by Sam Burns
The space between the RV and the brick wall it had been parked beside was too small, and he barely kept from touching the hot metal of what had once been his home. He couldn’t keep his father off it; he was too small to lug a full-grown man around effectively. The tiny space was full of smoke, and Fletcher felt his lungs filling with it. If the men didn’t leave soon, if police and EMTs didn’t come, he and his father were going to die anyway. He cried.
“Oh, kid,” his dad rasped, running a hand through his fur. When had he turned into a fox?
He woke with a start to find that his father really was petting him, sitting on the arm of the chair next to where Fletcher was curled in a ball.
“You want soup?”
Fletcher’s stomach growled in response, and he leaned into his father’s touch. It was one of the best parts of being a fox. Most people didn’t think twice about petting him even if they would never pet a shifted werewolf or a non-shifted Fletcher. Foxes were cute like that.
His dad smiled down at him, scratching behind his ears before standing up. “Okay, soup it is. But no brownies unless you switch back. You know where I keep your clothes.”
Instead of going straight to change and dress, Fletcher weighed his choices. His father was probably right that he shouldn’t have them as a fox, but he didn’t need brownies at all, did he?
His father, who had been halfway to the kitchen, turned and looked back at him, eyebrows drawing together and pulling at the scarred skin on half his face. “Fletch? Are you okay?”
Fletcher hung his head and whined, but turned toward his childhood room, where his father still kept a few changes of his clothes in the bottom drawer of the dresser. Most of the dresser was stuffed full of yarn, because, in Fletcher’s opinion, his father had a problem. The old man called it a “stash;” Fletcher called it an addiction.
His stomach was still grumbling when he got back into his human form, and it took him a minute to get used to opposable thumbs again, tying and retying the drawstring in the sweatpants. He wore sweats a lot when he wasn’t in uniform if the small collection of clothes his father had was any sign. He wondered if that was tacky but remembered that he didn’t care. He was a small-town cop, not a fashionista, no matter how much Project Runway he watched in his time off.
When he came back out, his father was ladling bowls of clam chowder out of his soup pot. His dad made the best chowder. He pointed Fletcher to the table and brought the bowls over to where he’d already set plates with fresh biscuits. The previously offered brownies were in a small plastic container he set in the middle.
“Hana keeps bringing me food at work,” his father said, falsely casual, nodding toward the container of brownies.
Fletcher sighed. It was sweet, but the townsfolk didn’t seem to understand that treating them different than usual only reminded them that something was wrong. “I guess that’s not shocking.”
“They’re all worried I’m going to have a breakdown.” His father picked up a biscuit and broke it in half. “They see the scars and can’t help thinking I’m fragile.”
Fletcher let out a snort at that. “I love the people in this town, Dad, but if they think that, they’re being stupid. Guy who lives through what you’ve lived through? You’re the opposite of fragile.”
His father shrugged. “It’s nice that they care. They just haven’t been there.”
They didn’t know what Fletcher and his father had gone through. Many of them had been so sheltered in Rowan Harbor they didn’t understand what trauma felt like. It made you fragile in some ways, sure, but in others, it made you so, so strong. So strong that you could stand against a tornado, and so brittle that you would eventually shatter in a light breeze.
Bob coming into town was a tornado. Dad could handle that.
Between Aldric, Bob, and Conner, Fletcher wasn’t so sure about himself. But he was determined not to drag his father down with him. Eric Lane had survived his wife’s death. He would survive if Fletcher didn’t make it. The man was a survivor, and he had an unmatched support network.
“I’m not a big fan of that look,” his father said, raising an eyebrow at him. “I recognize the ‘Fletcher is about to go pick a fight with the school bully’ look, and it’s never led to anything good.”
“Sorry, Dad, too late to worry. I already told the school bully’s cute friend that he keeps lousy company.” That wasn’t even close to the magnitude of what he’d done, but there was no reason to make his dad worry more. Fletcher couldn’t take it back now, and in retrospect, he could see that it had been one of the worst possible things he could have done. Trust Fletcher to lose his temper and do something that would get him killed.
