“Looks like I’ll be driving us home,” Oliver said, and nodded towards the dark puddle of shadows near the gallery entrance. Moira was curled up, sound asleep, the outlines of her form shimmering as she didn’t quite shift. Oliver never took his eyes off her even though a security guard had flown from her roost in the rafters to guard over the sleeping woman.

“She’s putting everything into her research, isn’t she.” Nif hadn’t noticed how tired the young woman was. She was so full of life and energy that the dark smudges under her eyes and the hollows in her cheeks were disguised by bright laughter and smiles.

“What’s worse is they’ve requested a review three months earlier than expected. I’m worried they’re going to find a reason to cancel her scholarship.”

“That would devastate her!”

“She’s staying positive. It may be nothing at all. A change in procedure perhaps. But none of the other PhD candidates have been requested to show cause.” He sighed and tugged a handful of hair. “Come on. It’s getting late and I need to get her home. Let’s say our goodbyes and head off.”

Philippa and Josephine had already caught a taxi home, Clinton walking them to the waiting car and taking a photo of the number plate, just in case. He now waited near the exit, the early facade of contentedness having melted away to reveal his anxiousess of it being so late in a strange place.

“I trust you will make sure you all get home safely?” Clinton asked.

“Yeah, Oliver is driving me home,” Nif replied.

“And then I’ll stay over at Moira’s,” Oliver said. “Make sure she gets to uni alright tomorrow. Did you drive here, Clint?”

“I parked out front. I’ll walk you guys out.”

Morris was lingering near his art, as if he was still surprised the ideas in his head had manifested into something corporeal. Nif’s boots clacked across the concrete as she approached.

“It was a wonderful show,” Nif said softly. Morris laughed and appeared startled by the sound that escaped him.

“For a long time my art was a secret. Mostly because I didn’t think I was any good at it, but I enjoyed it. I felt at peace when I painted, and I decided it didn’t matter what anybody thought anyway. It was all just for me. After I met Clinton and the others, I realised the way we live, in the shadows, our heads down and ashamed for something we’ve no control over, wasn’t anyway to exist. If it weren’t for them, this,” and he gestured to the art suspended around them, “wouldn’t have happened.”

Morris slipped off his hat to worry between his fingers and leant in close as if to tell Nif a secret, his breath smelling of cinnamon and the sweet wine that had been circulating earlier.

“I got an offer, you know. On the whole collection. I couldn’t bear it if they were split up -- they work together as a whole, like a family -- but if they were appreciated together then maybe...and well, the money is obscene. I didn’t realise people would spend so much money on art!”

“Oh Morris, that’s excellent news! You could spend more time painting!”

“That is the dream,” Morris said and Nif watched as he packed away his excitement, as if only people who were complete had the right to make such goals. “Maybe I could move to an island somewhere. Drink coconuts and paint for days.” His words he folded like linen into a cupboard inside his head. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Keep at it, Morris. Your art is beautiful and it deserves to be recognised by the world.”

“Definitely,” Oliver said, appearing on Morris’s other side. Peeking over his shoulder was a sleepy Moira, her fingers curled under Oliver’s chin and her legs wrapped tight around his waist.

“I want to keep them all and hang them in my uni office,” Moira mumbled, her smile dreamy. “I’d stare at them all day and remember there’s beauty in the world.”

“Somehow I don’t think they’d fit,” Oliver teased gently, hefting her weight higher.

“That’s because they gave me a shoe box to work in. It doesn’t even have a window.”

“I’ve got something at home you can have,” Morris said. “One of my test pieces for the planet collection. It’s small and a little rough, but you could have it if you’d like?”

“Oh you don’t have to...I mean, could I? Really? That would be amazing!” Moira scrambled up Oliver’s back, ignoring the man’s grunts as she kneed him in the kidney to drop a kiss down on Morris’ head. “You’re a gem, Morris. I’m so glad you’re our friend.”

