The Falcon's Full House

by Candace Colt

  He nodded, but his look of surprise made her laugh. She might look like a punk rocker, but back when she killed for food, she'd honed her foodie skills to a razor's edge. It took a discriminating eye to spot something acceptable from a high branch in a tall tree.

  And it better be worth the energy it took to dive two hundred miles an hour to capture the morsel. Learning from a few awkward beginner's mistakes, or when she was so desperately hungry she could feast on a billy goat, she did not waste time on common critters.

  Nothing too old. Nothing that looked sick. Only the healthy, fat and juicy ones for her. And no animal who shifted to human.

  Her mouth watered and she wiped away spit from the corners of her mouth. Oh, why was she going down this path of slobbering over food?

  Weaning off hunting had almost killed her. At first, there were crazy withdrawal symptoms like a smoker giving up ciggies. And all those hormones in packaged meat wreaked havoc in her body. Over time, things settled down, though her preference remained for fresh sushi and steak tartare.

  Or in a real pinch, Mountain Dew and a bag of chips.

  Except for what she'd just snagged in the kitchen when had she eaten last? On the plane? At the bus station? Anywhere?

  The party crowd had grown as had the mix of chatter, laughter, and music. Rachel exchanged small talk with these absolute strangers, coming up short with an explanation of what she should call herself. She'd handle loose assignments, but at this point, all she had was the 'loose' part.

  From nowhere, Solange appeared at Rachel's side. This time the woman had a much softer countenance. Must be the booze.

  "Rachel, dear. I want you to meet my friends," Solange said.

  Rachel repeated "How do you do?" or "Pleasure to meet you" fifty times before her jaw cramped. Solange had introduced her as her new personal assistant. Rachel dug the title. Respectable. Important.

  But as she looked around the room, and back at Solange, she began to worry. What exactly did a personal assistant do?

  Eventually, Solange drifted away leaving Rachel standing in the center of a gaggle of crones. These women were falcons, alright. The way they glowered gave them away.

  Awake but still a bit loopy from her nap, Rachel half-listened to the women as she searched for the bar. Tall among non-shifters, she was average height in this room. She craned her neck and spotted a huddle. Must be where the free drinks are. And maybe a bowl of nuts or crackers.

  She excused herself from the biddy circle and pushed through to the unattended bar. Where was the bartender? But why wait?

  Rachel poured a glass of Merlot. When she sat it down to reclose the bottle, a hand came forward, took her drink and left a tip.

  At first miffed, she recalculated her decision to lay into him. Among her plentiful past jobs, bartending. Since she was Solange's 'P.A.', what did she have to lose?

  She walked behind the bar, started taking orders, and with ease, she mixed drinks, poured wine, and opened beer bottles.

  Two guests stepped up and introduced themselves as Connor and Brianna Ford from Atlanta. Connor must be Ryan's brother, though they didn't much look alike. Connor was shorter, buffed and blonde. Dark-haired Ryan was tall, fit but not muscle-bound, and an overall likable nerd. But their piercing eyes gave them away. The brothers were falcons like their mother.

  Brianna, a sweet, curly-headed blonde, was at least five months pregnant. But Rachel didn't pick up falcon vibes from her. Nor had she from Jess, come to think about it.

  Rachel had been raised under different rules. Falcons marry falcons, and only to those selected by the family. Period. End of sentence.

  And what a sentence it almost was. If her parents had been more progressive, she wouldn't have left the country rather than mate-for-life to the dork they'd chosen for her.

  "Brianna, I guess you'll want water or a soda?" Rachel asked.

  "Water, thanks," she said.

  Rachel reached into a tub for a bottle labeled Moonbow.

  "Beer for me," Connor said. "So, where's Ian?"

  "Right here. Had to go to the storage room. We needed more ice and some fresh fruit. It appears Rachel has this under control."

  Hold it. Ian's the bartender? She quickly shut her gaping mouth and slowly turned around.

