The Wild Harmonic by Beth W. Patterson

Author:Beth W. Patterson
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Cleveland Writers Press Inc.

“So what would be the repercussions of being a little husky?” I ask Rowan. We’re back at the studio, and I wonder for the umpteenth time why I am never permitted to meet him at his house. I had given him the suspicious Chimera Enterprises card, which he studied with a long frown before tucking it with a strange precision into his wallet. Now am curious to hear his feelings on Teddy’s contrabass phase.

He either doesn’t follow me or is trying to be funny. “Your voice will sound strained, especially if it’s not natural for you to sing that way.”

“No, I mean that trick that Teddy does that makes his wolf form appear like a big, cuddly husky dog. Could we effectively go out in broad daylight and get the scoop on whoever is after us?” I sit down on the control room couch and make a concerted effort not to wince from my fresh bruises.

Rowan twists his mouth to the side. “I’ve been thinking about it. It would make us go unnoticed by humans who can’t detect a shifter’s ward. But something in my gut tells me to hold back on this until we get more information on who our nemesis is.” His gaze hardens as he locks eyes with me in a power play. “You’re struggling with something. We need to work on shielding some more. But first, maybe you’d like to tell me what’s bothering you?” It’s a command, not a question.

I am trying not to let my unbearable tension show. My meltdown with Yohan has rendered me vulnerable, and I am praying that his scent no longer clings to me. It doesn’t help that Rowan looks exceptionally good today. He appears to have gotten a haircut that accentuates his widow’s peak, and he’s wearing his blue Mesa Boogie grease monkey shirt that I love so much on him.

The abrupt clammering of the studio phone rings hacks my thoughts in two. I suspect that even without lycan senses I would be able to hear the conversation just as clearly, the caller is speaking so loudly. He demands, “How much it is to make a song?” With his usual patience, Rowan explains that it is a certain rate per hour, so the price is entirely dependent on how long the artist takes to record.

“Well, I wanna come in right now!” Rowan tells the man that he is booked up until next Thursday, which might even be true.

“Well then, fuck yo studio!” The guy hangs up.

Before I can even see Rowan’s face, I burst out laughing. His low growl only feeds my hysteria. I don’t even care whether or not he is pissed off right now; I simply can’t control myself. My love for him and the feelings I can’t express collide in the classic mishmash of nerves, where one has no choice but to either laugh or cry. The expression on his face of exasperated concern only makes me laugh harder, and the harder I try to calm down, the worse it gets.

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