2. Mabel

Chapter 2

Iopen my eyes and groan. My mouth tastes nasty. I'm still in my clothes from last night. And the clock on the wall says it's half past two in the afternoon.

Dammit.

For a moment, I lie in bed, as if my pillows and blankets can delay the inevitable. Sunlight streams past the gauzy curtains and tall windows of my bedroom. Faint sounds come from the street outside, but they're fairly calm despite the fact Mardi Gras is going on. My family chose this quiet street generations ago, and thankfully it hasn't gotten so gentrified in the years since that tourists find it particularly interesting.

Nope, nothing here to draw attention, and just enough privacy that we never have to worry about nosy neighbors spotting… well, anything.

Doesn't mean I don't have to be careful though.

I sit up and scrub a hand over my face—checking first that it's not covered in anything gross. "Okay, Creepy, what'd you do?"

The sensation of a chuckle and a grin from deep inside my mind is the only answer.

But it's enough.

"Just tell me you didn't kill whoever it was here in the house."

A dry, offended feeling comes up, so strong my own eyebrow twitches as if it wants to arch at the question.

"Oh, please. Like you haven't made that mistake before."

Bulging eyes narrow. She doesn't like to be reminded of the times she's messed up.

I sigh. "Fine. Could you at least try brushing our teeth before we pass out next time?"

A glower. She hates toothpaste, no matter what flavor I buy. It's not like it does much for her teeth anyway.

I roll my eyes and swing my legs out of bed. There aren't any blood spots where I can see, but I'll run the UV light over this place later just to be sure.

Ah, the joys of life as a Jekyll.

Over the centuries, supernatural scholars have held plenty of theories as to what we are. Our Jekyll sides look human—regular skin, regular eyes, teeth that have seen a dentist in our lifetimes—while it's really just a free-for-all with the Hydes. Because of the Hydes, though, scholars lump us in with monsters, even if it's a rough connection at best. Gargoyles, wraiths, and so on aren't the same as us on multiple levels, not the least of which is that they know they don't come from this world. We're fairly certain we do, though since our origins are murky, we can't be one hundred percent sure.

But throughout history, there've been theories about us, practically one for every age. In ancient times, some people called us children of Janus, the god with two faces. Others said we were connected to Hathor, the Egyptian goddess of multiple forms, or Kali, the Indian goddess with several aspects. Then Christianity came along and colonized whole chunks of the world, and in those places, we were suddenly considered souls possessed by Satan, in need of exorcism or—when that failed—death to save us.

Not fun.

Robert Louis Stevenson ambled in several centuries later, writing the book that gave us our current names, though he got more than a few details wrong. Eventually, modern medicine jumped on the "explain us" train, with supernatural doctors trying to say we were byproducts of radiation or shapeshifter twins conjoined in unusual ways. Then came psychology, which our Hydes never really trusted. It didn't get any easier when those professionals claimed the Hydes were really just suppressed emotions or figments of our imagination that we could be counseled or medicated out of possessing, because they actually only existed in our minds.

Yeah, folks didn't hang on to that theory for long—and not just because the Hydes liked to prove their existence by eating the ones espousing it.

But as much as I know the rest of the supernatural world would like a way to explain our kind, the reality is, it doesn't much matter. We may not have legends telling where we came from like the wolf shifters do, or ancient origin stories like the vampires claim, but we have a calling and our Hydes do too.

Though in their case, it's one that tastes awful and sometimes gets a bit messy.

A hot shower and a visit with my toothbrush later, I'm feeling enough like myself to face what remains of the day and so I head for the stairs. There are three other doors in the hall on this level, and four more on the next floor down. They're all closed, same as they always are unless some of my associates are passing through and need a place to stay.

In their circles—the circles of the underground that save supernaturals from being the victims of predatory humans called traders—this house is code-named La Fleur, and it offers a place for all kinds of people to hide.

But right now, my home is so empty, so quiet, that the high ceiling makes my footsteps echo and I can hear every creak of the old wooden floor as I walk.

The sounds are all familiar and comforting in their way, as are the smells of herbs and flowers that carry from the ground floor and give the house its code name. I hang those everywhere, partly for use in the magical spells I concoct for clients and partly for comfort. Just one more way to ground myself back in who I am. What I'm doing.

The life I've built in my family home, even if I'm the only one left here.

Creepy glowers at me again from the darkness of my mind. She doesn't like to be reminded of that either.

The fact we're alone.

