Fangs and Frenemies

by Cherry Andrews

  “Phhhhhhhhhhhht.” Max exhaled forcefully and fast, sounding like a dragon. “Must feel pretty sweet to be you, Hazel Greenwood. Citizenship awards coming out of your ears. Baking cupcakes for the homeless. Judging everyone else for falling short of perfect.”

  “Wait, now you’re mad at me?” I was mystified. “I’m just pointing out how it must look to everyone in town.”

  “Yeah well, everyone in town can kiss my furry spotted butt. Shifters have a very hard adolescence, Hazel Greenwood. Kade and I are just lucky we survived it.” That was the second time she’d said my full name. Yep, she was mad all right. Spitting mad. And was I hallucinating just now, or did her hazel eyes flash yellow, like a bobcat’s? “Remember how wild I was in high school? My early twenties weren’t much of an improvement in terms of the chaos factor. Honestly, I’m still trying to get my life together in some pretty key ways. I can’t even afford to keep a houseplant.”

  “Ok, now you’re exaggerating.”

  “Because I would eat it. And then I’d have to have my stomach pumped. Again. If you can’t sympathize with those kinds of problems, great. But don’t rub your good fortune in my face.”

  “You don’t get to blame everything on being a shifter, Max.” I folded my arms. “Being a witch isn’t always cake, but I still manage. I’m a law-abiding citizen, for example. And . . . I’m not a crappy friend.”

  “Huh?” Max tilted her head in confusion, then pursed her lips and looked down. The bad-friend accusation hung in the air like a fart. I hadn’t exactly meant to take things there, but for once I was relishing the awkwardness I’d created. She deserved to stew in it.

  “This isn’t the right place to talk about . . . all that stuff,” she said, finally, pushing a rebellious wave of red hair out of her face. “Right now I’m too scared for my brother to think about anything else. Kade’s record makes him the perfect scapegoat. Everybody else on the suspect list is more respectable.”

  “So Elliot did tell you who else is on that list.” Knew it.

  “Nah, I looked over the receptionist’s shoulder on the way in. This is a small town, the police security ain’t exactly world-class. My point is, we can’t just sit here. Something’s going to happen. I don’t trust Gantry more than I can throw him.”

  “I don’t either,” I admitted. “He asked too many questions about Bryson’s connections to Blue Moon Bay. I’m afraid he’s trying to pin Ashley’s disappearance on someone who isn’t well-connected here, someone not too many people would come to the defense of. Also he was gross to talk to. Was Sheriff Gantry always so . . . terrible?”

  She gave me another you don’t get it look. “Hazel, Elliot’s the only reason this town’s legal system functions at all. He’s been gathering intel to expose Gantry’s corruption, but it could be years before it all comes to light. Till then, we’re on our own.”

  My stomach flip-flopped. “I don’t like being on my own.”

  She leaned in. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Probably not?” I’d just been thinking that Max sure seemed to like and admire Elliot, to the point where if she was a normal person they’d be dating. What was their deal anyway?

  “If we want to protect our menfolk,” Max said, “we’re going to need to work together. How about we meet tonight at The Drunken Barrel for our first strategy session?”

  I blinked. Max was asking me to hang out? My dorky high school girl heart leapt. “Sure! Oh, but, wait, can it be tomorrow? I have a caramel ice cream date with Bryson tonight. We’re celebrating our eng—our first fight.”

  She looked at me like I was as dumb as a box of hair. “Bryson is in danger. Unless you and I intervene, you might not have a lot more dates with him outside of prison visiting hours. Come on, I’ll even buy your drinks.”

  I gulped. “Fine, I’ll text Bryson and let him know there’s a change of plans. But you can’t make fun of me for ordering the rosé.”

  Chapter 8

  Of all the wine bars and beachside beer gardens that dotted Ocean Street, The Drunken Barrel was by far the biggest dive.

  Moments after I swung open the saloon-style wooden doors, my high-heeled granny boots crunched into the inch-thick layer of peanuts shells that littered the floor.

  In the far corner, a scruffily-cute young woman in a peasant skirt made sweet love to her Irish fiddle. Tourists ate that stuff up, in the high season. But it was a damp Tuesday night in November, and only a toothless old drunk guy tapped his foot half-heartedly to the beat.

  At the other end of the bar, a mannequin in a hot pink dress and thigh-high stockings had been strapped into a stool, a plastic beer can glued to each of her immobile, bone-white hands.

  The Barrel sure seemed to revel in its reputation for classic, old-school tackiness.

  I scooted past the bar to a table along the opposite wall, where Max sat chugging beer from a frosted tallboy glass. I’d stopped by the bakery to wait for AAA to tow Trixie to the shop, giving Max a head start.

