Frayed: Urban Fantasy/Shifter Mysteries: A Madison Lark Adventure, #1

Dome lights toasted the blood streaking from brow to breastbone, turning it to liquid heat on my flesh. The sensation thrilled like the first touch of a lover, and when I realized it wasn’t mine, the pleasure spike awoke a fever, calling to that part of me that was never human. I wanted to relinquish my human bonds, unleash that feral leopard energy for real, but that was against the rules. This time. Instead, I smiled like the devil and I were sharing a beer in hell and hook-punched Danica, my opponent, in the face. Scarlet splatters filled the air like tiny dancers. I closed my eyes, smiling as the fresh blood caressed my tender eyelids and the hypersensitive pout of my lips.

This is my moment, the point in every fight when they see what they did wrong.

When they see me winning.

Being a semi-pro mixed martial arts fighter was my world. I especially loved the shifter fights. Underground, of course. To some, it was bloody, simple as that. To me, it was an art form. Truthfully, the decision to fight had been made long before graduating from high school ten years ago. My family agreed that it quelled the intense hunting urges of my leopard half and maintained enough excitement to dock my human predisposition for trouble.

Danica, known in the fighting ring as Savage, had her chestnut hair braided in tight neutral cornrows against her skull. Years ago, I cut mine within three inches of being considered a buzz cut, both for fighting and because it looked damn hot. Dyeing it blonde turned out to be one of my better ideas, as well.

Unlike the black spandex covering my thighs and torso, Danica preferred a skimpy gold bikini. It would have been acceptable in a shifter fight. In a human-only forum, however, I was left crossing my fingers that it didn’t shift. I definitely embraced my feminine mystique—flaunting it more than my brother thought appropriate, actually—but there was a time and place. It had been hard enough the last few years for female opponents in our region to gain respect as true fighters. Danica was screwing with that. This made me want to kick the shit-eating grin off her face. So I did.

My lanky five-nine frame tested her fitness like a cat pawing a fat beetle. Aside from rounded hips, we had nothing physically in common. But I spent more time in the gym than at home.

The blows cost Danica a loose tooth. Well earned, was all I could think. The fight was over soon after, the winner's title meaning little considering I barely broke a sweat to earn it. If standards continued to plummet, I’d expect to see them given away on windshields next to the pizza coupons.

In the locker room, Danica and I removed our standard-issue fingerless gloves silently. Between Danica’s russet hue and the sanguine sheen adorning my body from the fight, the spots of clean flesh seemed positively lackluster in comparison. When left to my natural charms, my skin is usually as unique as my family tree.

My paternal grandmother’s family came from Africa many generations ago, some as ebony as it gets. My paternal grandfather was pure Italian, with hair that made me wonder as a child what could be darker than the deepest black, which is the origin of my natural hair color. The rest of my family came from everywhere else, some so achromatic bleach gives them a tan. Born from such diversity, my complexion is a faded hazelnut. My mom has always likened it to a beautiful dusk glow, the kind that tricks your eyes, making them restless to focus in light or darkness, unable to settle on either.

In the middle of this twilight, my mother’s full lips and almond eyes coexist with my grandmother’s prominent nose and shallow bridge. A reminder that the strong women in my family are timeless. The lemon-drop, saffron eyes are all mine, though. I’m the only one in four generations to have marbled kitty-cat eyes in human form.

Growing sick of the standoff, Danica wiggled her front tooth and practically yelled, "Jesus H. Christ, Fray! This is the second time you’re sending me to the dentist. If the two of you don’t have a thang, I’m gonna be pissed!" Her accent was so Southern, it made sweet tea taste bland.

I wish. I forced a laugh, withdrawing deeper into my locker. I’ve got two cavities and no insurance. Though homegrown, I somehow escaped the thicker regional North Carolina dialect. However, if I ventured west of the Mississippi or north of Virginia, I was told differently.

Danica leaned against the doorframe while I searched for a clean set of clothes. The entire room was barely larger than my closet and the lighting still managed to suck. Gray everything didn’t inspire much.

Seriously, if you got a problem, tell me before I need dentures. There’s definitely more to this, she wiggled the damaged tooth, than a straightforward fight.

I stopped digging through the pile and rested my elbows on the edge of the locker, eyes focused on the floor. It’s not personal, Sav. I always addressed her by her fighting persona unless we were out socially. I’m just sick of fighting people who don’t enjoy fighting back. You can’t tell me that you love it. That you look forward to the next one before you’ve even left the ring from the last.

We had fought on and off for the last four years, so I knew Savage wasn’t as bloodthirsty as she once sought to be. Together, we used to give the audience a mind-blowing fight, a pure possession of the soul that left everyone bewitched. It wasn’t there anymore. I wouldn’t hold it against her, though. It would just leave a bad taste in my mouth the next time we sparred.

