by Dixie, which made them airtight, and he'd made each one similar enough in general build and stature that he wouldn't need to change clothes to shift between them.

After all was finally ready, he went to get a shower. He'd learned the hard way that the best way to start any mission wassqueaky clean because there was no telling when the next chance for a shower would arise.

Once she was clean, she pulled on gray sweatpants and a dark blue tanktop before settling at her desk to take care of some last minute work, ensuring all her identities had more than enough money in their accounts, as did the three backup identities if the first five failed. Next, she double-checked safe houses and stashes. This retrieval mission should be a simple in and out, but the easier a mission seemed, the more likely it was to blow up in their faces—another hard-won lesson.

She'd been more than happy to leave the espionage and rebellion stuff to her husband, happy to be wife, mother, and fashionista. All this murder and intrigue… Well, she'd gotten to be pretty good at it, but it was still far from her favorite thing to do.

By the time all of that was done, it was late enough for dinner, but the last thing Oberon wanted right then was to be surrounded by people who had senses sharply honed to mischief. Instead, she munched on the snacks squirreled away in her room before climbing into bed for a few hours rest before departure.

Thankfully, sleep came, and the nightmares were minimal.

Her alarm chimed at twenty to midnight. 'The time when all witches stir,' her mother had loved to say, in preparation for the witching hour itself. Before life had taken her parents away, the first of many losses. She'd thought old wounds finally healed—as healed as they got—when she'd created a family of her own.

She'd gotten complacent, like a fool.

Oberon made her bed, and then pulled on the clothes she'd left out: black cargo pants, sturdy socks and boots, a light gray tanktop, a forest green t-shirt, and a lightweight heather-gray hoodie. She'd gone with short hair, black and slightly curly,brown eyes, unremarkable, see them and forget them features, ambiguous race. Average height leaning toward short, the kind of figure that wouldn't stand out as one gender or another to most eyes.

All in all, boring. Perfect for the mission at hand, but god, did she hate being boring.

Slinging her bookbag of odds and ends, including the hidden compartment with her alternate identities and other illicit materials, over one shoulder, she hefted her duffle and weapons tote over the other shoulder and headed out.

Scones was already in the hallway, nothing but a black duffle at his feet. He might never get a modeling contract, but Oberon would be lying if she said he wasn't attractive in his own way, especially then, dressed all in black, his hair combed back out of his way, long and lean, always looking ready for violence—like he'd handle it easy.

If only the stupid bastard wasn't the son of the woman that Oberon hated most in the world. Oberon jutted her chin out in a silentare you ready.

Scones rolled his head toward the door, and they headed out.

Oberon drew up short, however, as she registered what waited for them in the driveway. "Your stupid motorcycle? Really? We have our pick of vehicles, and we go with your flashy piece of shit?"

"It's neither flashy nor a piece of shit, thank youverymuch."

"Motorcycles are flashy by their very existence. Soldiers, I swear to god. We're supposed to be lying low—quiet, easily overlooked and forgotten. People are going to remember a man and a woman riding around on an expensive motorcycle."

Laughing, Scones said, "I'm not a complete idiot, you know. My face might be bland as plain toast, but my mind is as sharp as yours."

"Nobody is as sharp as me."

Scones smirked as he swung a leg over the motorcycle. "I said mind, not claws. Now get on. We'll get a new vehicle once we're off the mountain." He offered the spare helmet.

Sighing, Oberon stowed her gear, though it was all a bit much for the poor bike, strapped the helmet in place, and settled behind Scones. He was exactly as well-muscled as he always looked, and warm, almost hot, pleasant against the chilly night air.

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