  Settling into my seat across from her, I instantly felt overdressed in my work clothes—a long jean skirt and a fuzzy grey knit cardigan worn open over my Sage’s Bakery T-shirt. Max was still in her ridiculous beachy getup, complete with flip flops. How was she not freezing her butt off?

  She waved a buffalo chicken wing by way of greeting. “Glad you didn’t chicken out.”

  “Ha.” I nodded to the skinny, hipster waiter and he beelined for our table. He looked disturbingly young, but maybe I was just getting older? Looked familiar, too, but I couldn’t place him. “I’ll have a glass of your cheapest, sweetest rosé. Something out of a paper wine box would be ideal, if you have it.”

  “Gotcha.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “The lady knows what she likes.”

  “You know it.” It wasn’t till he brought me the wine with a little bow that I realized, holy crud, it was the valet parking kid. I nearly spat out my first sip.

  Sometimes the whole “small world” aspect of living in Blue Moon Bay could feel suffocating. The same old faces. Or in this case young faces.

  Please let him be over eighteen.

  “So?” Max’s sparkling green eyes focused on me, and this time I was sure they flashed yellow-orange. Just for a split second. How had I never noticed that happened whenever she got excited? “Hit me with your best ideas.”

  “Er . . . ideas?” Why did it suddenly feel like I was at a job interview?

  “I’m sure we both have tons of great ideas to share.” Max’s prompting voice poked at my silence. “On how to run our investigation and protect Kade and Bryson from being unfairly accused. Without getting ourselves in legal trouble.”

  “Right.” Just hearing the words “legal trouble” sent butterflies fluttering through my stomach. “Ok . . . um . . . I guess we could talk to people in town, see if they have any information?”

  “Well, yes, duh.” Max looked impatient. “Of course we’re going to talk to every person of interest, and their kin. Here, I made a list.” She reached into her shorts’s pocket and fished out several napkins, each covered with ink scrawl. She frowned. “No . . . wait . . . ” She lifted the sleeve of her hoodie. A blueish list of names was scrawled on her arm. “Oh cool, there it is. But seriously, we need to think bigger.”

  “Can you give me an example of bigger?”

  “Sure, sure.” She rubbed her hands as if for inspiration. “Got one. I break into the suspects’ homes as a bobcat and eat their pets. To see how they react.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Come on. Gimme a serious example.”

  “I was trolling you with the pets thing,” she admitted. “But breaking in might be necessary to collect evidence.”

  I felt dizzy and gripped the stem of my wineglass for support. “That’s so very illegal.”

  “If you don’t like it, speak up with an alternative. I know you can do better than ‘um, interviews.’ Yes,” she added. “I am talking about your powers of Green magic.”

  I gasped and
glanced around in case anyone at the bar had overheard. But of course no one had overheard, and no one cared besides.

  And why should I have inhibitions about discussing magic when Max seemed to have no inhibitions at all?

  The woman had shifted into a woodland animal before my very eyes—shedding a pile of clothes, including sassy red boyshort panties, on the ground at my feet.

  “That reminds me,” I said suddenly, lifting a knotted plastic shopping bag out of my satchel and tossing it to her. “You’re probably wondering what happened to your outfit.”

  Max laughed without a trace of self-consciousness. “Oh yeah, clothes. I lose so many in a month I don’t bother to keep track. Thank goodness for Goodwill.”

  Wow. I’d never considered the practical problems of being a shifter. They sucked. “Sorry, I left your shoes stashed in my cubby at work.” I cringed. “They were too bulky to carry in my bag.”

  “It’s cool. If I forget to grab ‘em by the end of the week, you can chuck ‘em.” She stood and fished her rumpled jeans from the sack. In full view of the other barflies she shucked off her shorts and stepped into the jeans. It was a lightning-fast wardrobe change, especially considering she kept her flip-flops on throughout the procedure.

  That did it. Maybe I’d never be as free and uninhibited as Max, but it was time I owned being a witch.

  “Fine, we can use my . . . my magic to help find out what happened to Ashlee.”

  Max rewarded me with one of her patented troublemaker grins, like a capital D tossed onto its side. “Aw yeah, now you’re talking. Show me what you’ve got, witch!”

  “Working on it.” I shook out my purse. Various odds and ends popped out, including Kleenex, breath mints, and . . . a magical toffee chew. “This candy is more than meets the eye,” I said proudly. “You see, it’s been imbued with a single drop of—”

  “Magical truth serum, oh my God! This is awesome.” She eagerly grabbed the tiny candy from my hand and pocketed it.

  “Hey, wait—”

  “Who should we try it on first?” Suddenly she was talking fast, tapping her fingers on the table. As if there was coffee in her cup instead of beer. “Can it double as a weapon? Could we spike the town water supply with it?”