  "Uh, sorry," she said. "I didn't see anyone here so I just assumed—"

  "Your help is most appreciated. It will take me a few minutes to set up," Ian said.

  "He's here," came an announcement from across the room causing a dozen women to crowd the bar.

  Connor lowered his voice to a whisper. "Remind Rachel to be sure our non-magical guests stay hydrated." He winked at Rachel and walked away with his wife.

  Rachel shook her head in confusion. As she was about to ask about non-magicals, Ian leaned close enough for his breath to tickle her ear.

  A tingly wave scurried up her spine and almost caused her to forget the question.

  "What did he mean?" She asked.

  "Since you don't know who's who around here, only mix with these." Ian gestured to the ice container and several covered water pitchers. "If they just want water, offer the Moonbow."

  She delayed more questions as the crowd parted like the Red Sea. The women lined in front of Ian, the men in front of Rachel.

  No doubt Ian was darn good looking. But every dang woman on his side?

  What was in those martinis?

  THREE

  Fifty-six martinis in an hour and ten minutes.

  Ian must be a sorcerer.

  Though she had her hands full with her line, Rachel had glimpsed the mixologist in action, but couldn't juggle orders and verify her theory about him all at once.

  As the last guests left, Rachel cleaned up the bar. Ian ran a stirrer around the last few ounces of martinis in a glass pitcher and raised it to show Rachel.

  "Join me? There's enough for both of us," he said.

  "Love to."

  As he had prepared all the others, Ian topped Rachel's glass with a fresh flower in place of the traditional olive spear.

  They took their drinks to two overstuffed chairs near a fireplace. Rachel kicked off her shoes and drew her feet into her lap, yoga style.

  "The gardenia was a great touch." She took a sip and felt the rush of alcohol fill her skin from the inside out. She swore she'd become iridescent.

  "Are you kidding me? What is this?" She took another sip. "No wonder your line never ended."

  Ian flashed a cryptic smile. "Standard recipe. Vodka and vermouth."

  She licked her lips. The flavor was subtle and fruity. Not overly sweet like punch or commercial syrup.

  "I saw you add something else from a stash behind the bar," she said.

  "You won't get it out of him, trust me. Everyone's tried," Connor said as he entered the room. "He's a mix master at the Poisoned Apple Pub. You need to go there sometime."

  "The what?" Rachel asked.

  "A place downtown," Ian said as he finished his drink. "It's getting late and I should leave. Connor, I hope everything was to your liking?"

  Connor handed Ian a check. "Absolutely. And most important, Mother was pleased." Connor looked over his shoulder toward Solange and Ryan seated at the outdoor patio. "And anyone knows pleasing Mother is not easy," he whispered.

  Rachel's back stiffened. Her new boss was hard to please? Something to deal with later. Right now, the fantastic drink in her hand was doing an excellent job of melting the stress of a long travel day.

  "Rachel deserves a share of this money after all the work she did," Ian said.

  His grey eyes locked on hers. Piercing through her. She thought she heard Connor say something about her getting the tips, but his voice was somewhere far away.

  This was crazy. She was tired. The drink was stiff, though delicious. But too much on an empty stomach. Correction. One little dab of fancy French goose liver on a cracker and a handful of peanuts.

  Intending to se
t the glass on the side table, she misjudged and spilled the contents down her arm and onto her jeans.

  Ian grabbed the glass just as it fell from Rachel's hand, saving the cut velvet upholstery from a martini bath.

  "Crap." She dabbed a cocktail napkin on her thigh. "You guys must think I'm a lush. I'm not. Really, I'm__." She left the sentence unfinished. She was a little drunk and making stupid excuses that she wasn't. She knew better.

  Connor offered his hand. "I suggest you take the kitchen route back to your apartment. Mother's a little fussy about people drinking too much around her."

  "Sure. Okay." Rachel accepted Connor's help to stand.

  "Ian?" She asked.

  "Yes?"

  "Nice meeting you. Thanks again for the ride." She walked away, stopped, and turned to stare into those gorgeous eyes again. "And everything," she said, wondering what the heck she meant.