“It’s getting late. I’m going to turn in,” Clinton announced and Moira yawned in response, tucking herself onto Oliver’s back again. Oliver glanced over at Nif and rolled his eyes, but she could tell he wouldn’t risk dropping his friend for anything.

“How’re you getting home Morris?” Nif asked as the five of them moved towards the entrance.

“I’ll be staying a while longer to speak with a potential client.” Morris puffed up at that. “Then I’ll catch a taxi home.”

“Text me when you arrive home safely, okay,” Clinton insisted. “That goes for all of you.”

“Yes, dad,” Moira grumbled, and stuck her tongue out at him.

“She gets punchy when she’s tired. We should go,” Oliver said. They left Morris with the art curator, a tall, willowy man with the most impressive moustache Nif had ever seen, and Clinton made a show of walking them to Moira’s car, even though it was a stone’s throw from the gallery.

“I really enjoyed tonight,” Nif said to Clinton as she watched Oliver manhandle Moira into the back seat. Moira curled up almost immediately so Oliver wrestled her into her seatbelt and then covered her with his coat.

“It’s lovely to see how we’re all continuing to grow. When Morris first joined us, almost eighteen months ago, he was a rough, angry soul who was frustrated with his inability to reach out to the world. He’d go days without speaking to another person face to face. We’ve all got similar stories. This support group allows us to be ourselves fully.”

“You do a great job organising it all. You don’t know how much I needed a group like this.”

“You’re welcome, Jennifer. Now remember to text when Oliver drops you off and I’ll see you next week.” Clinton left them to it, already on his phone and most likely texting his own wife he was on his way.

“She’s out like a hibernating squirrel. Moira can sleep through anything.” Oliver softly closed the back door.

“I know Clinton’s the official leader, but it’s you who sorts out the small details,” Nif said quietly. “The refreshments at every meeting and Moira told me you’re the one who sorts the venue,” Nif said. Oliver opened the front passenger door for her, and she slipped inside, giving Clinton a small wave as he got into his own car and carefully reversed around an artistically curved garbage bin before driving off.

“Yeah, well, that’s what I’m good at. Organising things. I swear I’m only as good a writer as I am because of all the spreadsheets I create.”

Oliver started the car just as Nif realised she was missing her scarf.

“Wait! I’ve forgotten something. I’ll just be a sec.” Nif was out of the car before Oliver could stop her, dashing across the street and inside, almost colliding with the tall art curator.

“Oh, sorry, my dear,” he said, hair impressively silver and thick. She vaguely remembered he had some kind of French name. Pierre? He wasn’t wearing his badge anymore and he was putting on his coat, ready to leave. The gallery was dimly lit, most of the spotlights already switched off and only the dim, overhead bulbs set in the high warehouse ceiling cast any glow at all.

“That’s okay,” Nof said. “I left my scarf somewhere. You haven’t seen it have you? It’s a red and purple infinity scarf.”

“I haven’t, but feel free to have a quick look around. I need to go lock up the offices next door so I’ll leave this door for last. I trust you not to steal the paintings!” He chuckled and gestured for her to proceed with a graceful bow. Nif glanced up and wondered when the hired security birds had flown off for the night.

“Jennifer! You can’t just run off like that!” Oliver huffed, holding the door open for the curator before jogging in after her. She was already retracing her steps. There was a brief time they’d sat down by the small refreshment table so maybe her scarf had been left on a chair? It was eerie walking about in the dark quiet. She didn’t spot Morris anywhere. Hadn’t he been talking with the curator? Maybe he’d already left, though she hadn’t seen him leave. When the curator came back, she’d check with him.

“You didn’t leave Moira in the car alone, did you?” Nif asked.

“I locked her in and you can barely see her under my coat. She’s not going anywhere and you’re the one who just left.” Oliver brushed his shoulder up against hers and scanned the gallery.

