Fox and Birch (The Rowan Harbor Cycle Book 3)

by Sam Burns

  There were runes painted on the wall already, like the ones Hector had painted in that woman’s blood in the dream. Fletcher didn’t want to know if they were painted in blood, or if so, whose blood.

  Tires screeched outside, and Hector hissed in annoyance. “They can’t have found us already.”

  Bob turned and looked out the window. “It’s Conn,” he said, just an observation, with no concern in his voice. Fletcher’s heart sank. Maybe he’d been too quick to be relieved when Conner hadn’t been the one to open the trunk. “Didn’t know you’d called him. He gonna be okay with this magic bullshit? I almost kicked your ass when you told me this afternoon.”

  Frank headed over to look out the window. “I didn’t call him. He is Jake’s son though. Smart.” He sounded a little uneasy.

  “He’s less crazy than Jake,” Bob countered. Then he called out, “Hey, Conn, whatcha doing here?”

  He hadn’t doubted Conner was there when Bob had said so, but the man’s cheerful voice still felt like an icepick to the heart. “What, you guys didn’t think I’d want to know you were back in town? How’s the arm, Bob?”

  Bob shrugged, and his voice was sullen when he answered. “ ’S fine. The guy in Portland said that woman did okay setting it.”

  “Why don’t you run a perimeter patrol?” Frank asked, moving to block the doorway. It was apparent that he didn’t want Conner in the cabin.

  “How come?” Conner asked. “We expecting trouble?”

  “Didn’t you hear that howl a while back?” Bob asked and shuddered. “They got a dog infestation in this town.”

  “I must have been driving,” Conner answered. It was a lie. Fletcher wasn’t sure how he knew—if it was the tone of voice or the way he skirted the meaning—but Conner was lying. He’d heard the howl. “Now come on. You guys are holding out on me, yeah? Something involving money? You know I don’t want your money.”

  Frank cleared his throat. “It’s more complicated than that. Your mama tried to soften you up after your daddy died. I wouldn’t want to put you in a bad position.”

  Conner chuckled. “Seriously? You think my mother brainwashed me into, what, liking vampires?”

  “It ain’t a vampire,” Bob interrupted. “Frank says it killed the vampire.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” Conner asked, voice steady.

  Finally, Frank stepped to one side. “We’re not sure what it is, other than possessed.” He waved a hand in the direction of the slab.

  Conner stepped in, took in the scene, and paused for a second. His face betrayed no surprise—no emotion at all, in fact. “Isn’t he one of the deputies? And who’s this?” He lifted his chin in Hector’s direction, but his eyes didn’t leave Fletcher.

  “He’s gonna unpossess it,” Bob answered.

  “He might have been a deputy once,” Frank said, eyes on Conner. “But now he’s possessed by a dead witch. Hector here’s gonna take the witch out.”

  Fletcher wanted to say something, anything, to deny Frank’s words. Even if he weren’t gagged, he didn’t want the men to know about him and Conner. He couldn’t believe that Conner was betraying him, didn’t want to believe it, but even if he was wrong, Fletcher didn’t want these men to know anything.

  “Mage?” Conner asked Hector, leaning against the wall next to the front door.

  Hector nodded impatiently.

  Conner continued, ignoring Hector’s annoyance. “So what happens to the deputy when you take the . . . whatever is possessing him out?”

  “Who cares?” Bob asked. “As long as we get rid of the monster, it doesn’t matter.”

  “He’s gotta burn him to get rid of it,” Frank answered. “Kid’s dead anyway, Conn. The witch killed him when it took over. It’s the only thing in there now.”

  At that, Conner’s blank face finally broke and showed an emotion: disgust. “Damn shame,” he said. “Just glad we’re all on the same page.”

  Fletcher closed his eyes. It was a trick. Conner was tricking them. He had to be.

  Focus, Aldric said once again, sounding almost irritated. He was talking about the lessons with Oak. Given the way Fletcher’s eyes stung, it was do as commanded or cry, so focusing seemed like a better choice. Fletcher closed his eyes and turned his mind away from the cabin, trying to focus.

