Fox and Birch (The Rowan Harbor Cycle Book 3)

by Sam Burns

  Sure enough, Conner’s car was a shiny, new, black Lexus. That seemed strange and out of character for someone who did what he did. The killers Fletcher was familiar with were all grizzled old men who drove grizzled old SUVs, like Bob and Frank. They didn’t have the jobs or resources to buy nice cars, and if they did, they wanted something a little more durable off road than a four-door sedan.

  He dropped Conner off in the passenger seat, leaving his clothes in the man’s lap, and went around to the driver’s side. As he climbed in, he spotted a folded blanket and pillow in the back seat. He supposed at least he knew where Conner had been sleeping.

  Getting behind the wheel was like entering a new country. There were all the basic controls he knew, like any car, but there were also a dozen buttons on the steering wheel that Fletcher had no clue about. The speedometer was a screen, and the thing had an on button instead of using a real key, for goodness’ sake. It was even fancier than Jesse’s SUV.

  Conner, as though by rote, reached out and pressed some buttons on the console. When Fletcher looked at him in question, he shrugged. “I grew up in Texas. It’s cold.”

  “You don’t have an accent,” Fletcher said, as though that would change where Conner had been born.

  Conner seemed to take it as a joke, and a hilarious one at that. “Neither do you,” he pointed out after a minute, still trying to swallow his amusement.

  “I’m from New Mexico.”

  “And?”

  Fletcher didn’t have an answer for that. What did he know about Texas? He hadn’t ever been there. Or if he had, he didn’t remember it. He checked the mirrors. Conner was about his height, so he didn’t have to move them. He put the car in reverse, turning to check behind him before pulling out of the space.

  Conner started talking again before Fletcher could finish pulling out. “I did have an accent, but we moved to California when my father died. Mom remarried, and they live in San Francisco.” He leaned his head against the headrest, which looked weirdly comfortable. Maybe his boneless drunkenness made it look that way, and it wasn’t, really. Fletcher wasn’t sure why he cared.

  That was a good assessment of his whole life right then: Fletcher wasn’t sure why he cared. He sighed. “I’m sorry your father died.”

  “You shouldn’t be. He was a bad person.”

  “Because he killed supernatural creatures?”

  Conner paused and considered that for long enough that Fletcher expected to turn and see that he’d fallen asleep. “He was in the Gulf War in the nineties. Mom said he was a good guy before that, but he came back wrong. He was always ten seconds away from being pissed off, and we never knew what would do it. I got a B on a school project and I should have gotten an A, or she wore a red dress and he didn’t like red, or the dog barked too many times.”

  Fletcher tried to imagine his own goofy, harmless father getting angry at—well, anything—and failed. “I’m sorry you had to live with that. I’ve heard that PTSD can change people.”

  “I guess. I didn’t know him before, so I don’t know. I just know he put my dog outside because she barked, and she got killed by a coyote.” Conner leaned over the center console a little and tentatively put his hand on Fletcher’s arm. “I guess now I’ve got a whole new angle to look at it from, too.”

  “You don’t do this,” Fletcher said. For the first time, he thought he might believe it. “You don’t kill us. You came here to help find a killer as a favor.”

  Conner leaned completely on his shoulder, warm and distracting. “I’ve hunted for vampires before. When they find a victim, I’ll look for the killer. My father taught me how to kill things—people, I mean—people who aren’t human.” The tone of the last word lifted, like it was a question.

  If Conner was going to give Fletcher what sounded like the unvarnished truth, Fletcher decided he was going to return it in kind, as much as he could. “I don’t know what I am. I guess I’m not human. Mom always called us shape-shifters, but I’m sure she knew more. She talked about ‘our people,’ sometimes. But I was still a kid when she died, so there was a lot she never taught me.”

  “When Bob killed her,” Conner amended. “Bob killed an innocent woman with a husband and kid.”

  “He tried to kill us all, if that helps,” Fletcher told him. It was probably rude, but Fletcher didn’t feel like being nice about his mother’s murderer.

