Catherine leaned toward him, cautiously, glancing into the mug to decipher its contents. It looked like tea. It smelled like tea. She trusted it about as much as she trusted a snake oil salesman.
He chuckled softly. “I do. It was Great Uncle Greg’s, but when he passed without any kids, it went to me.”
Catherine swallowed, taking the mug from him, but still wary to drink from it, despite the ache in her throat. She glanced at him, clad in a Bruins T-shirt and ratty old jeans. He looked as aimless as she was, but here he was a homeowner, and the last job she’d held down was as a masked lunatic with a fake knife at the Cougar Mountain Haunted Hayride. Not exactly a career that affords a person property taxes – on Oceanside property.
“It’s chamomile. It has a metric fuck ton of honey in it, too. Thought it might help your nerves.”
Her nerves? Why would she need help with her nerves? Oh, that’s right, your newly declared boyfriend is a god damn bear.
Catherine nearly choked on the sweet tea as the memory came flooding back to her. She coughed, only further agitating her throat.
“I should go. Bennett will be wondering where his truck is,” she said, shifting under the covers. The pressure on her backside reminded her of her injury. She could only imagine the size of the bruise she must be sporting.
“Please don’t go. I talked to Bennett. He picked up his truck last night.”
You bastard, she thought. How am I going to get home now?
“You’re welcome to stay. As long as you like.”
Catherine swallowed. She wanted desperately to curl back up into this mountain of pillows and bask in the sleep of the dead until her throat and her ass stopped throbbing, but how could she sleep under the same roof as a man who only last night turned into an eight foot tall wild animal. And she’d slept with him.
Despite the terror she felt at the end of the night, the sudden memory of that intimacy gave her butterflies. He was just a few feet away, this man that had his way with her in a manner she’d only ever dreamed of. It would be hard to walk away from that.
Catherine took another long sip on her tea. The honey was helping, though she didn’t want to admit it.
John sat down on the other side of the bed, and Catherine shirked away.
He displayed his palms. “Please, Catie. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
“Forgive me if I’m not wholly convinced.”
He sighed, slumping back into the pillows. “I’m sorry. I should have found a way to tell you.”
She half laughed into her tea, almost spilling it into her lap. “I wouldn’t have believed you.”
“No, probably not.”
His body language was relaxed, leaning into the pillows of his own bed as though they’d woken together on any other morning – any regular morning where one of them wasn’t – well, whatever he was.
She stared out the windows, listening to the roar of the waves crashing on the rocks outside. Then she shook her head. “’Yeah, but what if?’”
John rubbed the scruff coming in at his jaw. “What’s that?”
“The thing you always used to say – when you went on one of your tangents.”
“What tangents are these?”
Catherine swallowed. “The Bear Folk. ‘Yeah, but what if?’”
John took a breath, then he licked his lips, but he didn’t speak, instead pursing his lips.
“Have you always been like that?” She finally asked, breathing in the steam from her tea.
He gave her a half smile. “I have. Though, I’d never shifted the last time I saw you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. In my kind, the bear is a part of becoming a man – or a woman, if the case may be.”
“A woman? Wait, there are more of you?”
He chuckled. “My whole family.”
Catherine’s jaw dropped. She thought of Janice Fenn, proud mother and garden club chair. The thought of this sweet woman tearing through the woods with her teeth bared, ripping smaller animals to bits didn’t settle well.
“Is that what you meant by ‘I don’t know him?’”
John smiled. “It is. When we were down in Parkhurst, I did know him.”
She swallowed. “You did?”
He nodded. “That was my grandfather. Had a feeling he might come down and try to scare those assholes away. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Patrick Fenn is a bear, too.”
This wasn’t a question, this was a dawning; a sudden revelation of what it was about the Fenn family that made everyone from Blackrock to Bar Harbor think twice about them. They weren’t the only family that kept to themselves in those parts, but they were the only ones who felt like thunder when they entered a room.
“We all are. It runs in the Fenn blood.”
Catherine gasped. “That’s why there’s no bear hunting in Falkirk’s Seat!”
“It is, indeed.”
They both sat a moment in silence as Catherine mulled this over. He didn’t seem different, now. He felt like the same man, the same boy she’d curled up with to play hours upon hours of video games when they were young, the same boy who drove with her in his truck to Canada, all to kiss by the rocky shores of New Brunswick. He felt the same. She wanted him to be the same.
“Gramps has been fighting tooth and nail to keep it that way ever since Ali.”
Catherine thought of her beloved grade school teacher and frowned. “Oh God, she was one too.”
John nodded. “Yeah. He thinks that’s how she – how they died.”
Catherine stared at him. “They were shot.”
“By hunting rifles. We think some asshole hunter went out tracking where he shouldn’t. They’d both gone out into the woods for the night. We imagine someone saw a bear and an opportunity, and took the shot.”
“Oh my god, no,” she said, imagining Alison Fenn hobbling through the woods as a bear, picking berries and chasing bunnies. Her heart hurt. “But they found their bodies.”
“That’s the thing. Dead or no, we always turn back. I can only imagine the therapy some poor bastard is going through these days after shooting what he thought was a bear and waking up to a dead woman in his truck the next morning.”
