Snippet from Bevy of Trouble (Uncanny #3)

I've been pecking away at the next Sam chapter but words have been either slow or nonexistent. I think I killed my brain in October. The last six-seven weeks have been, frankly, brutal. I keep forgetting words, using the wrong words, and last night at trivia, said the wrong numbers like three times while reading the questions aloud and repeatedly used the wrong name for the movie Dead Alive while talking to a friend. My brain is, apparently, a bowl of pasta. I feel pretty bad about how long it's taking me to get this chapter into some kind of shape, so I decided to at least post a snippet.

Bevy of Trouble will be the third book in the Uncanny series. Originally I was going to write this one with a friend (she helped brainstorm plot) and she likes third person, so that's what the first two chapters are right now. She got busy, though, so I'm doing this one myself. Because the other books in the Uncanny series are first person dual POV, I'll eventually go back and swap this chapter to first person to keep it consistent. Now that I'm done editing 8 million things (for now) I'll be getting back to drafting this book soon and I'm pretty excited. It's going to be bonkers. I've been looking forward to this one.

Enjoy the snippet, and I hope this holiday week treats you well!

--Lish

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Amity stared past the bars of the holding cell and wished she drank coffee, because it wouldn’t have been as weird to put a shot of whisky in it. But coffee was a spectacularly bad idea for Amity and whisky a worse one. The four women in the cell had to be related—all of them had hair so blond it was white. Or it would be white, if it wasn’t tangled in sticks and mud, she was certain. Their skin, too, was powdery pale with a faint blush of pink underneath. Solid black eyes squinted back at her, surrounded by thick black lashes, their eyebrows ebony slashes above. One started flapping her arms and two of them were definitely hissing.

The other cells at the Uncanny Tribunal Commission’s holding center were empty except for the one with the women and one holding a man collapsed on his bunk, snoring.

Amity straightened her shoulders. She could handle this. “Why are they naked?”

The guard dug her thumbs into her pockets. “They were found naked—that’s why we brought them in. Well, and they were accosting people at Greenlake.” The guard shook her head, making her brown pony tail sway. “We tried putting them into sweats.” She flicked her chin at the pile of gray material on the floor. “They keep taking them off. More trouble than it’s worth, really.”

“Why am I here, exactly?” The message on her desk had been vague, the ink smeared by her assistant.

“I told them to call you.”

Amity turned and caught sight of a small blonde woman, her hair braided in a crown around her head, and a notebook clutched to her chest. Amity smiled. “Juliet!” She greeted her friend with a hug. Then she leaned back and frowned at her. “Please tell me you really need me here and this isn’t a bizarre prank.”

Juliet patted her on the shoulder. “Oh, it’s real. They brought me in an hour ago to assess them.” She tipped her head at the four women who were now circling the cage, their arms tucked in to their sides oddly.

Juliet was a witch who specialized in transitional therapy—she worked a lot with shifters and other creatures who were having a hard time with their magic or with adjusting to life in a human-centric world. So if she’d been called, it strongly suggested one thing. “You think they’re shifters?”

Juliet waggled her hand back and forth. “I don’t know, exactly. I can’t understand them and they’re not shifting, but they’re exhibiting some very animal behavior.”

“Drugs?” Amity asked.

The guard shook her head. “We don’t think they’re on anything, but you’re welcome to ask them for a urine sample and see how that goes.”

Amity frowned, running a hand down her rumpled cardigan. It didn’t exactly go with her outfit—black slacks and a lavender Oxford blouse—but her grandmother had knitted it, and it was comforting. Plus the orange and brown yarn hid stains well. Amity watched the four women as the moved. The smaller one was sitting on the floor, staring morosely at her feet. “Any idea what kind of shifter?”

“Nope,” Juliet said, popping the p.

Amity looked at the guard.

The guard shrugged one shoulder. “Got me. I just work here. I’ve seen a lot at the UTC, but this is new.”

The three women stared into the cell, watching. All of them were used to working with shapeshifters—and Amity was one herself—so the nudity wasn’t something they paid too much attention to, but the behavior was odd. Amity watched one of the women raise her arms at the other in a territorial display. She hissed. The way she held her arms—

“Birds?” Juliet asked, her head tilted.

“Swans.” Not what Amity had thought it, all the behavior—and the coloring—made sense. She groaned. If the women in the cell were swans, it meant only one thing—she had to call the Swan King. Amity had never met him. Empty-headed rich playboys weren’t exactly her thing, but you couldn’t live in Seattle and not know about Roman Lapointe. Amity liked solid, steady men. Guys with jobs and sensible dispositions who showed up when they said and did what they promised. Roman Lapointe, on the other hand, was a Swan King…and that was it. His instagram was full of photos of him at galas and parties, his picture splashed on the billboard by her apartment touting some kind of liquor. He was one of those people that were famous for just being and Amity didn’t understand that at all.