Le’me tell you something, she started her tirade by saying. Not many people love it the way you do, Fray. Truthfully, not many people can. More sympathetically, Danica mused, I know it means more than Christmas every day to you, but it’s just a job for me. It pays my bills. I get a handful of dates from the press. It’ll be that ‘something’ I brag about to my kids one day…when I have kids. And it keeps me in shape.

Not like it used to.

Her body spiraled to accommodate a front-to-back glance. Are you implying there’s too much T and A on this beanpole? Her smile sprung to life. Intimidated?

I laughed as I glanced at her ass. "Don’t worry, there’s not enough to play bumper cars. Yet. I stressed the last. But there is a little too much if you’re still dreaming of becoming a professional fighter." My comment sobered us back to the moment.

That’s the thing. Maybe I don’t want that anymore. Or any of this. I may look fine as hell, but I’m still thirty-two, Fray. What am I supposed to do when I’m thirty-five? Or forty-five? Not this shit. I wanna do something that really matters. Do you understand that? If you’re smart, you’ll start making other plans, too.

My jaw dropped as I grabbed a wad of clothes blindly. You’re leaving for good, then?

Her head bobbed slowly. Now she was staring at the floor.

When?

No set date. I’ll stick around a little longer, make sure I get a sick farewell. And I guess I’ll be spending more time in the gym. Thanks for the complex.

I was genuinely stunned. Wow. I noticed you were getting sloppy, but I didn’t expect this.

Keep talking. Maybe it’ll inspire me to stay. I started to tell her I didn’t mean it like that, but she interrupted with a smile. I know what you meant. We’ll talk about it later. Not right now. I’ve got a date.

She glided down the short row of lockers and disappeared behind the last one. Just think about what I said. The words echoed off the walls.

I was left standing in her wake, yelling, They’ll have to kick my ass out! I won’t ever fucking quit!

I slammed my locker shut.

It caught me totally by surprise when a man cleared his throat.

I swiveled on bare heels to find it was no man. It was my brother.

Darien stood, arms crossed, legs shoulder-width apart. Imposing, considering he was six five, barefoot. Just enough gel tamed his thick hair. It wasn’t a particularly striking or inspirational brown, more the color of mud. His skin was only darker than mine by two or so shades. He looked like our Italian ancestors, but his smile was pure Dad. I hadn’t seen the original in six months because our father belonged to a different lepe.

Every band of like shifters has a label. North Carolina has four lepes, which are exclusively leopard. I’m part of the Western Lepe, living alongside the Ararat River. Since the divorce twenty-two years ago, our mother, Claire, kept the house, remarried, and gave me and Darien a half-sister, Tawny. Our father, Lane, kept his sanity by joining the Northern Lepe five hours away. Over the years, Darien’s made frequent visits, but the politics involved for a traveling single female are harrowing. Typical patriarchal bullshit. So I see our father whenever he’s able to venture my way, which normally means once a year.

Darien loomed in front of me. He was the most dangerous-looking thirty-five-year-old I knew. No one ever suspected he was a mild-mannered accountant with a lot of spare time and a gym membership. To be fair, he spent a lot of that time helping me train.

What are you doing here?

We need to talk, Madison.

Only my family ever calls me Madison. Everyone else—in and out of the ring—usually calls me Fray.

I prefer Fray.

Can it wait ’til after my shower?

No. He stepped closer and stopped abruptly. You smell like roadkill.

I warned you. My laughter escaped before I saw a man step up beside him. Who’s he? And more importantly, Why didn’t I sense him? Suspicion hijacked the little voice in my head.

The stranger’s khaki fedora strangely categorized him as a dick. A private eye, that is. Maybe an updated version.

Darien stepped between us. Take your shower, then we’ll talk.

Annoyed, I spat, Then get the fuck out of the women’s locker room, and carried my stuff wordlessly down the claustrophobic hall to the showers.

Less than five minutes later, I was out and toweled off. I pulled a thin fuchsia T-shirt over my wet head. It plunged into a V-neck down my back. Inadvertently, I had grabbed the shirt my brother hated the most. It perfectly framed a large portion of the tribal tattoo Darien forbade me to get when I had turned seventeen. Overbearing brother much? The short sleeves also left small rose-tinted tattoos visible on the soft skin of my inner wrists, the product of yet another fight before I turned nineteen.

Next, I practically leapt into my charcoal stretch denim before slipping on a pair of open-toed sandals. The summer had proved too stagnant for most types of material. Shifters have above average body temperatures, but I also love a good pair of jeans, no matter the season.

After running my hands through my hair, which left the majority of it spiky, I checked the mirror once, threw my stuff into a large black bucket purse, and raced out to find my brother.

He and the stranger stood in the empty orange hallway that led to the parking lot when I turned the corner and almost mowed them down. The