  He thought of the birch twigs lying on his kitchen table, about their clean, blank, nothingness.

  He thought of Oak, their smooth warm hand in his, their soothing voice in his ears. He could almost hear it. “Do you feel the magic, when you summon the fox?”

  He thought of his mother, her dark eyes shining with pride as she petted him in his fox form. “That’s good, baby. I know you want more, but the fox is the important part. The shift is the shift, no matter what you’re shifting into.”

  Part of him wanted to tell her she was wrong, even though she was only an image in his mind. The shift wasn’t just the shift. There had to be more than that.

  Oak’s voice interrupted the vision, almost as though they were there in the room with him. “Your magic is anything you want it to be. The magic of nature is not filtered and shaped like the magic of mystics.”

  “Did you hear that?” Conner’s voice asked from somewhere outside Fletcher’s mind.

  There was a pause while everyone went quiet to listen. “What?” Bob finally asked.

  “There’s someone out there. Does the witch have allies?” Conner asked. He sounded nervous, and Fletcher’s instinct once again told him that it was a lie. Conner wasn’t worried that Aldric had allies. “Or maybe the deputy’s friends don’t know what’s going on and are looking for him? We should do a perimeter sweep.”

  “That’s what I said you should do before.” Frank sounded irritated, but there was worry in his voice too.

  “Would you shut up?” Hector finally asked. “All of you, go patrol, or whatever you want. Just go away so I can concentrate. This is precise work.”

  No one else spoke, but the sound of multiple sets of feet retreating was deafening. Fletcher wanted to open his eyes, but they refused to cooperate. He was certain he was alone in the cabin with a man who intended to burn him alive, and who looked at him as though he were not a person, but a thing he could use. It was worse than Bob, who at least saw him as sentient and dangerous.

  “There’s no reason to look so frightened,” Hector crooned. “Soon, no one will be able to steal you away again. You’ll be a part of me.”

  Fletcher shivered at the notion. He half expected Aldric’s calm to crumble, but he felt nothing from that direction but resolve. In that moment, Fletcher thought he should take lessons from Aldric. He felt like the coward Frank had called him.

  Hector hummed as he wandered around the room, creepily cheerful. Now and then, he would stop and chant for a moment, then resume whatever he was doing. Fletcher was caught between wanting to open his eyes to see what was going on and wishing his lids were glued shut so he couldn’t. It hadn’t taken long when White had died. There had been no blood runes, no chanting, no formal ritual at all. The whole thing had been so fast that he had a hard time reconstructing a timeline of it.

  There was a roar outside, followed by a scream and a crash. Hector cursed under his breath. “Useless hunters.”

  Fletcher started to open his eyes, but Aldric gave him a mental poke. Focus, he insisted. Focus.

  Hector ran a hand down Fletcher’s cheek yet again, and he shuddered but forced his mind back to Oak, and the birch, and his mother.

  The fox isn’t a punishment; it’s your heart.

  The shift is the shift.

  The birch twigs were cleansing—not to clean Fletcher because he was dirty, but to sweep his mind clean of distraction, of Hector and Aldric and Bob and Frank. Of Conner, face twisted in disgust.

  Gunfire erupted outside the cabin. Another scream echoed through the empty room. There was indistinct yelling, and then the sound of someone running, coming closer. It all felt distant.

  Everything seemed
to freeze in place. The noises, the flickering light of the fire behind his lids, the rush of thoughts that hadn’t stopped since he’d woken in the trunk of a car—all of it faded away. His muscles weren’t tensed to make the change, they were loose and pliant, as though he had just stretched after a run.

  Fletcher opened his eyes to find Hector MacKenzie standing over him with a torch. The man’s lips were moving as though he were chanting, but Fletcher couldn’t hear the words coming out of his mouth.

  Conner was behind MacKenzie, running in slow motion. He looked like he was yelling too, but the whole room was silent. Fletcher felt like he was watching the scene on a muted television, not a part of it. He wondered if Conner would reach MacKenzie in time to stop him.

  It doesn’t matter, Aldric whispered. The punishment is over. One sacrificed. One lives. Now. Go.

