Out Foxed: Sassafras Shifters, #2

Chapter 1

Before he emerged from his motel room, Silver peered out and looked in both directions to be sure the coast was clear. The coyote-shifter performed the check as a matter of habit. The practice harkened back to the days when he'd survived by his wits and will... and a talent for relieving others of their belongings. Caution had kept him alive for a quarter century, so he perceived no reason to break with it now.

Hey, I changed my mind. Bring me a Dr. Pepper, Oz said in his deep bass voice. A thick burr flavored the Australian's native accent, allegedly the legacy of the years of his childhood spent being dragged about Scotland by his itinerate gypsy mother.

Okay. Silver tightened his fist about the dollar bills and coins in his hand and hesitated, performing quick mental math while he decided whether he needed to scrounge more money. Unless the vending machines charged exorbitant rates, he should be fine. He stepped onto the bare concrete walkway and yanked the door shut behind him.

Outside, the winter night was chilly but not dark, despite the thin sliver crescent moon. The lights of Los Angeles cast a bright aura against the sky that obfuscated all but the brightest stars. Silver headed down the closest stairwell, and then he followed a first-floor sidewalk to the center of the two-story building. The vending machines were located next to the manager's office in a dark alcove that stank of dirt and insects and other foul things Silver preferred not to shove his nose into for closer examination. At least his nocturnal vision compensated for the darkness.

The soft drinks were grossly overpriced, but he had enough to cover two as long as it accepted his crinkled one-dollar bills. A printed sign declared: Motel is not responsible for the vending machines eating money. Use at your own risk.

Sturdy, protective bars guarded the vending machines. Their very presence gave him pause, especially considering the motel had cheap locks on its guest rooms, ones Silver could pick in five seconds with a hair pin... blindfolded... with his hands tied behind his back. He glanced toward the main street but there were no viable alternatives in sight, and even crossing the busy thoroughfare presented a risk to life and limb.

Not worth it. Silver turned back to the vending machine, fed it a fistful of quarters, and hit the button. With a solid kathunk, it belched forth the first bottle. He dropped all his remaining change into the coin slot, crossed mental fingers, smoothed the edges of the most-newish bill in his possession, and inserted it.

The machine took it, bringing his total to two dollars.

Silver rubbed his palms together, ironing out his next dollar bill, and then he went over it again with his fingers, smoothing out every tiny wrinkle and tear. If there's anyone listening, grant me luck. He presented the edge of the bill to the slot. It took. Then, with a mechanical growl, the machine spat the dollar out. He recovered it from the slot. Frowning, he tried again, but the appliance rejected it. Back and forth he went with the imperial vending overlord, but neither of his remaining singles got past its sensors. Finally, in a fit of frustration, Silver spat out, Screw it. Oz could just get his own damn Dr. Pepper. He hit the coin return.

The vending machine whirred and thunked, and the two-dollar credit vanished as though it'd never existed. No change fell from the coin slot. With a snort of disgust, Silver reached for his lock picks but stiffened when a man cleared his throat. Adrenaline surged through him. The intruder was closer than anyone should've been able to get undetected. Startled, Silver spun and brought his arms up in a defensive stance. Adrenaline burst through him, propelling him to a state of readiness which dispelled as soon as he identified his stalker.

I don't think the god of vending machines is listening, Coyote said in his lyrical voice, bright with laughter.

Coyote. Silver lowered his fists. He took a step back, creating a buffer zone between him and the patron god of his species.

Silver. What? No hello? No, so good to see you again, my old friend? Coyote mocked, mimicking Silver's exact tone of hardened suspicion. The god was tall and lean, with black eyes and long hair worn in a neat ponytail, and too good-looking to be trusted. He wore a button-down shirt and jeans with Vans Old Skool sneakers.

What do you want? Silver dug out his thieves' tools and turned back to the door of the protective cage surrounding the vending machines. It had a high quality commercial-grade lock but he got it open without any hassle.

A hello, to start.

Hello. Goodbye, Silver bit off.

Coyote tsked. Now, is that the decent way to speak to your patron god?