I exhale sharply, reminding her it's for the best. Mom and Dad passed away years ago, and as far as family is concerned, that just leaves Auntie, who lives in the Appalachian Mountains so she can protect the locals there, and Uncle—her brother—who lives out in the Pacific Northwest for the same reason. And yeah, there used to be more of us. People who weren't my relatives. Other families my parents mentioned from time to time. But life saw fit to fuck that up too, and since I never met any of those folks and they've never tried to come visit, by this point I'm guessing none of them are still alive.

Add to that the fact we can't just tell what one another is on sight—as Jekylls, we look the same as any other human on the street—and that means Creepy and I haven't laid eyes on one of own kind in years.

Truth is, there just aren't enough of us anymore, so the ones who are left spread out and help where we can. And besides, we're doing fine on our own.

If we don't get too close to anyone, we can't really lose anyone else, now can we?

She mumbles unhappily in my mind, but she doesn't argue. She knows I'm right.

I push open the swinging kitchen door and freeze. "Oh, for the gods' sakes, Creepy. Are you kidding me?"

A foot sticks halfway out of the stew pot. Another rests on the butcher block. There's gnaw marks on the ankles and a big black garbage bag tied up in the corner. I don't have to guess what's inside.

She's been busy.

"Dammit, you don't bring bodies here either! You—" I spot his keys on the counter beside my jars of spices. My heart sinks at the twisted symbol on his keychain. "Oh, fuck."

A trader.

I squeeze my eyes shut, muttering more curses to myself. But I know what Creepy must've thought. That this is fair. A twisted form of justice, even. After all, traders sell bits of supernaturals at their secret markets—when they aren't throwing supernatural kids into cages to fight, selling them as pets, or grinding up the adults' organs for powders, anyway. So why not return the favor?

"We don't do blood magic, you idiot. Or sell bits for it either. And this… Dammit, this is how we end up in a cage too."

She recoils in my mind. She doesn't like cages.

"Yeah, exactly." I scowl, but even without her watching me, I know my expression is half-hearted. "How'd you find him? Was he hauling in a shipment of supernatural kids or what?"

Images pelt me, hard and fast like I've pissed her off. I cringe back from the onslaught, one hand catching on the counter and bracing me.

It takes a minute for me to find my voice again. "We could have called the cops. Stopped him and then tried to get the woman to press charges."

Now I'm the idiot as far as she's concerned.

"Fine. But he's a trader. If he operates with any kind of crew, they're bound to come looking for him."

I can feel her grinning like that's a good thing.

"Cage, remember? This shit is a real quick way to get locked up, and then you don't get to stop the bad ones ever again."

She sulks at that, like it's my fault the criminal justice system doesn't look more favorably on vigilantes.

But then, that's hardly the only problem. Your average human cop or FBI agent doesn't have a clue we exist. Even that damned secret organization known as the Government-Sanctioned Slayers—a.k.a. the GSS—seems to think we're just a myth.

It really needs to stay that way.

"Look, just stop bringing bodies home. This is a safe house, remember? It's not helpful. And if you do that for me, then…" I rack my brain for the bargaining chip least likely to get me arrested. "We can go play with the gators this weekend, all right?"

She grins so wide, it makes my lip flinch.

I exhale, trying to ease her back gently. "Good. It's a deal. So now just stay put, don't fuss, and don't interfere, okay?" I head for the closet where my disposable gloves and bleach are stored. "I'll get rid of the body."

One of the first things you learn as a young Jekyll is how to clean up after your Hyde. It's right up there with tying your shoelaces on the list of life skills Jekyll parents teach their children. So by the time sunset rolls around, no one would ever know my kitchen recently played host to an impromptu episode of Dexter or that my specially designed furnace burns so hot because it just made dust out of a body.

But gods, it's exhausting.

It's past sunset by the time I finish, and as I'm packing up the last of my cleaning supplies, my phone rings.

"Men suck," my friend Tamira says before I can even say hello. "You still coming out for drinks tonight?"

I laugh. "I take it things didn't work out with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Tiger Shifter?"

"Is it a red flag when he's more interested in asking about your family pedigree than whether you're okay after you got food poisoning on your last date?"

I tuck the bleach back into the closet. "Pretty sure it is, yeah."

She sighs. "Why are all the good supernatural guys taken?"

I chuckle. "Oh, I've got no answer to that."