Catherine’s eyes welled with tears.
“Oh sweetie, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it like that.”
John reached for her, and she let him. His hand felt strong at her shoulder, sliding across her arms to pull her into him. He squeezed her against his chest, sighing gently in her ear. “God, I was afraid you might never let me touch you again.”
The tears spilled over, rolling down her cheeks. Despite what she knew, despite the fear and confusion it caused her, the thought of this man never touching her again hurt far more than the bear scared her.
She turned into him, burying her face into his chest as he rubbed his hands over her back. “Does anyone else know?”
John rubbed her arm, kissing her ear. “Well, I suppose the hunters that took Ali and Greg most likely have an idea. And the clan on the rez certainly know of us.”
“What clan?”
John smirked. “We’re not the only ones of our kind, little lady.”
The Fenn land was surrounded by the rez. Their long standing camaraderie made sudden sense. “My god, there are more of you?”
He nodded. “Yeah, those two girls that disappeared last year, as well. We’d thought the hunting ban would protect us all, but clearly there’s always a chance.”
Catherine thought of how hard her Uncle Bodie and Grandfather had tried to fight the Falkirk’s Seat ban. Hunters from all over the county came to the town meeting to argue their case, claiming the hunting in Falkirk and the bear population were too good an opportunity, and that without culling the numbers, the whole county would soon be overrun. Catherine suddenly reconsidered every time her heart was set to racing when her mother woke her up to watch a bear meandering through their yard, eating their blueberries. How many of those creatures did she kno
w by name?
“So that’s why you took me to Canada? To tell me?”
He straightened, searching her face. “How’d you know?”
She crinkled her nose. “I overheard you telling your mom.”
“Ah, shit. Yeah. Couldn’t do it though. Ended up making out with you instead.”
She smiled. “I don’t know. I kinda thought that was pretty great.”
“It was. If only I’d known it was the last time I’d ever see you.”
Catherine frowned at this. “Not the last.”
“No. Not the last.”
He leaned into her, pressing his nose to her cheek. She stiffened, unsure of how to react. By all accounts, she should run, get as far away from this strange thing as was humanly possible. Yet, despite the logic behind that notion, nothing could argue with the way his arms felt when he wrapped them around her, or the way every cell in her body danced when he pulled her in, resting his head atop hers. Strange or no, he felt so safe, so warm.
His exhales changed, coming in rhythmic bursts across her forehead. He was laughing.
“What?”
John leaned away, reaching behind her ear. A moment later he pulled a tiny twig from the tendrils of her tangled hair.
She touched the top of her head. “Oh, god damn it.”
John was up and in the bathroom without pause, running the shower for her. He appeared in the bathroom doorway and tossed her a towel.
She watched him a moment, pulling the dusty pillow cases and sheets off the bed, unable to leave the room as he suddenly became this domestic creature. He tucked the sheets into a hamper and hoisted it into his arms.
“Go ahead, baby. I’ll be here when you’re done.”
Catherine slipped into the bathroom, stripped her shorts off, being careful not to irritate the scrapes at her hips, then slipped out of John’s hooded sweatshirt.
The water was warm and the flow was strong, running down her sore back as she let the dirt and nature wash from her hair. She was halfway through a second shampoo before the water finally ran clear at her feet.
“Catherine?”
She startled, wiping the water from her eyes. She turned to the fogged up shower door, John’s outline just visible through the opaque shower door.
“Yes?” She asked, her answer coming in a nervous burst.
John stood there silent a moment. She suddenly felt as though she could feel his struggle through the glass and the silence. She took a deep breath, settling herself, then she opened the shower door, holding it wide open to let him see her, and to let him know he was welcome. John’s whole body visibly relaxed, and he quickly slipped out of his jeans and his boxers, tossing his t-shirt onto the bathroom counter.
He was in the shower with her a moment later, his arms around her, his hands moving over her wet skin with such tenderness that she almost startled at how new and strange it was. The night before he’d been a beast – a violent predator worthy of fear. Now, his fingers moved as though wrapping around the fragile shape of a moth.
“Oh Jesus, baby. Look at you.”
She glanced down to the massive purple and yellow bruise that had appeared on her backside and hip.
She cringed at the sight of it. John simply ran his fingers over the sore flesh, the sensation dancing under her skin.
She touched his smooth skin, running her fingers over the hairs on his chest before she kissed his collar.
He took hold of her hips, turning her around gently. She pressed her hands to the wall as he positioned himself behind her. Yet, he stopped, taking hold of her, pulling her back against his chest.
“Say it again,” he whispered, slipping inside her as he held her against him.
She gasped, pulling his arms around her as she pressed her nose to his jaw. “I’m yours.”
His whole body shook, as though he’d shaken free of some burden. He held her even tighter, moving inside her with the softness of a very different lover than the night before. He moved his hands down between her legs, working to please her. And he did with surprising ease as he moved with her, the warm water at his back. Catherine came in sudden waves, his fingers moving with such precision that she was helpless to it. A moment later, his thrusts deepened, John taking hold of her, careful not to touch the scratches at her hips, and came himself. Then he slowed his movements, holding her against him as though meant to absorb her.