Silver bit his tongue, cutting off a rude, unwise reply, and popped the lock on the beverage machine. Technically, he was on hiatus as one of Coyote's followers. Worldwide, the Trickster god had many aspects: diverse cultures and different designations, but a rose by any other name...

Through gritted teeth, Silver said, I've quit stealing.

Really? Coyote rolled the word out with a big, accompanying Oh that somehow remained implicit.

Yeah. Really. He yanked open the machine's door, gaining access to the chilled interior where the beverage bottles resided in neat stacks. He snagged a Dr. Pepper off the top.

Because from where I'm standing—

Watch. Silver held up a dollar bill, displaying it for a nice, long look. Then he set the money on top of the other bills in the money collector on the inside of the door and went about locking up everything nice and tight again. With splayed fingers, he grasped both bottles by the necks and swiveled to face the god.

Ain't nothin' sadder than a thief that thinks he's honest, Coyote said with a snicker. His mercurial laughter was infectious.

Silver winced. "Bad grammar ain't like you," he said as he passed, hurrying on his way. He clung to the distant hope that the Trickster's visit had resulted from nothing more than sadistic curiosity—the desire to gloat over Silver's pathetic predicament.

Not so fast. We're not done.

Silver stopped in his tracks and squeezed his eyes shut. Helpless frustration filled him... like a rat trapped by a cat. His shoulders hunched, but then he heaved a wry sigh, squared his stance, and turned back. What do you want?

You're going to steal something for me.

Nope. Told you, I'm through.

While your determination to turn your life around by, oh the irony, earning an honest living as a musician is endearing—

Coyote Hustle is starting to take off, Silver snapped. He winced to hear the defensiveness in his voice. But damn it, the indie rock band was his baby, near and dear to his heart. They weren't famous... yet. Their small fan base, however, was devoted and growing.

Yes, I can perceive the prosperity of your accommodations. No doubt a direct reflection of how well the band is doing. Coyote drew back, conveying the distinct impression of a coiled serpent looking to strike.

We have advance bookings for the next month. In his passion, Silver considered tossing the bottles aside. He would use his fists to protect what he loved. Common sense intervened. Even if he lucked out and got in a solid first punch, he didn't stand a chance against the god.

Look... Coyote opened his mouth as if to say something but then stopped himself. He gave the impression of a bullfrog swallowing its tongue. His lips sealed into a wan smile and he modulated his tone to a soothing resonance. I didn't come here to argue. I want you to steal something for me—

No.

Shh, shh, shh... Listen. The Trickster held up a silencing hand. You still owe me a favor. I'm calling it in.

Shit. Silver's heart hit a heavy thud and skipped. Shit. Shit. And shit... Grimly, Silver stood as rigid as a frozen carcass—his jaws locked together, and his hands paralyzed into fists. Tension thrummed through his lanky form, sinew drawn taut over bone.

Do this one thing for me and, after this, we're even, Coyote wheedled with the petulant manner of a child making deals.

Reluctantly, he turned. The question tore from him like a healthy molar ripped from the root. What do you want me to do?

Now, now. No need to look so grim. All I want is for you to put your natural-born gift as a thief to good use.

Despite his commitment to his new life, curiosity got the better of him. Intrigued, Silver swayed toward Coyote. It went against common sense and self-preservation, but he'd always been too curious for his own good. And, he didn't want to admit it, but he missed the rush associated with a dangerous heist. Performing on stage was the closest he ever came to the addictive high.

What do you want me to steal?

"A Norse rune box that's currently in the possession of a Russian oligarch named Roman Malkin. He's hosting a private Riverdance concert tomorrow night at his Beverly Hills estate. The actual performance starts at nine and goes on until eleven. A few hundred of his closest friends are invited. It's supposed to be quite the shindig."

Wait! What?

"I know. Right? Riverdance is soooo nineteen-nineties." Coyote spread his hands wide and his long face reinforced his absolute bafflement.

Not that, Silver snapped. I meant the part about him being a Russian oligarch.

Oh that. Coyote waved Silver's concern away as though it were nothing more than a pesky fly. Technically, he's a retired Russian oligarch. He moved his family to the U.S. and allegedly got out of the family business a few years ago.