Truth is, I've tried a few dates with non-Jekylls and even had a handful of relationships with supernaturals that lasted maybe a few months or even upwards of a year. But while shifters or vampires can understand being supernatural, and some can even understand having a side of you that isn't quite sane, it's still hard to explain to someone else what it's like to have a Hyde.

To say nothing of what it's like for any potential partners to live with one.

But whatever Jekylls are still out there are scattered around the world. We don't have meetups or annual conventions, and for our own safety, we never mention what we are on the internet, not even in code. The Government-Sanctioned Slayers have eyes everywhere, and even in the supernatural world, bigotry is real. But that much distance and silence doesn't leave a lot of opportunity for dating among my kind—or even knowing each other exists.

Meaning I've never laid eyes on a Jekyll guy, much less had the chance to date one.

"Well, whatever, right?" Tamira rallies. "His loss. See you at Final Toast in twenty?"

Creepy does a little dance in my head. She loves that bar. The owner really leaned into the whole "death" vibe with dark walls, flickering lights, and eerie decor reminiscent of a gothic horror aesthetic from the Victorian age. The bar is located in an old mortuary not far from one of New Orleans' many cemeteries, and even if it's technically a human establishment, it's still a favorite hangout for a number of the supernaturals in the area. I hear the vampires even have a tourism guidebook that suggests it.

"Yup."

I hang up and glance around the kitchen, checking for anything left to do, but there's nothing.

Nobody cleans like a Jekyll.

My eyes land on the drawer in the kitchen island where I hid the trader's keychain, and my skin crawls. I called my contacts while I was cleaning, warning them about what Creepy and I found. They're going to keep an eye out, same as ever, and everyone will do their best to spot any of the traders' potential secret markets that might crop up. But there's every possibility he wasn't here on "business" this weekend—at least, not the capturing supernaturals kind—and without a trail to follow or evidence of other traders in the area, there isn't much more to be done.

The whole situation means Tamira isn't the only one who could use a drink right now.

Nineteen minutes later, I've changed into a short emerald dress that goes well with the pink streaks in my hair; I've got on my strappy black sandals that I've worn enough times to know they won't give me blisters, and I'm walking through the door of Final Toast.

"Oh my God, Mabel." Tamira comes rushing up to me. She's wearing a sleek gold dress that ends at mid-thigh and tall black boots that hug her calves tightly. Her dark hair is pulled up in a collection of intricate braids tonight, fastened by a glistening hair clip I'm pretty sure I lent her ages ago, and her amber skin is dusted with gold powder on her sharp cheekbones. She looks every bit the gorgeous hyena shifter she is, underneath the human disguise.

Hyena shifters are like Jekylls in their way. Misunderstood. Assumed to be one thing when really, they're quite another. Yes, the hyena side can be vicious, same as a Hyde. Yes, there are stories of people who've lost control, who've become monsters in more than just title. There's always a danger when you live with a predator inside you that someday it will snap.

But in reality, that's an issue for any species, even humans. They may not have the same force inside them that we do, but it's still a risk. And regardless, we're more than that. Hyena shifters and Jekylls can be loyal and protective of friends and strangers alike, and we know more than many people do about seeing the world from the outside. I think it's part of why Tamira and I have been friends ever since her parents came to New Orleans looking for mine because they needed a magical specialist to help their daughter balance out those sides.

"What's wrong?" I ask her, but she just grins.

"You have to come see these guys."

My brow climbs. "That's fast, even for you."

She throws me a half-heartedly dirty look, but it's ruined by the grin hovering around her lips. "Trust me."

Taking my hand, she pulls me with her through the crowds that are already gathering inside Final Toast. There's a local band playing here later tonight, and from the looks of it, they're getting popular enough to draw more than just the locals.

Creepy stirs in my mind, making my heart pick up speed. She just got done with a kill. She should have been placated, at least for a time.

But right now, she just feels… eager.

"Chill," I murmur.

"Did you say something?" Tamira asks, glancing back.

I shake my head.

She returns to leading me through the crowd.

I exhale, annoyed at Creepy. I know she likes the bar, but this feels different.

She's suddenly really awake and she's not giving me the slightest clue as to why.

"Okay, so…" Tamira slows in front of a table near the far wall. "Guys, this is Mabel, the one I was telling you about."

She steps aside and pulls me up next to her, and suddenly, it's all I can do to keep Creepy from shoving her way to the forefront and shifting us in front of all these humans and the three drop-dead hotties at the table.

"Mabel." Tamira flashes me a grin. "Meet Huck, Phineas, and… Zeb, was it?"