“I wasn’t going to be long. Ah, there it is!” Her scarf had slipped off the back of a chair to pool beneath it, hidden in the shadows. Nif shook it out, thankfully dust free, and slipped it back around her neck.

“Good. Let’s get back. I don’t like leaving Moira alone in the car.”

“Did you see Morris leave? I thought he was talking to the curator. What’s his name? Pierre? The tall one you passed at the door.”

“He may have parked out the back,” Oliver said.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

There was a loud crash from the rear exit, like wooden crates being knocked over or maybe a car reversing over one of those decorative bins.

“You don’t think that was Morris, do you?” Nif exchanged a concerned look with Oliver and as one they headed for the exit.

“Morris? You out here?” Oliver called. The exit was unlocked, the door a tall heavy thing that screeched as Oliver pushed it open.

The back of the gallery opened onto a wide alleyway, large enough to fit a medium size truck to deliver artworks and a big skip in the far corner that was surprisingly clean for such an old place. There were no cars, but the skip was crooked, as if it had been bumped out of place.

“Can you see anything?” Nif asked, pulling out her phone and switching on the torch. The alley looked cold and sharp in the light. Nif stepped forward and something crunched underfoot. It was a sunflower, the petals crumpled and bruised. Fear churned in her gut, her hand trembling as she panned the light back and forth, towards the skip. They both froze at the sight of scuffed leather shoes sticking out from beside it.

“Morris?” Oliver whispered.

Nif’s heart was pounding, blood roaring in her ears like the crashing of waves, the sinking feeling in her stomach making her want to throw up. She reached out for Oliver’s elbow, murmured a low “wait” and tugged him back, taking the lead.

Morris was slumped against the white-washed brick wall. Even the back alleys of this converted warehouse district had been prettied up. His head was propped, his face hidden in shadow but it looked like he’d been crying. Slowly, she trailed her phone light up his body, over his neatly pressed suit, his discarded hat at his side, to the blood that splattered against the white wall.

His eyes were missing.

His lips were blood red.

“Oliver, we need to get back to the car right now,” Nif ordered, spinning on her heel and dragging him behind her.

“But Morris needs our help,” Oliver protested, but his struggles were nothing to Nif’s determination.

“We can’t help Morris anymore, but Moira is still in the car. Alone. Whoever did this to Morris could still be out here.”

“But Morris…”

“I’m so sorry, Oliver.”

He followed meekly after that.

Nif dialled emergency services even as they charged back through the gallery.

“I need to report a murder,” she said, voice flat, to the responder. Oliver had to give her the address since all she could think of was Morris lying back there alone. She almost forgot her own name, stammering it out after a few attempts.

“Are you in danger, Jennifer?” The responder asked.

“I don’t think so. We’ve got a car.”

“Good. Lock yourselves inside and stay put. I’ve got help coming, but I’m going to stay on the line, alright?”

“Okay. Okay.”

Oliver took her hand and she realised she was shaking. The image of Morris, lying there, almost peaceful except for the terrible gouged out eye sockets swam through her mind. What had the murderer used? A knife? Keys? Had Morris still been alive as he was mutilated? Why hadn’t he screamed? If he had, they could’ve come running and maybe he’d be okay now.

They were almost at the front of the gallery when Nif spun and threw up all the canapés she’d eaten beneath a hanging artwork of a naked man. She really hoped she hadn’t splashed it.

“Oh dear. Are you alright?” The art curator had returned, keys dangling from his fingers. Nif heaved again through tears until her stomach was empty. She felt like she wouldn’t ever be able to eat again. “I see you found your scarf but something hasn’t agreed with you. Let me get you some water.”

Nif glanced up to see the curator turn to bustle off, but Oliver stopped him. She checked his neat suit, the cuffs of his pants, the sleeves of his jacket, and found no blood.

“There’s been an accident,” Oliver said. He sounded like he was shouting from the bottom of the well, his words like a watery echo.