Allegedly? Perspiration beaded on his forehead, and visions of former-KGB, machinegun-toting villains danced in his head. His brief titillation over the prospect of one last great caper plummeted into dread.

Relax. Malkin will be glued to his front-row seat for the entire performance. And the primary security system for the house will be shut off during the event. There's another system on the case where the box is stored, but nothing that exceeds your abilities to disable. This is easy-peasy.

I'm envisioning goons.

Sure, he has henchmen, but they'll be guarding the primary access points to the grounds and the house, such as gates and stairwells. They won't be watching for a shifter who can scale the fence or leap to the second-story balcony. Even if they were, he doesn't have nearly enough manpower to have eyes everywhere.

Hundreds of guests increase the risk I'll be spotted.

Coyote snorted. Not unless you've turned into a rank, bumbling amateur.

A wry smile tugged at Silver's mouth. Cameras?

Yes. The crowd, however, should provide more than adequate cover. Blend in with the sheep and you'll be fine. Of course, you'll need to disable the perimeter camera at your access point but aside from that, it's an easy in-and-out. I have everything you need to know here.

A spiral-bound notebook appeared in Coyote's hand, seemingly conjured from thin air. Silver understood enough of how the Trickster operated to deduce that the god had drawn the pad from one of his magical boltholes or a pocket dimension.

If it's so darn easy, then why aren't you stealing it yourself? Silver stared at the notebook the god offered to him but didn't accept it.

I have other plans.

Which are?

None of your damn business. Coyote clicked his tongue. His expression was intransigent—no answers there.

Silver chose to move on. What's the catch?

Coyote pantomimed heartbreak, overplaying it for comedy. I'm hurt. Why would you assume there's a catch?

Because with you, there's always something. They traded a long look, which promised to be no more productive than getting into a staring contest with a snake. Silver sighed and said, I want your word. If I steal this rune box, then we're even for real. No strings, exceptions, or trick clauses. Promise, and we have a deal.

Coyote looked askance of him. You know, I've always considered you to be such a fascinating oddity—

Gee, thanks.

The god grinned. Your unwavering faith in honor among thieves is astonishing.

Without it, our breed has nothing. Silver refused to defend his doctrine. In his experience, his credo worked. Yeah, sometimes he got deceived, betrayed, or disappointed—or even all three. But more often than not, people came through for him. What he didn't point out, because Coyote would hate it, was that the Trickster kept his bargains to the exact letter of the agreement... and usually to the spirit, too.

But not always.

All right. You have my word, Coyote said with a sly smile. Steal the rune box, we're even. All debts are settled. But...

Here it comes. Silver nodded. He knew there'd be a tricky condition or concealed drawback. With Coyote, there was always a catch. At least this way he'd learn about it upfront instead of on the back end.

The Trickster's eyes narrowed. I have a condition.

Shocking. Okay, let's hear it.

"You have to steal the box and personally remove it from Malkin's estate, and it has to happen tomorrow night during the Riverdance performance. That's my only hard and fast rule."

The performance starts at nine? His band had a gig tomorrow night at Club Scathe, but they weren't due on stage until ten thirty. If he was late again, Disco, the bass guitarist, might just skin him alive. Silver pursed his lips, weighing the risk of winding up as a coyote-skin rug versus finally being out from beneath Coyote's thumb once and for all. While he derived a certain perverse pleasure in pissing off Disco, he hated letting down the band.

Nine is when the music starts. Guests are invited to arrive at eight for a pre-concert reception.

It's tight. That'd be cutting it close. In Saturday night traffic, it could easily take more than an hour to drive from Beverly Hills to Hollywood Boulevard. Not much room for error.

But doable.

One more thing. What's in the box?

None of your business. Coyote snapped his teeth together.

The repeated evasion lit the slow-burning fuse on Silver's temper. "What exactly is my business? You want me to risk my life. Not to mention pissing off a Russian mafioso. All for some rune box, but I'm not supposed to ask why you want it or what's in it? Thanks, but no thanks. I'll live with owing you that favor a while longer."

"What about the consequences of pissing me off? Have you factored that into your equation?" Coyote asked in a voice that held a sibilant hiss, an angry serpent.