His father leaned forward, resting one elbow on the table and grabbing the container of brownies. “The one who doesn’t look my age, I assume?”
Fletcher nodded.
“Could be worse,” the old man said, prying the brownies open and taking one, then holding the plastic dish out to Fletcher. When he saw the dubious look on Fletcher’s face, he gave a wink. “Could have been the old one.”
“Ew.” Fletcher scrunched up his nose at the idea of finding Frank attractive. Not that he had a problem with older men, he just didn’t have a death wish or any interest in— “Oh.”
His father said nothing, just waited for Fletcher to share whatever conclusion he’d come to.
Fletcher grabbed a brownie and stuffed half of it in his mouth, hardly taking time to taste it as he wolfed it down. “It’s not that he’s cute. Not only that he’s cute. He’s also nice. And—I think he means well?”
“You don’t think he’s a cold-blooded killer?” His father looked amused by the conclusion, which was a little annoying.
“I’m not pretending he’s a decent guy because he’s cute, Dad. He’s . . . He went into the yarn shop Wednesday to check on me. He followed me into the woods today to thank me for helping him yesterday.” He shoved the other half of the brownie in his mouth and chewed this time, mostly so that his father wouldn’t demand he say more. It sounded stupid when he said it out loud.
His father covered the container back up and set it on the table. He put his brownie down on the plate next to the biscuit, and then stirred his soup, deep in thought. Finally, he sighed and let the spoon rest on the edge of the bowl. “I don’t think you’re so shallow that you’re letting someone’s looks draw you in, kiddo. But you’ve got to see what those things have in common.”
“You think he’s only being nice because—”
“That’s not what I said. I don’t know why he’s being nice to you. Maybe he’s as bad as his friends, and he’s trying to manipulate you. Maybe he, ah, wants something from you.” His father wouldn’t even look him in the eye when he said that, and it made Fletcher feel like a teenager getting the boys-only-want-one-thing speech. “Or maybe he’s a genuinely nice person who’s chosen a really awful line of work. Who knows? The mayor’s a nice guy, but he still chose to be a politician, so we know it’s possible. You’re the one who’s talked to him. You’re the one who likes him, despite yourself. You’re the one who has to decide whether to trust him.”
“But I can’t do that, Dad. I can’t trust him on behalf of the whole town.” He wanted to shift and run again, but he’d been doing a lot of that lately. Eventually, he had to pretend he was an actual twenty-four-year-old adult person who made rational choices. “He’s a danger to everyone in Rowan Harbor. I don’t get to trust him just because I hope I can.”
His father nodded, but it seemed more thoughtful than certain. “It’s true that you can’t trust him on behalf of the town. But you do get to decide to trust him on behalf of yourself.”
Fletcher sighed and nodded. “Been there, done that, looking at it in the rearview mirror with more than a little self-loathing.”
“You told him about Mom.”
He gave another nod, this one short and perfunctory, probably because he didn’t want to admit it at all.
“What did he say?�
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Fletcher buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. He wasn’t sure whether he was laughing or sobbing, but whatever it was, he wished he weren’t doing it. “I don’t know,” he choked out. “I turned into a fox and ran away.”
“Jesus, kiddo. You never have done anything halfway, have you?” His dad stood, came over behind him, and wrapped his arms around him. “It’ll be okay. No matter what he does, it’ll be okay.”
They stayed like that for a few minutes until his father’s phone buzzed in his pocket. His dad backed up enough to pull the phone out and paused when he looked at the screen. Fletcher took his face out of his hands and glanced over but didn’t quite catch sight of what the caller ID said.
“Hello?” the old man said, sounding confused. Fletcher once again wished for werewolf hearing, or that he was still in fox form, so he could listen in. “Yeah, Fletcher’s here.”
Fletcher looked up at him, concerned, but his father shook his head.
“I take it his phone has turned up at the bar?” his father asked, and the reaction made more sense. The caller ID had said Fletcher was calling.
But why the bar? Was it Cassidy? Why would Cassidy have—oh no. His phone had been in his coat pocket, so Conner had it. After the vampire discussion, he didn’t want Conner anywhere near Cassidy, Max, or any of the vampires in town.