  Conner gave a deep sigh and shook his head as much as he could without taking it off Fletcher’s shoulder. “I don’t know Bob, but that’s no excuse. In fact, that might make it worse.” He turned and buried his face in Fletcher’s shirt. “I keep hoping if I make his friends like me, it’ll be the same as if he liked me. But he didn’t. I don’t think he even liked them.”

  “It doesn’t sound like he liked anyone very much,” Fletcher agreed. “But that’s not your fault. And if you don’t go around locking people into their motor homes and setting them on fire, that’s a step ahead of Bob. Why am I comforting you?”

  “Because you’re a good person. You had every reason to chase us out of town, or heck, arrest Bob. Why didn’t you arrest Bob?” Conner’s tone was as earnest as it had been in the yarn shop, and that tone might be Fletcher’s personal kryptonite. “You should, you know. He should go to prison.”

  “Because if I arrest him, this town will find itself crawling with people like him, looking for me and my Dad.” It was the center of everything. He would die to protect Rowan Harbor, but he would do literally anything to protect his father. If he had his way, no hurt would ever touch Eric Lane again.

  Conner snuggled into him, hugging Fletcher’s coat tight to his chest. “You’re a good son. And a good guy. And so good looking.”

  “And now the truth comes out,” Fletcher said with a snort. “The real reason you started talking to me.”

  “It was the look in your eyes,” Conner said. When Fletcher glanced down at him, Conner’s eyes were open, staring out the windshield, glassy and unfocused. “I didn’t have a clue what it was, but something was wrong. You were scared and sad and—I guess it’s obvious now; you recognized Bob. I didn’t know. I thought maybe something bad had happened with White, but I wanted to help you.”

  Maybe Fletcher was a sucker, and he’d sure as hell made some monumentally bad decisions over the last week, but he thought that maybe, just maybe, he trusted Conner. He cocked his head. “What’s your last name?”

  “Mason, why? Oh god, do you think my father helped Bob—”

  “No! I mean I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter either. I just wanted to know your last name.” He pulled his right hand from its position at two on the steering wheel and wrapped it around Conner’s shoulders, pulling the man in tight. “You’re not your father. You can’t be judged based on what he might have done. More importantly, fuck whether he liked you or not. I don’t like him.”

  “I like you,” Conner sighed into his shoulder. “I wish you liked me.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to make either of our lives easier, Conner, but I do like you.” Fletcher pulled into one of the extra parking spaces at his apartment complex, grateful it was Sunday and his upstairs neighbor’s girlfriend wasn’t using it. He turned the car off, squeezing Conner’s shoulder and resting his cheek against the top of his head. “I really hope you’re the guy you seem to be.”

  “ ’M a pretty boring guy,” Conner mumbled, sounding like he was falling asleep.

  Fletcher gently pushed him over to his side of the car. “Uh huh,” he said. Conner might believe he was boring, but Fletcher didn’t. Conner was one of the first men he’d been more than passingly attracted to, and he wished the guy was a whole lot more boring. Fletcher could handle boring. Conner was shaking his life by its foundations.

  He hoped the guy didn’t mind sleeping on a couch, because he still wasn’t giving up his bed. He’d been having enough trouble sleeping without trying to tuck himself onto his too-short couch.

  Conner leaned on him all the way to the apa
rtment. When Fletcher flipped the light on in the living room, he lifted his head and blinked blearily. He looked at the couch for a while, then back up, and Fletcher wondered if he’d said something out loud about their sleeping arrangements.

  “Is there a blanket?” Conner asked, giving the best puppy-dog eyes Fletcher had seen outside of werewolves.

  Fletcher rolled his eyes. “Of course there’s a blanket.”

  But there wasn’t, not really. He had two on his bed, but that was because he kept the heat turned down low to save money. Going a night with one each would be misery for both of them.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Fletcher said in exasperation, grabbing his shoes off the top of the pile of his things in Conner’s arms. If he’d been thinking, he’d have worn them instead of wandering around barefoot, but it didn’t matter. He tossed the shoes into their usual spot by the door, then took the coat and hung it on the hook, leaving Conner with a messy pile of pants, shirt, and underwear, which he held out. He was wearing that damned earnest look on his face again, like it was his natural resting expression. Fletcher wanted to smack it or kiss it. Since he couldn’t muster a reason to slap the man, he guessed he was leaning more toward kiss.