The one called Zeb nods, smiling this calm, smooth smile that just oozes confident sexuality. He's got golden-tan skin, dark hair that brushes his shoulders, and these pitch-black eyes that just pin me, making a tingling chill rush over my skin straight to my breasts and a nervous tangle of heat spin in my middle before it sinks lower.

I fight to give no sign of how his mere presence is affecting me, and gods help me, I wish I hated what it was doing. Or better yet that I wasn't reacting like this at all, because I'm not a fan of anything that means my body is not fully under my control.

Except I'm already turned on, and this guy hasn't even opened his mouth to say hello.

I tear my gaze away from him, but it doesn't help. His friends aren't an improvement. Zeb's got his arm looped casually over the shoulders of the guy to his left, the one with damn near colorless skin and short ice-white hair that transitions to electric blue on the tips. The short spiky hair only serves to set off his sharp jaw and eerily light eyes, the latter of which haven't left me for a heartbeat. From the way Tamira introduced him, I'm guessing he's Huck.

And that leaves Phineas, the strong, dark god of a man leaning back against the booth seat cushions. He's nothing but muscle, that much I can tell through his tight black t-shirt, and his face has this considering air, like he's already weighed everything about me but wants to know more. His eyes are calm as night and yet mesmerizing as hell. He's got long braids all tied back at the nape of his neck, and there's some kind of tattoo on the side of his throat that I can't make out against his dark brown skin.

Not that I'm looking.

But, gods, Creepy likes the sight of them. She's practically salivating at the thought of touching them, getting to know them, and coming out to say hi.

Which is number one on my list of Bad Plans right now, so it only takes a second before I'm pulling Tamira back with me while looking anywhere but at the guys as I try to get my Hyde under control.

"What's this about?" I demand of Tamira. "Do you know these guys?"

She shakes her head. "Just met them. But come on…" She chuckles, twitching her head back toward them. "There's three. One for each of us and maybe one to share."

Yeah, no. Not happening, and not just because Creepy is now snarling at the thought of anyone touching them but us.

Which is madness.

But these guys have dangerous as fuck written all over them in big neon letters I'm amazed Tamira can't see. Down underneath their casual postures and their relaxed expressions, they're killers. It's in their eyes.

I should know. I see the same thing every time I look in the mirror.

"So, Mabel…" comes a smooth voice that I like the sound of just a little too much, especially when he's saying my name.

My eyes dart back. Zeb. That was Zeb.

Not that it matters.

"Your friend says your family's been in the area for a while. I bet you'd make a great tour guide."

I throw Tamira a small glare and murmur under my breath so quietly only a shifter would hear. "You were telling them about me?"

She shrugs, still grinning, and murmurs back, "They smell good. There's something… I don't know, magic about them."

Supernaturals, then. Maybe. But supernaturals with something hellaciously wrong about them that's setting me on edge and making Creepy drool.

Which makes no sense.

Creepy doesn't like that I'm not smiling back at the guys, though. Hell, she doesn't like that I'm not climbing over the table to lick them like lollipops.

What the hell is her problem?

Could they be like me?

The thought stops me cold, leaving me tangled between caution, fear, and longing. Jekylls are the freaks of the supernatural world in our own way. Even when I've gone on dates, I've waited a good long while before revealing what I am. It took me years before I'd even tell Tamira more than the most basic of details about my life.

Secrecy is the best way Ican protect Creepy. And myself.

Because even if these guys are supernaturals, that doesn't automatically mean I'm safe. What if they're double agents for the GSS? Or witches, for that matter? Jekylls might be somewhere in the gray area between humanlike and monster, but the witches have a big issue with monsters in general, and they sure as hell don't like Jekylls practicing magic. I've stayed off the shit list of the Grand Coven and others like them, but that doesn't mean some random group of witch guys won't hassle me if they find out what I am.

"Do you know any fun places to eat around here?" asks the icy-haired one, Huck, in a sweet, kind voice that slides around me like a hug and only adds to the way my insides are melting for no goddamn reason.

Creepy pushes at me harder. My hand shakes. I can feel my fingertips shifting.

Fuck.

I can't stop the way she spasms my lips into a smile, and I can feel her protest when I take a step back from the table. I don't know what the hell is wrong with her, or me, or why she's acting like this. But holy shit, she's about to make me lose control in the middle of a crowded bar, in front of three hot strangers and the gods know who else. "I-I'm sorry. I need to go."

I turn and bolt through the crowd for the door.