Loose Changeling: A Changeling Wars Novel (2 page)

I’m not sure how I got up the stairs. I might have actually flown up there. The next thing I knew, I was throwing open the door to the guest bedroom.

I caught a momentary glimpse of my husband clasped in the embrace of someone I didn’t know, before they broke apart, drawing the covers over their naked bodies, horror rising on their faces as surely as a sunrise.

All the air went out of me, sucked out, as if I’d put a vacuum cleaner to my lips.

“This isn’t—” Owen stopped, his mouth gaping like a baby bird waiting to have a worm stuffed into its beak. I wanted to stuff
something
into his mouth, and my fist seemed the best option. But the woman let out a squeak, and my attention flitted to her.

My first thought was,
She’s not even attractive
. It was shallow but true. She had ashy brown hair, which, at that moment, stood in wild disarray. Her eyes—brown. Her face had a pinched look to it, and the lines around her mouth indicated that she frowned often. A faint shadow of hair lay on her upper lip.

She looked so very much like a mouse.

I turned to my husband, all my breath coming back in a rush of heat and anger. “You!” He scrambled back in the bed, pale arms flailing among the blankets as if he could somehow launch himself away from me. “You’re
cheating
on me?”

“Jane is just a friend,” he blurted out.

I think I actually, literally saw red. “How stupid do you think I am?” I seized one of the throw pillows from the floor, where they’d been knocked by Owen and Jane’s…activities. “Oh, wait. You must think I’m pretty goddamned stupid, because you’ve been sleeping with someone else. Right. Under. My. Nose!” I punctuated each word with a thrown pillow.

Each pillow found its mark and exploded into a shower of feathers. That should have clued me in to something. I never bought feather pillows because of Owen’s allergies. And I wasn’t throwing hard enough to rupture them.

I picked up the last three. “You’re a horrible. Lying filthy. Excuse for a human being!” I ran out of things to throw and things to say. I stood there, panting, as my vision began to clear. Owen had never looked more pathetic to me. Naked, slight paunch exposed, arms upheld, dark brown hair covered in feathers.

I stalked to the bedside. Every step made Owen cringe. “What are you still doing in here?” I said to him. “Get out.”

He moved to gather his clothes and then stopped. “Where’s Jane?”

The heat rose to my cheeks again. “Why should I care where your girlfriend is? Get out of my house.”

Owen peered over the side of the bed. “Her clothes are still here. And her purse.”

My head cleared enough for me to notice a few things. The pillowcases had disappeared into thin air, the edges of Owen’s hair were singed, the room smelled faintly of smoke, and I hadn’t actually seen Jane leave. I went over to the other side of the bed. A pile of clothes, homely as the woman herself, lay crumpled on the floor—khaki pants, camel-colored boots, and a sweater the same brown as a swath of carpet from the seventies. A black leather purse lay on its side next to the clothes.

Attached to the purse’s handle, tugging frantically at the strap with its mouth, was a tiny brown mouse. Both Owen and I watched its futile struggles.

“Why is there a mouse in the guest room?” I asked Owen. Anything I didn’t like at that moment was his fault. He didn’t answer. The mouse looked up at me, squeaked, and ran off. It turned the corner outside the bedroom door and disappeared.

Owen turned to me, his expression bewildered. “I don’t know what just happened here.”

“I know what just happened here,” I said. “Faithful, hardworking wife comes home to find her bastard of a husband in bed with someone else. Now get out before I put my boot up your bare ass!” I began marching over to his side of the bed. I was wearing heels.

That did it. He pulled his clothes on faster than I’d ever seen him move. I’m pretty sure he put his pants on inside out. Finally, he left, closing the door quietly behind him. “Take the dog!” I yelled, and then I let out all my breath at once.

I wish I could say I didn’t waste time lamenting the beginning of the end. I’d always thought that if I caught Owen cheating on me, I would immediately burn the bed sheets, cross out his name on everything that said “Nicole and Owen Philbin,” and cut his face out of all our conjoint photographs—all this while rocking out to Alanis Morissette on the stereo. I got as far as pulling the sheets off the bed before I started to cry. When you really think you’re going to spend the rest of your life with someone, realizing that there are some twists in the road to happily ever after (in this case, a gaping chasm) tends to bring a person down.

