Free Shattered by M. Lathan Page A

the
room. She’d added some of her work to the walls, but most of it belonged to her
grandmother.
    My personal favorite was the unfinished
ballerina. I liked the lines leading to nowhere and how amazing it looked even
though it wasn’t finished. My keen eyes followed a faint pencil line from the
slipper until it disappeared into the white space of the canvas. At the end of
it, there was a red dot, so small no one else here would see it. I hadn’t seen
it until now.
    It looked like dry blood, a tiny reminder
of what happened in that art studio. Vincent and Cecilia Shaw had lost their
lives in there. That forgotten trace of blood was the reason we couldn’t sit
around and act like nothing was wrong. Everything was wrong. Christine’s family
was cursed because of their powers and the people who wanted to control it.
Years passing since that blood landed on that canvas hadn’t changed anything.
Hunters were still thirsting for Shaw blood.
    “This sucks,” Chris said. “What am I
doing?” I thought she was done pretending, so I jumped up to my feet, ready to
shift and console her. But she didn’t need it. She was talking about her
painting. “I’m just going to take a break before I throw this into the wall.
Deep breaths , Chris. Deep breaths.”
    I followed her to the kitchen. She drank
her last dose of the potion for the day and grabbed a bag of baby carrots. She
took them back to her studio and settled on the floor with her history
textbook. Before long, either from boredom or the potion, she passed out on the
floor.
    I tried to shift so I could carry her to
bed, but my fur suddenly didn’t seem as temporary as it usually did. It felt
like my real skin, and for a terrifying moment, I forgot what it felt like to
be anything else, anyone else. I was trapped. Then, my body heaved out of the
white fur, and I panted for a minute, still scared out of my mind.
    “Oh my God,” I said, as I lifted Chris
into my arms. “I need some sleep. I’m a little out of it tonight.”
    I hoped that was all it was. The last
thing I needed was a shifting problem.
    I tucked her in and walked to her
dresser. In the very back of her very last drawer, we’d hidden clothes for me
for situations like this. After pulling on boxers and a pair of shorts, I
crawled in bed and fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
    I had one of the reoccurring dreams that
had plagued me for most of my life. I was rolling around in the snow with a
huge white dog, and an older woman broke up the wrestling match. She wrapped me
in a fur blanket and smiled at the white dog. “Zain,” she said. “He’s too
young to play rough.” The dog barked at her, and she laughed. I always woke
up after she said, “Shift, son. Dinner is
ready.”
    Today was no different.  
    A cold hand touched my arm, and my eyes
flew open. Lydia freaking Shaw waved at me, and I jumped. It took me a moment
to put her into context. It wasn’t as odd for Christine’s mother to be here
than it was for a famous assassin to be standing over me.
    She pushed a finger to her lips to shush
me, then pointed to Chris. It meant: don’t
wake her .
    “I need to talk to you,” Lydia whispered.
She extended her hand. I took it timidly, and after a blink, we were standing
in a ritzy apartment. The furniture was all white and modern. I was barefoot
and shirtless with my girlfriend’s mother who just happened to be Lydia Shaw.
    “Paris,” I said. “We’re in Paris.”
    “How did you know?”
    “Christine talks about this place. It’s
where you live, right?”
    “Sometimes.”
    She headed towards a hall, and I caught
up with her.
    “Sophia says you’re doing well with the
ordeal with your parents,” she said. “Is that true?”
    “Yeah. I’m fine.”
    “It’s only been a month, I’m sure it’s
still fresh on your mind.”
    “Um, not really,” I said. “They weren’t
really my parents.” She paused, maybe waiting for me to elaborate or possibly
to stop lying. I didn’t