  Without conscious thought, Fletcher reached for the switch. He felt himself change, his legs retreating into stubby little claws, his arms yanked inward, easily slipping out of the ropes that bound him to the slab. He stretched his wings and launched himself away from MacKenzie to avoid the torch.

  Even as he did, something inside him caught fire. He felt Aldric leave his body, like flames sparking around him as the consciousness that had been the young man was wrenched away. As it dissipated around him, the last thing he felt from Aldric was a strange, serene peace.

  As it turned out, flying required actual skill. He, and the embers that had been Aldric, made it a few feet before his wild flapping failed to keep them aloft. Instead of them hitting the floor, though, Conner was there to catch them.

  Gently, so very gently, Conner’s callused hands wrapped around him, catching him in midair. The embers of Aldric hit Conner’s shirt and sparked out, leaving tiny black burns in the fabric. The man jerked as though he’d been shoved and took a deep breath.

  The world snapped back into focus, and all of Fletcher’s senses rushed back in. His eyes stung. The fire roared. A howl sounded from outside—Jesse, he thought. It was a howl of vicious, angry victory. Behind him, Hector let out a high, pained scream.

  “Fletcher?” Conner asked, blinking and looking winded. “What just happened?”

  “Where is it?” Hector shrieked. “It’s mine! What did you do with my book?”

  A throat cleared in the doorway. “Hector Mackenzie, I’d appreciate it if you’d put your hands on your head and stay on your knees.” Wade stepped into the room. His uniform wasn’t as immaculate as usual—a little wrinkled, and the top buttons had been left undone. But he had his gun raised and pointed. He glanced over at Conner and Fletcher. “This’d be easier if you had hands and could cuff him.”

  “I can,” Conner said, still breathing hard. “I don’t know what happened. Just got the wind knocked out of me.” He pulled Fletcher in against his chest and turned to Wade. “Cuffs?”

  “You,” Hector said, voice full of rage. “You took my book.”

  Wade looked at Conner. “You?”

  “Me?” Conner looked scandalized. “I thought the book was destroyed when White died. I don’t have it.”

  Sheriff Green’s booming voice filled the room. “What the hell is going on here?”

  With one practiced step, Wade moved out of the doorway and to the side opposite Conner. “Found them, sir.”

  The sheriff walked in, somehow the most imposing figure in the room despite the fact that both Wade and Conner were taller. He looked Conner over, eyes stopping on Fletcher, one eyebrow raised. “Lane?”

  Fletcher tried to answer, and it came out a hoot. An owl. He was an owl. He looked up at Conner and hooted wildly. He was an owl!

  Conner smiled at him. “Yessir, this is Fletcher.”

  “Well done, Lane,” the sheriff said, and turned his attention back to the center of the room. He leaned toward Conner. “Why don’t you go on home? Assuming finding this joker will fix that whole book nonsense, why don’t you take the week off, Lane? Let Hunter do all that paperwork you’re behind on and get yourself right.”

  Fletcher hooted at him. Wade snorted, but his lips curled up in a smile.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. See you at the station Monday morning.”

  Without taking his eyes off MacKenzie, Wade spoke to Conner. “You remember where his apartment is? I don’t know where you’ve been staying, but Fletcher isn’t sleeping in your car.”

  Conner nodded and looked over at the slab. “Right. I remember where it is. I just need to get his keys. And, um, maybe his pants. The shirt’s probably a loss.”

  Wade made a choking noise that sounded like stifled laughter and nodded. “You do that. I’ll send someone to see about the, uh, book situation.”

  “Right,” Conner said, though he obviously had no idea what Wade meant. Fletcher wasn’t sure he knew what had happened himself.

  As fast as possible, Conner grabbed Fletcher’s pants and got out of the cabin. Just being outside, Fletcher felt like he could breathe easier.

  He saw Jesse standing inside the tree line watching Frank, who was conscious but terrified. He was sitting against a tree clutching at his chest where dark blood stained his shirt. There was another human shape near his feet, and Fletcher’s owl eyes dilated to see the details of the scene.

  It was Bob.

  He was dead.