  He shook his head. “You’re drunk. We’re not having sex.” It wasn’t a continuation of the conversation, but for some reason, his mind kept drifting back to it.

  Conner perked up at the word “sex.” “We’re not? Wait, that’s not what I meant.” The look on his face was one of intense concentration for a second, then his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Does that mean if I’m not drunk, there’s a chance of, um, anything?”

  “You are drunk.” He tucked the clothes into one arm, and using the other, he led Conner into the bedroom. He didn’t bother turning the bedroom lamp on, since there was a little light coming through from the living-room light he’d left on. “Take off your shoes. I don’t want them in my bed. No funny business, we’re just sharing my blankets because they’re the only blankets I have, and Oregon’s fucking cold at night in January, okay?”

  Conner gave him a wide grin and nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll be good, I promise.” He looked at the bed, then his boots. “Can I sit on the bed to take them off?”

  “Yes, you can sit on the bed to take your shoes off. Just don’t put them on the bed.” Fletcher rolled his eyes at the drunken logic. Conner did as ordered, and even drunk, his fingers were impressively nimble, swiftly untying the knots of his bootlaces. He slid the second shoe onto the floor while Fletcher was still standing there with his dirty clothes in his hands, staring at him. Looking at Fletcher with a tiny smile, he sat there and waited. He was waiting for orders, Fletcher realized.

  “Were you in the military?”

  Conner’s face turned sad. “I wanted to, but Mom was, um, vehemently opposed. I think she blamed the military for what my father did. Gary, that’s her husband, he told me they’d support me in anything I wanted to do, but that she might be mad at me for a while. He talked me out of it. Got me into college and then his business.”

  “So you’ve got a real job. Like, a nine-to-five job.” Fletcher dragged his attention back to the clothes, balling up each piece and throwing them into his hamper in the far corner of the bedroom. It was getting full.

  Leaning back on his hands, Conner nodded. “Kind of. We own a company. Well, he owned it. Then he sent me to college, and I helped him expand it, and now we’re partners.” It was adorable, the way his chest puffed up with pride. Just a second later, his shoulders slumped, and his head bowed. “But then Frank calls me, and I run off half-cocked, like my father will love me if I catch one vampire.”

  Sitting down next to Conner on the end of the bed, Fletcher put an arm around his shoulder again. “I’m guessing it’s not the first time this has happened?” Conner shook his head and looked mournful. “And Gary doesn’t question you about why you do it?”

  “No. He just gives me this sad look, like he doesn’t think his approval matters to me, and tells me to be careful. They don’t know about supernatural stuff, Mom and him. Mom thought my father lost his marbles and made stuff up. I guess that’s easier for her.” Conner let his head fall on Fletcher’s shoulder. “You’re nicer than you should be.”

  “So are you.” They sat like that for a few minutes, Fletcher running a hand over Conner’s hair. “We should get in bed. You’re falling asleep.”

  As if on cue, Conner gave a huge yawn, nodded at Fletcher, and stood. “Okay.” Then he stopped at frowned. “Thank you. I didn’t thank you.”

  “For?”

  “For coming back. I thought I might never see you again after what happened in the woods.” He stopped and looked Fletcher over like he thought Fletcher was going to turn into a fox and run away again. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

  Fletcher gave him a tiny smile but shook his head as he stood and went to the nightstand. He pulled his phone from his pocket and set it in its usual spot, then turned back the blanket on one side of the bed. He thought about turning off the living-room light, but it seemed miles away, and it wasn’t that bright. They could sleep with it on.

  “You didn’t hurt me,” he finally answered. “I’m just overwhelmed right now. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to run away from things this week.”