  By the grace of the goddess, after going back through the kitchen and waving at the pâté chef as he walked out the back door, she found her room.

  She stripped down and tossed her clothes into the small washer.

  While she stood under the hot shower, she mulled over her brilliant first impression. At least Connor acted okay with it. She doubted he'd run tales back to his mother. But he must wonder if the new P.A. was a drunkard.

  And she'd made a fool of herself in front of Ian.

  And she cared about this, why?

  ~~~

  Connor walked Ian to the truck. "She's a trip. You're the guy who sees into human hearts. What's hers telling you?"

  "I'd started to get a good read when she doused herself," Ian said. "But I am sure she'll be fine, once she settles in."

  Connor chuckled. "More than once I spilled a drop or two in Mother's mausoleum. No big deal. But we need someone here who we can trust. Sabrina was with us a long time. I understand the reasons why she left for a good job in Florida. Mother still isn't over it. Sabrina was like her daughter."

  "I'll see what I can find out next time, but something tells me Rachel's going to fit here. Give her time."

  On the drive back to town, Ian replayed the small bit of information he'd read in Rachel's heart. She was nervous about this job. Working for Solange Ford? Who wouldn't be? And he didn't think she had a full grasp of the real Nocturne Falls.

  No secret she was a falcon. It didn't take a Ph.D. or special powers to see it. Usually, falcons were among the more graceful shifters, but she had slammed the martini. He should have warned her it was a sipping drink.

  And her height. Female falcons were giants compared to most women, especially shifter women. She could look Solange right in the eye. Quite an advantage.

  He sensed Rachel didn't want the world to see her soft side. Camouflaged in black, she tried to be the tough girl. But she wasn't, at all.

  Ian parked in the Carpe Diem driveway. The shop owner, Echo Stargazer, rocked in the porch swing.

  "Ian, come tell me all about the party," she said.

  He scooted Crealde, Echo's oversized housecat, off the swing and sat next to her.

  "You were welcome to accompany me," Ian said.

  "I don't like big crowds anymore. Tell me, did you see my little darlings?"

  "The babies were asleep upstairs. And it appears Brianna's quite with child."

  Echo interlaced her fingers and even in the dark, Ian saw her face shining with delight.

  "Connor and Brianna and the girls came by for lunch today. I wish they still lived in town. Atlanta is too far away by my reckoning. You should have seen the look on their faces the day I told them they'd give me fine great-grands. They thought I was crazy."

  She covered her mouth and laughed so hard her bracelets rattled. "Guess they believe me now. Did Solange have a good time?"

  "I believe she did."

  "You make your signature drink?"

  "Quite a light version."

  "Ahh. Of course, she did."

  Echo took off her pearl covered bracelet and polished it on her knee. "Saw some fireflies tonight. Guess it means early summer."

  "The sooner summer heat gets here the better. I love hot weather," Ian said.

  "Meet anyone tonight?"

  "Yeah. One or two hundred." Ian cast an eye to the bracelet. The old psychic was up to something.

  "I heard you," she said.

  "I'm sure you did. Would you please put your bracelet back on?" With it off, she read minds like children read books.

  "What's the difference between you reading people's hearts and what I do?" She huffed but put the bracelet back on.

  "The difference is, I don't go around listening willy-nilly to what people are thinking," he said.

  "Is what I do so bad? I help people. I want to help you." She placed her soft hand on his. "I'm worried about you, Ian."

  "Whatever for?"

  "Living alone as you do. You should have a partner. Or as they would say in the old days, a consort."

  "Oh, Echo. Give it up. I'm not interested in marriage." Or a consort.

  "Why? Because you're an elf?"

  Here she goes. "I'm a half-elf, Echo."

  "Details. Details. In this town, it doesn't matter what you are. You're a good-looking man. Get out and enjoy life. When you're pushing eighty like me, you won't regret a thing." She laughed again. "Trust me; I don't."

  Ian tipped his head and closed his eyes. To be eighty again. Thanks to his ancestral bloodline and gene for longevity, he just looked young.