His father was quiet for a while, listening, before he said, “Sure, I’ll drive him over. No? Well, I can still drop him off, Max. I won’t break because I’m in the same square mile of land as one guy. It’s the young one, right? Apparently, he’s got quite the crush on Fletcher. Yeah, okay. I’ll drop him off in a few minutes.”
He hung up the phone but didn’t let go of Fletcher with his left hand. “You left your clothes with him?”
Fletcher didn’t even try to hide his blush, nodding into his father’s hand.
“What are we gonna do with you two?”
Looking up at his father, Fletcher tried making an inquisitive noise without having to say anything. It worked when he was a fox, so why not?
“Apparently, your friend’s reaction to what you did was to go down to The Wharf and get blotto.” His father said, mussing his hair. “You two are a damn mess. I’m taking you down there. Max needs someone to pick him up, and you’re the closest thing he’s got to a friend in this town, so you’re nominated. If only because he showed up carrying your clothes and didn’t want anyone else touching them, because, and I quote, ‘He’ll come back for them.’ Max was not impressed.”
“Max is never impressed.”
His father cocked his head thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded. “True. If you were a few centuries old, it would take a lot to impress you too. Now come on.” He squeezed Fletcher’s shoulder.
His father dropping him off at a bar was a little surreal. The man had dropped him off at school every day through his senior year of high school, so he was no stranger to his father driving him places. Other people his age had called it strange and overprotective back in high school, but he hadn’t questioned it, because his father’s peace of mind was more important than his classmates’ opinions. Somehow, his father taking him to a bar was less natural.
“Be careful, okay, kiddo?” he asked, as Fletcher got out of the station wagon. “I know he’s cute, but a cute snake is still a snake. Sometimes, they’ll bite you whether they mean to kill you or not.”
“That may be the most disturbing thing you’ve ever said, Dad. I’m impressed.” The ground was cold against his feet, and he wished he’d kept spare shoes at his dad’s place. He hoped Max wouldn’t make a fuss about him being barefoot.
His father waved him away. “Yeah well, you know what I mean. Careful.”
“I’ll be careful, promise. You remember that I’m a fully trained officer of the law, right?” Admittedly, Fletcher had been acting more like the scared teenager he’d been a decade ago than the adult he was, but his father didn’t know all of that. He just knew he’d come home from work to find his adult son, having sneaked in through the dog door, curled up in his chair asleep. That was bad enough. “Go home, Dad. Get some rest. I’ll call you in the morning.”
“If you don’t, I’ll be coming over. It’s my day off. Don’t think I won’t do it. And you don’t want me there whether it goes badly or not.” The old man waggled his eyebrows, and Fletcher had been wrong before, that was the most disturbing thing his father had ever said.
He groaned. “Dad, I’m here to get him because he’s drunk. The worst thing you’re likely to find is him passed out on my couch, because I don’t care if he is drunk, he’s not making me sleep on my couch.”
His father considered that for a moment before nodding. “Fair enough, I guess. I swear, sometimes it’s almost like we did something right raising you.”
Fletcher snorted and turned toward the bar.
In the months since Devon had moved into town, Fletcher had started getting invitations to come out to The Wharf on Saturday nights to hang out with the other people in town who were near his age. As much as he wanted to make friends, he hadn’t yet gone.
It wasn’t that he didn’t drink, or that he had a problem with the bar; he just hated feeling like a third, or fifth, or nineteenth wheel. He’d spent most of his life as the odd man out, and if that was going to happen at The Wharf, he’d rather stay home and drink a beer in front of the television.
None of that was relevant, since it was Sunday. The bar was almost empty but for old man Danvers, who was sitting at the bar chatting, and Max, who was being chatted at and looked like he was in the seventh level of hell. He perked up when Fletcher walked in.
“Lane, got your pet bounty hunter over here.” He motioned toward a back corner of the bar and came over to walk with him, handing him his cell phone.
“Is this a normal Sunday night?” Fletcher asked when Max neared, waving around at the empty main room.