  “Me too, I think.” Conner managed to stand from the end of the bed and pulled his button-down off over his head like it was a t-shirt, revealing a black undershirt. “I have to sleep in my jeans?” he asked, breaking out the puppy-dog eyes again.

  “Yes, you have to sleep in your jeans.” Fletcher motioned to his own torso. “I’m sleeping in my clothes. You’re drunk, and we’re both in really screwed up situations. We’re not going to do anything someone’s going to regret tomorrow.”

  Conner pouted a little bit, but he didn’t press, just climbed into the bed almost fully dressed. “What about tomorrow?” he asked after he got settled across from Fletcher.

  Fletcher didn’t have an answer for that, but it didn’t matter, because a scant handful of seconds later, Conner let out a tiny snore. Poor guy had been so tired, he’d only needed to lie down to fall asleep. His words stuck in Fletcher’s mind for a long time as he tried to fall asleep, too.

  What about tomorrow?

  Fletcher woke at his usual time Monday morning. His phone alarm wouldn’t go off for a good fifteen minutes yet, but there was already a text message from Wade.

  Sheriff Green says to take another personal day.

  He glared at that for a minute trying to formulate a response, but in the end, he sent the obvious question. Why?

  You’re sick. Plus, he got a call from Max Smith this morning.

  Well crap. He typed that but didn’t figure his partner would appreciate it, so he deleted it, sent a terse affirmative, and tossed the phone back on the nightstand. It clattered against the wood and slid all the way over to thump against the wall.

  He sighed and turned onto his side, only to find himself staring into Conner’s open eyes. “Um, hi.”

  “Bad news?” Conner asked. He didn’t look like he was rethinking all of his life choices, which was a surprise, given how much he’d had to drink the day before.

  Fletcher shrugged, but then he figured he had nothing to lose. If Conner was going to betray him, he already had the big stuff. “Max called my boss, probably told him everything that happened. Small town, you know?”

  “Are you in trouble for being nice to me?” Damn that earnest look.

  “No, I’m not in trouble for being nice to you. The town is just worried is all. You may not be a bad guy, but you keep bad company, and they don’t have a reason to think you’re different from Frank and Bob.” He rested his elbow on the mattress and his chin in his palm, looking down into Conner’s concerned brown eyes. “They don’t like outsiders on a good day. When the outsiders are a threat to people they like, they can be kind of heavy handed.”

  “Like the doctor making them leave their weapons in the waiting room. Bob spent the who
le night ranting about it. I think he actually used the word ‘uppity.’ ” Conner’s nose scrunched up with distaste, like he was still shocked someone would use the word to describe Dr. Jha.

  Fletcher wanted to reach out and smooth the crease between his brows. He was probably an idiot, but he was definitely falling in like with Conner. “Dr. Jha can defend her own honor, promise. I think she’d tell you that Bob’s opinion was beneath her concern.”

  That made Conner smile. “That sounds like something she might say. She’s kind of scary. She’s the whole town’s doctor?”

  Fletcher nodded. “We have a dozen nurses who specialize in different things, and Nurse Cormier and my dad in emergency services, so it’s not like we’re lacking in medical experts. But Dr. J is our only general practitioner. It’s a small town.”

  “I think I saw him at the diner. That was your dad, right?”

  Fletcher swallowed hard. He met Conner’s eyes. “If anyone tries to hurt my dad—”

  “No! Oh my god, Fletcher, why would—no, don’t answer that. I know why you’d think that.” Conner sat up, clutching the blanket to his chest and shivering. Still, he leaned over so he was almost nose-to-nose with Fletcher. “I swear. I won’t let anyone hurt your father.”

  “What if he’s a vampire?”

  Confusion crossed Conner’s face, drawing his brows together and clouding his eyes. “Is he? No, you know what, it doesn’t matter. You implied that vampires can live without killing people. That guy at the bar—Mac?”

  “Max.”

  “He’s a vampire, right?”

  Fletcher hesitated for a moment but nodded. “He’s a good guy. The town has a blood bank. We feed him. He’s on the town council.”

  Conner looked awestruck by that. “You guys have a vampire on your town council? And you know he’s a vampire?”