He leaned down to her ear. “You are so much more than I ever hoped for, you know that?”
Catherine’s throat tightened. She let him hold her there, forgetting everything for just a moment. Everything but the aching bruise on her backside.
Finally John planted a comfortable kiss on her lips – the kind given when the one you love leaves for work, or comes home; the kind shared between people who’ve spent their lives together. She’d never expected such a simple thing to feel so good.
John slipped out of the bathroom, drying off there a moment, letting her enjoy the sight of his naked form. “I’ll go make us some breakfast, yeah?”
Catherine smiled.
She emerged a few moments later feeling clean and new, the smell of bacon frying downstairs. She’d never before been in Uncle Greg’s house. Greg was Patrick’s brother, and his land only became a part of the Fenn Compound, as many in the area called it, when Greg died. Further reason many suspected Patrick of the deed. Seeing that Patrick handed the property down to his eldest grandson seemed to refute such theories.
John bustled in the kitchen as she arrived, setting platefuls of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, and buttered toast along the counter for her to partake. She filled her plate and turned toward the breakfast nook – a built in bench seat tucked along a massive bay window. She slid into the seat and glanced out the window at the Atlantic, gray and teeming as far as the eye could see. She forgot her breakfast a moment and simply took in the view.
“You not hungry?”
She sighed.
John chuckled as he slid in beside her rather than across from her. “I know, right? I lucked out something fierce on that view.”
She shook her head and turned to meet his gaze. He was smiling at her. It stopped her instantly, forgetting the scene outside the window as she took in the expression on his face.
How could anyone not fall in love with this view? She thought.
They ate in companionable silence, John making a point to squeeze her leg repeatedly beneath the table.
By noon, they were making the trip back down the miles long dirt road, meandering through thick forest and nothing. Catherine had quickly realized halfway through breakfast that her phone was missing, and John packed her into the truck to go searching for it.
Catherine’s stomach turned at the idea of returning to those woods. She’d known great joy there to be sure, but she’d also known the greatest fear she’d ever experienced there – the moment she saw the second bear and thought for a moment that John was dead.
John made a b-line into the woods, seeing her discomfort and assuring her she could wait in the truck.
“No, I’ve got it. You sit tight,” he said, hustling off into the woods.
“But you don’t know what it looks like!” She called after him.
He just laughed. “Doesn’t matter. It’ll smell like you!”
Catherine gave a startled laugh at that. Jesus, she thought. I’ve fallen in love with a bloodhound.
She sat there a moment, listening to a song by Fleetwood Mac on John’s iPhone. She glanced toward the woods every few seconds, trying to remember the direction and distance of her escape route the night before. A breeze picked up through the trees and she startled, catching sight of something moving in the trees by the road. She watched it, waiting for the shape to explain itself. When it didn’t, she hopped out of the truck and sauntered over toward the trees. Stevie Knicks crooned from inside the truck – Now here I go again, I see the crystal vision. I keep my visions to myself.
Catherine moved slower than the night before, her
bruised backside still throbbing despite a dose of Tylenol from John’s medicine cabinet. She took another step toward the swaying object, her eyes focusing on the strange shape dangling from a rope in the tree. It was one of the stick men, shaped into a head and four limbs, its sticks tied together at the ends by ripped black fabric. She reached out, pushing at its feet, watching it swing. As she watched, the same pattern of movement caught her eye in the distance, and she spotted three more hanging shapes – stickmen dangling from ropes around their necks.
“Got it. Nice case, goober.”
She startled, turning to find John coming up behind her, waving her phone at her, smiling at the cheerful picture of a pop tart on the back.
“Why thank you. Look what I found,” she said, giving the stickman another push.
John stared at it. “What the fuck is that shit, anyway?”
“Oh, cut it out. I know your game. Seriously, you had me terrified last night.”
“What, you really think I put that there?”
Catherine glared at him a moment, shaking her head. Then turned back toward the truck. “I can’t believe you went that far to scare me, but my god, it fucking worked.”
“Catherine, I didn’t -”
Another breeze picked up as Stevie sang – Thunder only happens when it’s raining.
“Don’t even. You and Paul and your hermits -”
“Catherine?”
She turned to look at John. Something in his voice had unsettled her, and she wanted to soothe this strange uneasiness in her stomach.
They will come and they will go. When the rain washes you clean you will know.
Before she met his gaze, let his presence calm her, John spoke again. “Sweetheart, get in the truck.”
“What? Why?”
But before she could make him answer, John was moving toward her, grabbing hold of her arm and pulling her back toward his truck. “Come on, baby.”
He doubled his pace, and something about his energy, about his tone, frightened her with a new sneaking fear. John was six foot three, no small man in presence or in size, but something about his gait, about his body language felt wrong, as though he was frightened himself. The thought of John being frightened inspired her to triple her pace, surging past him to her side of the truck. She climbed inside, slamming the door and locking it as though she were being chased. John’s energy spoke in volume loud enough to make her want to be away from the woods, and still she didn’t know why.
The Bears of Blackrock, Books 1 - 3: The Fenn Clan Page 7