Juliet made a sympathetic face and patted her arm. “I’m sure he’s not that bad.”

Amity’s brow furrowed, her mouth pinched. “Oh no,” she said darkly. “I’m sure he’s much, much worse.”

“Who?” the guard asked, her eyebrows raised.

“The swan king,” Juliet said, clutching her notebook as she looked sympathetically at Amity. “You won’t have to deal with him, I’m sure. Just a phone call.”

The guard’s eyes grew round. “The swan king? Coming here?” She flushed, patting her hands over her hair. “Do you really think he’ll come here?”

Amity sighed and dug out her phone. She didn’t have Mr. Lapointe’s contact information, but her secretary would. She texted her secretary, who also happened to be her little sister, Pru.

Amity: Do not squeal and do not text the family—I need the contact information for Roman Lapointe, ASAP.

Pru: *squealing emoji*

Amity: This is confidential and applies to a work situation. I repeat, DO NOT TEXT THE FAMILY

Amity watched the little dots appear for a few seconds, then disappear, then reappear. She sighed, tapping out the message.

Amity: you already told them, didn’t you?

Pru: I attached the information we have on file. Will there be anything else?

Amity: PRU DID YOU TELL THE FAMILY?

Pru: I’m sorry *csssshhh* you’re breaking up *cssssshh* so much static—

Amity: Prudence Emelie Montrose!

Pru: New phone, who dis?

Amity clicked her phone off with a growl. This was why it was a terrible idea to work with her family. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t that she couldn’t say no to her mother. It was more like she said no and Fabia Montrose steamrolled right over her and did what she wanted. Amity loved her family. They were amazing and loud and fiercely loyal. They also had zero boundaries. She’d tried to make some, moving to her own little apartment in Briar Creek, but it hadn’t made much difference. Somehow her entire family had the key and helped themselves. She’d changed the locks twice before she gave up.

Amity plugged in Lapointe’s contact info, stepped away from the cell, and called.

It rang twice before a crisp female voice answered. “You’ve reached the Swan King’s answering service, this is Eris.”

“Hello, Eris, this is Amity Montrose. I’m a support specialist for the Uncanny Tribunal Commission.”

“If this is about last Thursday,” Eris said, her tone flat. “Then you need to talk to our legal team. Their numbers are—”

Amity cut her off. “It’s nothing like that.” She didn’t even want to know why Eris had the legal team’s numbers memorized. “We have a—” she struggled to remember the collective noun. Bevy? Bevy. “We have what I think is a bevy of swanmanes in custody. We need Mr. Lapointe—“

“That’s not possible.”

Amity blinked. “Excuse me?”

“There are no swan manes in the pacific northwest except for his majesty.”

Amity scowled, glad Eris couldn’t see her face. “Then why does the swan king live here?” Could he even be a king if he had no subjects?

Eris’s voice had cooled considerably when she answered. “I’m sure that’s none of your business.”

Amity sighed. “You’re right, it isn’t. But please believe me when I say that we’re almost certain that the women in custody are swans and we need him to come down here and help us identify them.” She grimaced. She needed to be polite. “Please.”

It was Eris’s turn to sigh. “Can you send photos or maybe a short video?”

Amity hesitated. “Normally, I would say yes, but they’re naked and non-communicative, so I can’t ask their permission.”

“Non-communicative?”

“Except for the hissing.” Amity looked at the cell. Two of the women were trying to tuck their heads under their arms to sleep. One was paddling around the cage, and the smallest one was still staring at her feet.

“Okay,” Eris said. “As soon as his majesty wakes, I’ll give him your message.”

Amity looked at the clock across from the wall. It was noon. Noon! “I’m sure this warrants you waking him his royal—“ she didn’t continue, because the line had gone dead. Eris had hung up.

Juliet flashed her an unsure smile. “Well?”

“He’ll be here, I think,” Amity mumbled. “Eventually.” She checked the time again and looked at the guard. “Can you call me when and if he comes in? I’m going to go get lunch. Juliet?”

She checked her schedule on her phone. “I have time for lunch. Should we grab something quick, incase he comes in?”

Amity shook her head. “I think we can sit down and take our time. From the sound of his assistant, I don’t think he’ll be here anytime soon.” 

Swans. They were all about image, and if he wasn't even out of bed yet...the definitely had time.

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