“No, Oliver,” Nif said softly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “It’s not an accident. Morris has been murdered.” She unwrapped her scarf, feeling suddenly hot and twisted it anxiously in her hands.

“A murder?” The curator exclaimed. He dropped his keys onto the polished concrete, the sound ringing out across the gallery. “Are we in danger?”

“The police are on their way. Is there somewhere you can lock yourself in until they arrive? Our friend is in the car so we’ll wait there,” Nif said. A wash of calmness surrounded her grief and fear, and she grasped it with all she was worth. She needed to be in control for just a little while longer. “Come on, Oliver.”

She reached for his hand this time and after they watched the art curator lock himself into one of the offices next door, they retreated to Moira’s car, locking themselves inside. Moira was sleeping on the back seat, but Nif still checked, gently lifting Oliver’s jacket to check she was still unbloody, her eyelashes kissing her cheeks.

“What did you see,” Oliver whispered in the enclosed quiet.

“His eyes were missing.” Nif swallowed, fighting another urge to throw up. She couldn’t bear to unlock the door, to breach their bubble of safety, but she definitely didn’t want to sit in the dark in a puddle of vomit.

“No.” Oliver shook his head, his fists closed tight over the steering wheel. “No, we were just talking to him.”

“I wish I was wrong, Oliver. I really do. But somehow the murderer found him.”

“And we just left him there. He could still be alive!”

“He wasn’t.” A wall of grief slammed into Nif and suddenly she couldn’t breathe, goosebumps racing over her exposed skin like she’d been dropped into an icy lake. Oliver had wet streaks shining silver down his cheeks in the lamp light, and he was still shaking his head, but he opened his arms and Nif crashed into his chest. The tightness in her ribcage released, and his warmth swallowed her. Sobs threatened to tear up her throat, but she swallowed them down and instead focused on the gearstick poking her uncomfortably in her hip.

“What’s going on?” Moira grumbled from the back seat, and Nif and Oliver reluctantly pulled apart. Moira sat up, Oliver’s jacket slipping off her shoulders, and she rubbed her eyes with the heel of one hand. “Oli? Are you crying?”

Oliver looked at Nif, silently pleading for Nif to say it was all a joke, that he didn’t have to tell his best friend that Morris had died. Had died while they’d been nearby, none the wiser. God, she wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened, but she shook her head and he collapsed, shoulders rolling inwards and his face crumpling. Sirens were growing louder and soon the place would be swarming with flashing lights and people asking pointed questions.

“Morris was attacked,” Oliver said, voice cracking. “We’re waiting for the police now.”

“Why didn’t you wake me? Is he okay? Why aren’t we helping him?” Moira tried her door and was surprised to find it locked.

“Moira,” Oliver said, twisting and half climbing into the back seat so he could grasp her shoulders. “He didn’t make it.”

“This isn’t funny, Oliver,” Moira snapped, pulling away, and she hit the lock and tumbled out of the car. Nif followed her out, terrified she’d run away, but instead Moira just watched as the first police car pulled up, sirens loud and lights flashing blue and red. Another police car and an ambulance soon followed.

“Oliver?” Moira turned wide eyes to her friend and he hurried to wrap his discarded jacket around her shoulders.

“Someone should call Clinton,” Nif said as she pulled out her phone and stared, despondently at the screen. It was almost eleven. Would he be home by now?

“I’ll do it,” Oliver said over Moira’s head.

An older police officer with his german shepard shifted partner approached them, his hand resting on his belt, within easy reach of his holster.

“Jennifer Saito?”

Nif stepped forward and waved, though immediately regretted it when the shifted officer growled.

“I’m Officer Nolan and this is Officer Trent,” he said, gesturing to the dog. “You reported a murder?”

“Yes. Our friend. Morris Hulm. We were here for his art show.”

Moira began sobbing, soft hiccuping cries that caused Officer Trent’s ears to flatten against his skull.