I think I would have stayed there all night, curled pathetically on the floor, if Jane’s purse hadn’t begun to secrete the scent of dark chocolate. I might not have noticed except that dark chocolate isn’t exactly known for its strong aroma. The smell built from there into a crescendo of cocoa, rich and deep as a cup of coffee. Finally, curiosity got the better of me, and I reached for the black leather handle. As soon as I touched it, the scent disappeared, as quickly as Jane herself had.

Mousy Jane. What kind of woman ran off without her clothes, and even more strangely, her purse? The mystery lingered, a backseat note in the tumult of my emotions. Some people in my situation might have jumped to far-fetched conclusions when faced with Jane’s disappearance. “Magic!” “A curse!” Or “Epic karma smackdown!” Fortunately for society, there are very few of those people running about, and I’m not one of them.

So I did the next most reasonable thing—I rifled through her bag. Nothing unusual. A tube of ChapStick, a cell phone, a wallet, a few safety pins, Band-Aids, a package of tissues, some stray receipts, and a couple pens. No bars of chocolate, not so much as a Hershey Kiss. I put the purse aside, closed my eyes, and leaned my back against the dresser. My throat hurt, my head hurt, my heart hurt.

I really thought, in that moment, that my world was ending. Funny how retrospection can make past problems seem petty. Back then I hadn’t the slightest clue what world-ending moments actually looked like, not like I do now. Senseless murder, impending war, the Void—these were along the right lines, not two naked people rubbing their parts on one another.

Before I knew it, I’d dozed off.

I woke up to a mouse sitting on my knees.

CHAPTER TWO

We looked at one another for a long while, the mouse and I. It sat up on its hind legs, paws held in front of its chest, nose and whiskers twitching. If I didn’t know any better, I would have said it had been waiting for me to wake up. It rubbed its paws together, one on top of the other, a gesture not unlike the wringing of hands. Its head turned to the side, eyes averted. Then it launched into a tirade of squeaking.

The squeaking came out soft at first, almost apologetic in nature. It gained in volume and intensity as I watched, paws rubbing together with more speed. It ended with the mouse looking me full in the eye, little paws clenched at its sides.

As the haze of waking up faded from my mind, it occurred to me that I was not dreaming, that I was on the floor of my bedroom, and there was a mouse sitting on my knees. I lurched to my feet, scraping my back against the dresser as I rose. The mouse launched itself to the ground. It ran immediately to the purse, gave it a tug with its mouth, squeaked an exclamation, and scampered off.

I brushed hastily at my jeans, hoping the thing hadn’t pooped on me. I’d have to call the exterminator. Owen and I had been lucky so far in our newer home—we hadn’t yet had any pest problems.

Owen.

It all came flooding back. They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. The life of my relationship with Owen now flickered through my mind. We’d met in our last year at college, at a party thrown by mutual friends. I’d finished all my necessary coursework in my first three years and had been looking for some relaxation.

Owen, with his messy hair, infectious grin, and everyone-is-my-best-friend demeanor, was exactly what I’d needed. He’d been on what he called the “six-year plan” for graduation, and didn’t seem ashamed. He played me songs he’d made up on his guitar, encouraged me to skip classes once in a while, and had a habit of making loud proclamations of the obvious as if they were profound statements (“Life can be either short or long, but it is always about living!”). We had our first date, first kiss, first sleepover. He proposed at graduation, with a cubic zirconium ring. I accepted.

Life—real life—crept in. I got a job as a saleswoman for Frank Gibbons, Inc. Owen worked as a waiter for a few years, until I pushed him to go back to school to pursue the career he’d told me he’d wanted. He got his teaching credential at thirty-two, on the “three-year plan.” We bought our house when he got his first real job.

Of course, six months ago, he’d been fired.

I sighed and picked up the bed sheets. Burning seemed overdramatic and wasteful by light of day, so I tossed them in the washer, poured in enough detergent for two loads, and turned the knob to Extra Rinse.

I grabbed Jane’s purse and clothes next, stuffed them in a plastic bag, and took them downstairs. I set the bag on the counter, next to the refrigerator. The kitchen in our two-bedroom townhouse was my favorite room. Cozy, functional, brown granite countertops, white tile backsplash, and white cupboards. When it was clean, it practically sang to me. Owen hadn’t made breakfast here this morning; therefore, it was clean. I breathed in deep, willing it to make me feel better.