  For so many years, he’d been the star of Fletcher’s nightmares, and now he’d been reduced to an empty husk, glassy eyes staring accusingly at the sky. Fletcher had always assumed he would feel some strong emotion in a moment like that, but he didn’t. There was an empty space where his feelings about his mother’s murderer should be. It was over, and that was good. That was all there was.

  Jesse nodded in acknowledgment of them but continued his vigil over Frank until a patrol car came cruising into the clearing and pulled up next to him. A cold wind blew through the trees as Akiyama Takao stepped out of the car and walked over to where Jesse stood, looking down at Frank. “He need a visit to the clinic before I take him to the station?”

  “It’s a flesh wound,” Jesse told him. “Doctor Jha can go to the station to stitch him up. Best for his own health that he be behind bars as soon as possible.”

  Akiyama looked around and nodded. “We should get him out of the woods. They’re not too happy.” He looked down at Frank. “You need help up?”

  Frank shook his head and struggled to his feet. “Don’t touch me, whatever the hell you are.”

  Takao, almost as impossibly kind as Devon, smiled at him. “Good luck with that, buddy. Sheriff’s the only human in the department, and he’s got no time for you. Madame Cormier will wipe you in the morning, and we’ll get you on your way. Hope you like witches and aren’t too attached to the last few years of your memories.”

  “You’re not even going to hold him?” Conner asked. His voice was harder than Fletcher had ever heard it before, and his jaw was clenched. “Press charges for kidnapping an officer?”

  Jesse and Takao looked over. Takao shook his head. “Not safe. It would get the attention of others like him if we did it right and arrested him. And unlike his kind, we don’t kill people just because we don’t like what they are.”

  “But we can’t let him go knowing about Rowan Harbor,” Jesse added. “So we erase it.”

  “You know if the other one had any family?” Takao asked Conner. He eyed Fletcher for a moment, then smiled. “Sweet owl, Fletcher.”

  Fletcher hooted at him, and he thought that said it all.

  Conner shook his head. “No, Bob had no one. He had a wife once, but I think she died twenty years ago.”

  “One of you f—” Frank started to speak, but Jesse looked down at him and a growl emanated from his chest.

  “I believe that’s Councilman Hunter’s way of saying shut it, buddy,” Takao said. “I’d take that advice. He’s nicer than Madame Cormier will be.”

  “You’re all being nicer than I would,” Conner said. The way he glared at Frank sent a chill through Fletcher. He could feel the hard
edge of a gun through Conner’s jacket, and realized the man was armed. Thankfully, instead of reaching for his firearm, he ran a hand over Fletcher’s smooth feathers. He stared at Frank for a long time.

  Fletcher hooted to get his attention, trying to diffuse the growing tension in Conner. He had a feeling it wouldn’t take much to drive the situation back to violence, and Takao had been right about the strange feeling emanating from the forest.

  Jesse inclined his head to Fletcher. “We’ll come see you when we have this mess sorted out.” He looked up at Conner. “And we’ll see you on Saturday, if not before that.”

  Conner nodded at Jesse and the stiffness seeped out of him. He went back to his usual, smiling, sheepish self. He turned back to his car, and as he walked, he looked down at Fletcher, tucked into the crook of his elbow. “As freaking adorable as you are right now, it might be best if you were human. Is that—I mean, can you do that?”

  Fletcher tried to pull away from him, and for a second, Conner held on. Then he seemed to understand and set Fletcher down on the ground. As with the fox, it took nothing to change back. Human was natural, and he hadn’t even been shifted long enough to get used to having wings. His cheeks hurt, and he realized it was because he was grinning like an idiot.

  “I was an owl,” he whispered.

  “Yeah, you were,” Conner agreed. “Is that new?”

  Fletcher nodded, maybe a little too vehemently, but Conner didn’t seem put off. “My mom used to be an owl.”

  Conner smiled back at him, then his eyes went wide, and he turned his face to the side and held out Fletcher’s pants. “You should wear something if we’re going to talk about your mother.”

  Fletcher laughed, but he took his pants and put them on. “Okay, but just for now. These are so coming back off when we get to my place.”

  Eyes wide, Conner turned back to stare at him. “What?”