Bear in Sheep's Clothing | Book #1

one: hold on, I gotta go

Today, though, she seemed exhausted.

"Since our mission rankings go as far as fifteen," Anachronica said, "I'm sure you understand your boss' direct order is much more important than your mission, no?"

Satina grimaced while Léon placed his trembly fingers on his forehead. That was it: they were screwed. Few things were more important in Invidia than getting missions done, so to ignore one like that... Iara's reason must be something else, Léon thought.

Anachronica checked her wristwatch. "It's time. Wait here." She crossed the double doors and closed them.

"It's okay, cousin," Satina said, squaring her shoulders. "Whatever happens, we're in this together." She took in a trembly breath and raised her chin.

Satina had always been like this. Since the first time they had worked together, in that small office in Old Continent, as much as she complained about his loose clothes, perfume, and the pomade he used, she always stood by his side. He remembered little of his time in Old Continent, of course, but since then, he drank from Satina's knowledge and friendship as if drinking cheap vodka: it seemed like a good idea at first until the headache started.

And it was a huge headache when she appeared at his doorstep all those years ago, asking for help. She was still dressed in jailbird-orange, with wide eyes and a blood-stained uniform from the St. Lucretia Reformatory School. Satina was only twelve that day; he was fifteen—or so she told him. Eight years later, he was still paying the price for helping her. But he'd be lying if he said he regretted that. The only thing he regretted was not helping her before she went to jail in the first place.

"Where's Mary?" Léon asked.

"Taking photos and autographing shit for the launch of her new line of toys. It brings a lot of money to Invidia, so I doubt she'll be here. Besides, Mary's personal ranking is ten times better than ours."

Léon sighed and bobbed his head. This was bad. This was really bad.

The double doors opened again, and Anachronica motioned for them to follow.

The main office stood at the very bottom of the 47-floor building, surrounded by a subterranean layer of rock and dirt. It was a spacious room dimly lit by bluish lights, with a large swimming pool in the center of an elevated platform. The water spat ethereal-blue reflections on the walls that danced to the humming silence of high-tech air ventilators. Around them, clipping the rock-textured concrete, were two-story-tall glass windows half-covered by massive bushes, flowers, and fruit trees. It looked like the type of cave Jules Verne would've imagined, deep within the earth.

Anachronica stopped a few steps from the staircase leading to the pool.

Léon and Satina stopped, and the tips of sharp dorsal spines cut the water surface.

Iara Iamí-Xarãma emerged. Iara was, like the rumors said, unique. Her hair had no specific color; hers was a shade of black onyx and gold, of summer love and sunsets on the beach. Wet, it changed as she moved, glistening pink or red or green over the dense silky black. Her face, her lips, her body; she was all seduction and soulless black eyes.

Iara ran a hand across her face to remove the excess of water. She swam towards them and rested her elbows on the edge of the pool. Under the water, where her legs should be, there was a blue tail distorted by ripples. She propped her chin on her palm and smiled; the fins on her back and arms retracted.

"Welcome." She narrowed her eyes and whispered, "You're different in person." Iara pointed to a silk robe and sat on the pool's edge with her naked back to her employees. As she got up, the blue scales on her thighs faded to match her smooth mocha skin. "How long have you two been with us?" Iara asked with a gentle voice. Her feet left wet steps on the hardwood floor.