Bite: A Shifters of Theria Novel Read Free

purse with golden embellishments.
     
    I’ve seen that purse before. And that golden logo—that two–lettered monogram: BV. That purse is the whole reason I wound up in this mess. If it wasn’t for that purse, I would be at home with a cup of hot tea, comfortable in my warm bed and dry pyjamas.
     
    “Excuse me,” I say.
     
    The woman smiles. She doesn’t seem to notice my transparent shirt, soaked hair, or running makeup.
     
    “Yes?” she says. Her voice is gentle and kind.
     
    “That bag—where did you get it?”
     
    The woman looks down at her bag, as if she can’t remember which bag she left the house with. “It was a gift,” she says.
     
    “Where is it from?” I ask.
     
    “I’m not sure,” she says with a smile.
     
    “Who gave it to you?” I ask. The woman has tremendous patience. I’m starting to annoy myself with my relentless interrogation. I can’t help it. I need to know where she got the purse.
     
    “I told you—a friend.” The woman looks away.
     
    “Don’t you know where they got it from?”
     
    The woman looks back at me. She takes a breath and then forces another smile. “Unfortunately, I don’t know.”
     
    “It’s beautiful.”
     
    “Thank you. It’s certainly different.”
     
    I can’t help myself. I need to know. “It looks different. Who makes it?”
     
    The woman no longer bothers to smile. “Like I said, I don’t know.” She looks back out the window.
     
    “There’s a logo on it—I don’t recognize that logo.”
     
    She doesn’t respond. Instead, she shrugs.
     
    The name of the company is written in small letters, too hard to read from across the lane. “Beau—” I start reading aloud. She pulls her purse away before I can finish reading the first word.
     
    “I’m sorry. This is my stop,” the woman says. What a bitch. I just wanted to know the designer.
     
    “Wait.” I try to stop her, but she’s too agile, already off the bus before I stand up. The bus jolts forward, throwing me onto a bed of heels and painted toes.
     
    “Hey!” a young girl yells.
     
    “Watch it!” yells another.
     
    “Sorry,” I say, springing back up to my feet. I grab the messenger bag.
     
    “Oh my God, look at my shoes! They’re scuffed! They’re ruined!” a girl whines as I walk towards the exit.
     
    I’m still four stops from home, but I’ll live. At least the silent streets don’t have judging stares.
     

CHAPTER THREE
    THE PURSE

    That purse came into the Ilium Inn, my workplace, three nights ago.
     
    The Ilium Inn is the older and swankier of three hotels in town. Like the other hotels in Ilium, it gets next to no business; at least the local motel gets the johns and whores, even if they are just paying the hourly rate. Total, in the two years I’ve worked at the Ilium Inn, no more than twenty-five guests have checked in—usually wealthy businessmen, and the occasional lost traveller who doesn’t know there’s a cheaper option five minutes down the road.
     
    I, like most Iliumites, make minimum wage—but I don’t do it for the money. I don’t do it for the love of nightshifts either. I work at the Ilium Inn to cover up my independent bootlegging business. It’s the perfect cover; the government doesn’t wonder where I get my money, and the empty hotel makes a great place to meet with clients and suppliers.
     
    When I was working the other night, that same purse from the bus—that same leather, made from porosus crocodile—came into the hotel. It was almost midnight, still early into my graveyard shift. There was only one room booked out and the couple that reserved it still hadn’t showed up. Aside from me, the only person who had showed up was the new maid, who came in to ask if her paycheque was ready. Since the day she was hired, she’s come in every night, and every night I tell her when payday is: every second Thursday. She barely speaks a word of English, and never understands what I’m telling her. I think she’s