“I know this is hard for you, Ms Saito, but you’ll need to show us where he is.”

“I’ll go,” Oliver volunteered, but Nif shook her head.

“No. Stay with Moira. I can do this.”

Nif’s heart pounded in her ears as she led the officers back into the gallery, the art curator peering out through the office window next door, face pale.

“Can you tell us the steps leading to you discovering the body?” Officer Nolan asked. Even though he looked like he could take on a half dozen Officer Trents -- his shoulders solid muscle and his face broad and heavily lined-- he spoke gently and radiated a security that Nif desperately needed.

“We came tonight to celebrate our friend’s first art show. We were one of the last to leave. Morris said he had to talk to a potential buyer so we said our goodbyes inside and then talked with Clinton -- another friend -- before he drove off and we went to leave.” Nif found her feet dragging as they approached the back exit. “I forgot my scarf so I came back in with Oliver. We spoke with the art curator -- Pierre I think his name is? -- and then I wondered where Morris had gone and Oliver thought Morris had left through the back. We found my scarf by the refreshment table.” She pointed to the seats lining the wall. “And then we heard a noise. It sounded like a car hitting something metal.”

“So you went to investigate?” Officer Nolan asked. Officer Trent scouted ahead of them, his nose to the ground.

“Yeah. We found him by the rubbish skip.”

Officer Nolan gestured for her to wait while he opened the door and Officer Trent darted out into the darkness. The officer pulled out a fat torch and switched it on.

“You can wait here,” Officer Nolan offered, but Nif followed, mostly because she was unwilling to be left alone. She lingered by the door and watched as Officer Trent made a beeline for Morris. He made a gruff bark and she realised he was talking through the radio strapped to his vest. It crackled and a responding bark had Officer Trent swiftly securing the area.

Officer Nolan approached the skip and sighed heavily as he directed his torch light towards Morris’s body. By the door, Nif could only make out her friend’s feet.

“Is he really…” Nif asked, half hoping she’d been mistaken and feeling sick that maybe she’d left him alive, alone, bleeding out in an alley.

“I’m afraid so.”

“It’s the murderer targeting partial and non-shifters, isn’t it?”

“Are you saying the victim is a non-shifter?” Officer Nolan took out a notebook and jotted down his observations. Was he writing down everything she was saying?

“Partial. We’re all part of a support group.”

“I see. I’ll need to get the names of everyone who attends this group. Were they all here tonight for the showing?”

“Yes, but I watched them all leave.”

Officer Trent barked something high pitch, obviously code for officers in their human form to understand.

“I’ll escort you back to the front as soon as the rest of the squad arrives to help secure the area. They’ll be here soon.”

Dark shadows flowed in from the alley and Nif bit back a shriek until she realised that the dogs, wolves and other predator shift forms all wore the same flack vests. Their human partners escorted the paramedics in and began taping off the area.

“Come on. I’ll take you now.” Officer Nolan led her through the gallery, the lights on and the art curator speaking with another officer, his hands clutching his tie. He waved weakly at her as she passed.

“What happens now?” Nif asked as the officer held open the door for her and she stepped out into a brightly lit street. Oliver still had Moira wrapped in his arms, but they were speaking with an officer while assuring another paramedic that they weren’t hurt at all, just upset.

“You’ll be escorted to the station to make a statement and then someone will drive you home.”

Home. That sounded so wonderful right then.

“Nif!” Moira shouted from Oliver’s protective embrace, waving her arm.

“Can I go back to my friends now?”

“Yeah. We’ll come get you in a bit. Go on.”

Moira dragged Nif into a hug and Oliver wrapped them both up until they were a tight bundle of limbs and frosted breath. All Nif wanted to do was sleep, but she doubted she’d find any peace behind closed eyelids.

“I can’t believe he’s really gone,” Moira whispered.

Nif recalled the crushed sunflower underfoot and wanted to howl, but if she started she didn’t think she could stop.