Cold fear washed through Silver, a rushing sensation as though all the blood in his body had converged in his leaden gut. He swallowed a huge lump in his throat, fighting to be rid of it. To be brutally honest, he hadn't expected Coyote to bully him. While they weren't exactly besties, neither had their relationship ever been based on terror or threats.

Coyote grimaced, and his features remodeled, losing some of their sharpness. The god drooped in dejection. I'm sorry. I didn't intend to resort to coercion. I only brought this to you because it might actually benefit you, and it would finally make us even. I won't retaliate if you refuse. You have my word.

Damn. Despite his better judgement, Silver's hardened resolve gave way to sympathy. Beyond the shadow of a doubt, Coyote meant to manipulate him, but that didn't automatically mean the god's heart wasn't in the right place. If it weren't for Coyote's machinations, Silver would've wound up just another faceless, nameless corpse at the bottom of a pit. Dead at fourteen years old.

Silver owed a greater debt than Coyote actually wanted to call in.

So long, crime-free life. He hadn't even made it a year. Silver heaved a wistful sigh and reached out, asking for the notebook. A wide grin split Coyote's face and then he slapped it into Silver's open hand.

So do we have a deal? Coyote asked, pestering.

Yeah, it's a deal. Silver scowled. He wedged the sodas between his arm and his torso to free up a hand. They shook to seal the bargain. If the heist proved to be the simple burglary Coyote had made it out to be... he swore he'd eat his guitar.

Unable to contain his curiosity, Silver flipped open the folder and scanned the top page. He'd already moved past reservations to anticipation. His mouth watered over the prospect of sinking his teeth into a fresh challenge. It'd be a pleasure to limber up his old larceny muscles and dive in.

Quick question. Silver glanced up. Coyote had covered a good twenty paces in the space of seconds. His receding figure mingled with shadows... if, indeed, that was even him at all. Silver raised his voice and called out, Hey!

What? Coyote's voice floated on the air all around him.

What am I supposed to do with it once I have it?

Hang onto it. I'll see you in Vegas.

Las Vegas? I don't have plans to go to Vegas.

Yet.

You're insane.

Coyote snickered. So I've been told.

Chapter 2

Nothing brought the senses alive like some good old-fashioned burglary. Silver edged behind the shrubbery, holding close to the side of the mansion. In the distance, the bright, lively strains of folk music filled the night sky over the Beverly Hills estate. The performers of the Irish dance troupe provided a private, outdoor showing for Roman Malkin and his guests. The Russian oligarch was an avid, borderline-obsessive fan of Riverdance. The clamor provided the perfect cover for breaking and entering, both of which he intended to do.

Gauging distances, he eyed the second-story balcony overhead, estimating it to be twenty-five-foot jump to the lowest point on the Romanesque balcony where he could obtain a good handhold. The world record for a vertical jump was right around there. For a coyote-shifter who possessed enhanced strength and agility, it presented no challenge at all. In a burst of optimism, Silver decided his woeful expectations for this job had been too pessimistic. A smile curved his lips. This would be like stealing candy from a baby.

He cracked his knuckles and backed up as far as he needed to get a necessary running start. To limber up, he dropped to a crouch, stretching his limbs. His lanky frame thrummed with energy; muscles bunched in preparation for action. He clenched his hands closed and flicked them open, undergoing a rapid partial shift. As he shifted his hands to claws, gray fur sprouted from his skin and sharp nails pushed from his fingers. Quivering, he performed a mental countdown—three, two, one... Go!

He sprinted along the side of the mansion, gathering momentum before he sprang up toward his goal—the base of the balcony. Silver reached overhead with his long arms. His hands slapped against the concrete as his claws found purchase in the pockmarked facade. Like a gymnast, he swung in and out, employing his momentum to propel him higher. At the pinnacle, he grabbed for the gutter between the columns and hooked it. In a smooth motion, he hefted himself another three feet. From there, he scrambled up over the top rail and onto the wide landing.

Panting, he settled into a crouch while he recovered. There he performed a quick survey of his surroundings. He was alone—the French doors leading into the mansion were closed. According to Coyote, the alarm system would be off for the duration of the party. Malkin granted his guests unfettered access