Max looked around the bar and back at him. “You worried your boyfriend chased everyone off? Nah, it’s usually me and Charlie, Sunday night.” He pointed back at Mr. Danvers. “Everybody’s back to work tomorrow, and it’s a small town. Somebody sees you drinking in the bar Sunday night, your boss isn’t gonna believe you’ve got anything but a hangover when you call in sick on Monday.”
They got to the back-corner booth where Conner was sitting. The man was leaning all the way onto the table, chin on his hands, staring at the empty mug in front of him. Fletcher’s coat, clothes, and shoes were neatly piled on the table next to him. The man had folded his clothes.
He gave a goofy smile when he looked up at Fletcher. “Heya, foxy,” he slurred. Then he broke into giggles, burying his face in his folded arms.
Max raised an eyebrow at Fletcher. “I’m not gonna ask.” Something like concern crossed his face, but it was gone almost as soon as Fletcher saw it. “Seen his kind faced with reality before. They’re not usually this cheerful about finding out their great, selfless calling isn’t as great or selfless as they thought.”
Fletcher wasn’t sure what to say to that. He was pretty sure Conner wasn’t full of cheer, but there he was, giggling drunkenly. The situation was ridiculous, almost to the point where Fletcher wanted to laugh at it too. But the major crisis Conner was facing was—hopefully—a career change. If Conner turned out to be a bad guy, Fletcher was fighting for his life.
He wanted to be right about Conner more than he’d wanted anything in a long time.
“Baby hunter,” Max said, poking the top of Conner’s head. “Time to get up. Officer Lane’s taking you somewhere to sleep it off.”
Faster than Fletcher’s eyes could track, Conner reached out and grabbed Max’s wrist. He lifted his head, and his eyes were still a little glassy and confused, but he was looking at Max’s hand like it was something unexpected. He turned to Fletcher. “They don’t have a pulse.”
The bottom dropped out of Fletcher’s stomach. “You’re drunk.”
Conner snorted. “Yes, I am, but it doesn’t cha
nge the fact that a little old lady this afternoon told me that she and the other ‘creatures of the forest’ would end me if I hurt ‘that sweet Lane boy’ with my wily human ways.” He looked over at Max. “And your hands are unnaturally cold.”
Max shrugged. “My body’s more efficient than yours. Doesn’t produce waste heat.”
Conner narrowed his eyes. “Being warm-blooded isn’t the same as producing waste heat. That’s not scientifically—”
“I’m so glad you two make sense to each other,” Fletcher cut in. “But you’re drunk and imagining things. And we should get out of Max’s way.”
He grabbed the pile of his stuff in one arm and reached for Conner with the other. “Come on, let’s go.”
Max produced a set of keys from his back pocket and held them out to Fletcher. “It’s easy to spot. The stupidly expensive sedan.” He glanced over at Conner. “Don’t you know your kind are supposed to drive SUVs?”
“Frank’s got the SUV,” Conner muttered, taking Fletcher’s offered hand and using it to lever himself out of the booth. He proceeded to lean his head, and a surprising amount of his body weight, on Fletcher’s shoulder.
Fletcher reached around him and took the keys from Max. “Thanks, Max.”
Max nodded but put a hand on his neck to stop him for a moment. “Be careful, okay? I don’t think he’ll hurt you, but the last thing we need is the whole forest up in arms because some drunk baby hunter makes you fall down and break a bone.”
“I have no idea why anyone would have threatened him with that,” Fletcher told Max dismissively. “I’ll be fine, Conner won’t hurt me, and the forest isn’t going to freak out either way.” He stopped, considered that whole sentence, and shook his head. His life couldn’t get any weirder.
Max patted Fletcher on the back. “I keep forgetting what it was like, being young and stupid. Just be careful, kid. For crazy, paranoid, old Max.”
“Of course, Max.”
He wasn’t sure why he was agreeing when he knew Max was neither crazy nor paranoid. The vampire had been through a lot, and he worried. Fletcher knew the look of someone who’d been through hell. If Max thought that the forest was on the verge of something bad, Fletcher wasn’t sure he wanted to know why, but he didn’t doubt that it was true. He wished he could.