When I reached for the refrigerator door, my hand diverted mid-path, reaching back into the plastic bag, pulling out Jane’s purse, and grabbing her cell phone. I navigated through Jane’s address book, found a contact labeled “Office,” and dialed. It rang four times before the answering machine picked up. “Hi, you’ve reached Jane Barston. I’m either away from my desk or unable to answer your call. Please leave a message after the tone.”
BEEP
.

“Hi, Jane,” I said in the friendliest voice I could manage, “this may come as a surprise, but last night you left my house in such a hurry that you forgot your purse. I’d have my husband return it to you, since you two know one another so well, but unfortunately we’re not on speaking terms right now. I know you must be busy, probably sleeping with someone else’s husband, so I’ll give you a little bit of time. You’ve got until tomorrow morning to call me back; otherwise, bonfire it is!”

I pushed “End Call” with trembling fingers. Not the most mature message I’d ever left.

A
thud
sounded from upstairs.

My heart gave an answering
thud-thud-thud
as I dropped Jane’s cell phone onto the countertop. Owen must have taken the dog with him; I hadn’t seen it since I’d kicked him out. Besides, that small a dog couldn’t make that much noise, could it? Or was my mind playing tricks on me, as it had in my office?

I’d snatched a knife from the cutlery drawer when I heard another thud, this time followed by the sound of muffled cursing. Oh no. I knew that voice—all too well. I dropped the knife back into the drawer and went to the stairs.

When I opened the door to the guest bedroom, I found the window open and Owen there, hand outstretched toward the knob. He froze mid-step. He looked a mess. A five o’clock shadow crept over his chin, and his hair looked like a cat had slept in it. I checked his pants. Yep. Inside out. There was something tremulous and hopeful in his gray eyes, and for a brief moment my anger softened. Then he opened his mouth.

“Jane, I mean, Nicole, I needed to ask you…” he trailed off as the words from his lips reached his brain.

I felt my blood pressure rising. “Ask me what? How to knock on a front door?”

He frowned. “Now come on—it’s not like you’d let me in.”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t have.”

He held up his hands, shoulders tight, as if warming himself by a fire that had suddenly grown too hot. “Sorry. I’m a jerk, okay?”

“Yes, you are.” I stood between him and the door.

“You can’t blame me entirely for all this. It’s not as if you were there for me when I needed you.”

The nerve of the guy! “What is that supposed to mean? One of us had to pay the bills, and apparently it wasn’t going to be you.”

“Just because you had to pay the bills didn’t mean you had to leave me alone so often. You were always off on one business trip or another.”

“I’m your wife, not your mother. Just because I left you alone so often didn’t mean you had to cheat on me.”

He rolled his eyes. I hated it when he did that. “I already told you I was sorry.”

My face felt as though it were about to pop clean off. “That doesn’t make everything better!” The shout echoed off the walls, making the room feel oddly empty. A sudden, desperate emotion tugged at me. I didn't want to be alone. Was this how my life would pan out? Divorcee with an empty house? This wasn’t what I’d planned for when I’d said, “I do.” Maybe I shouldn't be so hasty to cut ties. Maybe I should let Owen explain.

He spoke into the silence. “Can you at least help me pack my things?”

Then again, maybe not. “You can pack your own things. Yourself. You. Alone.”

I stalked from the room, went downstairs, and called the first person I could think of: my sister, Lainey. She picked up after three rings. “Hey, Nicole, how’re you doing? Haven’t heard from you in a while. Work keeping you busy?” She sounded chipper as usual. I saw her in my mind’s eye—blonde hair worn loose about a face with the same rosy-cheeked skin as mine.

“Why her?” I blurted out.

A short silence followed on the other end. “Oh, sweetheart,” Lainey said. “I’m sorry.” Although she was three years younger than me, ever since she’d had baby number two, she’d taken to calling her close friends and relations “sweetheart” or “dear” or “honey.” I honestly didn’t think she could help herself. “The other lady in your department got the promotion, didn’t she?”

“No. It’s Owen.” I couldn’t say the whole phrase. Saying “I caught my husband in bed with another woman” sounded too Jerry Springer. Fortunately, she caught my drift.