  Though his bloodline made him different from the other summer elves in Nocturne Falls, Ian didn't curse his lot. But after years of watching his non-elf friends, his mother, and all but one sibling grow old and die, while he aged so slowly, he preferred a solitary life.

  "I wish you'd let me give you a reading." She waved her hand in an arc. "And settle all this."

  Echo's famous cards. Everyone in town knew about them. Half the out-of-town customers who came into the Poisoned Apple rambled on about their readings with Echo.

  "Can we resume this conversation another time?" As he knew they would. Bound and determined, she always moved the dial back to this. Tonight, it started with fireflies. Next time, who knows. But it would end with the cards. Not a chance he'd sit for a reading.

  "Of course, my dear," she said.

  Ian helped her stand and held her elbow as they walked to the side entry door.

  "Oh, almost forgot," she said. "Your sister's waiting for you at the cabin."

  A lead band tightened around his gut. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I just did. Coming Crealde?"

  With a crushing shove to get past, the giant nineteen-pound feline swaggered through the door, stepping on every one of Ian's sandaled toes.

  "Bloody, merciful hell, cat" he muttered. "That was on purpose."

  From inside came a door rattling, angry meowrahowo.

  "And may you have sweet dreams, too, cat," Ian called.

  One day, Ian would prove Crealde was a full-fledged ambassador from the underworld. Even if it took him the next century of his life to do it.

  FOUR

  'Schlunck.'

  Something skimmed Ian's forehead and splatted against the wall behind him. When he heard a familiar cackle, he knew who'd launched whatever it was. Dear sister Elle.

  He looked down at the cabin's wood floor.

  Mystery solved. A rice bag had exploded and showered grains on, over and around him.

  "Since you have obtained my attention, what can I do for you?" Ian snarled as he shook rice from his hair and stoked the fireplace.

  Elle Hunter stood with her hands on her hips, snorting like a wild boar about to charge. Tall like Ian and strong and muscular, she was a formidable sight. He hoped to never get on her angry side; her real angry side.

  "What makes you think I need something?" She asked.

  "A hunch." His sister had never grasped the concept of social niceties. Like baking him an appl
e pie as a token of sibling appreciation. Or visiting his place during a decent time of day, not at nearly midnight.

  He took a dustpan and broom from a hook behind the door and held them out to her.

  "You think I'm cleaning this up?" She asked.

  "Yes, I think you are." He walked closer to her

  She screwed up her nose and shook her head as though she smelled a dead skunk

  "Fine. I'll do it. But a broom? Come on. Don't you have a vacuum?"

  "I will get one the day after I get electrical power. Now, sweep."

  Ian pumped water from the sink into a kettle he then hung over the fire.

  "About the time you're finished, the water will be ready for tea." He nodded to a corner near the door. "Missed a spot."

  Elle punched the broom on the floor and loudly scrubbed the broomcorn across the floor.

  "Careful." Though his handmade brooms weathered normal wear and tear, none could withstand Elle's temper tantrums.

  "There are ten more hanging up around here," she countered.

  "Promised to customers."

  Ian let her work off steam while he poured hot water over chamomile leaves he'd placed in two small cups. By the time she finished and rehung the broom, their tea was ready.

  She sat in the only other chair, opposite Ian.

  They sipped in silence, staring into the embers. He never let the fire completely burn out, even on the hottest days.

  Besides being his only cooking source, the fire kept the cabin warm year-round, mandatory for a summer elf as he and Elle were. He hated the cold but conceded to bear the winters in the North Georgia mountains to live in Nocturne Falls.

  Summers here were perfect. Winter? Not really.

  "The tea's good," Elle said.

  "And I'm sorry," she whispered.

  "Apology accepted, again." He set his cup on the hearth. "Ready to talk?"

  Calmly she announced, "I'm pissed."

  He would never have guessed. "And why this time?"

  "I got fired."

  Again?