  “Wha . . . um . . . no?” I’d forgotten how Max could make me feel like a human sloth. Her mind and body were forever in motion and they often raced to the most anxiety-producing places. Weaponized candy? Tainting the water supply? “Think one step down from truth serum,” I said, realizing the thing I was most anxious about was disappointing her. “It’s not nearly that powerful or consistent. But it’s safe, with no known side effects. It opens people up to talk more freely. And it’s yummy.”

  She frowned at the toffee and settled back down in her chair. “So it’s less of a truth serum and more of a . . . ramble juice?”

  “Yes!” I banged on the table, not really a me thing to do but I was excited we were on the same page for once. “That’s exactly how I think of it.”

  “What can I say, great minds think alike.” She clinked her beer against my water glass. The ice trembled, and a warm, pleasant shiver ran down my back. I realized I couldn’t easily recall the last time I’d gone out to a bar for any reason.

  Or the last time I’d hung out with a friend.

  I’d always been on the quiet side, but when did I become a recluse?

  “Hey, Max, maybe you and me should do this kind of stuff more oft—whoa.” While I was musing, Max had unwrapped the toffee chew was gnawing on it.

  “Qumick, ask muh a qumestion,” she commanded stickily through the chew.

  My heart raced. Was I really going to do this, right here right now? “Ok. Why did you ditch me at 3 AM on graduation night and then never call me back again?”

  Max’s eyes went wide, and she spoke in a robotic tone as if in a trance. “Because . . . you’re . . . annoying . . . Hazel.”

  “Oh. Right. I see. ” I stood, feeling shaky on my feet. Shaky wasn’t the right word exactly. Stricken fit better. Mortified. Crushed. Also, totally confused.

  As a teenager I’d spent hours obsessing on the sudden, traumatic death of our friendship . . . and that was the simple issue all along? She just didn’t like me? On one hand, it was my greatest fear come to life: that people secretly find me annoying. On the other hand, something didn’t add up. Why would she—

  “Hazel, please, don’t go!” Max grabbed my hand with her surprisingly warm one. Shifter heat? “I was totally messing with you. This stuff doesn’t work on shifters. That’s what I was testing for, to see if nonstandard humans would feel any magical compulsion to spill their guts. I felt nothing. See, this experiment taught us a lot.”

  “Yay for science.” I refused to look at her.

  “Don’t be like that. You’re actually the third-least-annoying person I’ve ever met, if it helps. No, wait, fourth least.”

  “Stop trying to make it better, please.” I took a deep breath to steady myself. “That was a not a cool thing to joke about.”

  “I know,” Max said quietly. “But that was not a cool thing to truth serum me about.”

  I gave a tiny shrug in acknowledgment and sat back down, feeling a strong urge to change the subject.

  “Let me tell you more about the ramble juice. The effects only last a few seconds. But they can be extended a bit if the vic—er, the subject feels relaxed and comfortable.” Out of nowhere an idea came to me. “Hey, what if we get people to come to the bakery and interview them there?”

  “Riiiight, because the bakery’s relaxing and comfortable,” Max said, smiling. “I get you.”

  She didn’t really, though. Or not all of me. I had an ulterior motive: luring our old customers back to Sage’s Bakery. To get them to remember how authentic and lovely it was, compared to Java Kitty Café. “We can present it as a special deal coupon. Offer them a free pumpkin cardamom scone. But it’s a special scone . . . one that gets them talking.”

  “Ooh, I like where you’re going with this.” Max’s look of pure admiration gave me the warm fuzzies . . . for about one second before I got suspicious. “Yep, you interview them at the bakery,” she went on, “and keep ‘em comfortable. Meanwhile I shift and sneak into their houses to search for evidence. Brilliant idea!”

  My stomach felt sick. “Max, no. We can’t commit crimes to solve a crime.”

  She tossed me a perplexed look. “Undercover cops do it all the time.”

  “We’re not cops, we’re just regular people . . . well, you’re also a bobcat, I suppose. But they don’t even have opposable th—”

  “Hazel.” Max hissed at me.

  “Also when you’re in bobcat mode, isn’t your mind affected by it?”

  “Hazel, shhhh!”

  “Are you able to have complex thoughts or are you like, just thirsty for rabbit blood?”

  “Would you like another glass of rosé, miss?”

  I turned to see the young waiter standing inches away. Whoops! Maybe he hadn’t heard me, somehow?

  “I’m afraid we’re fresh out of rabbit’s blood.” His pimply face twitched with a smirk. “Is that a microbrew?”

  A piece of paper sailed past me to the peanut-covered floor.

  “Oh, look, I dropped my character sheet.” Max announced in a loud, wooden voice. “I am a role-playing gamer, who plays a shifter. In a game that is not real.”

  “Yep, here you go, miss.” The kid handed her the paper back, looking surprisingly bored by the whole subject. Apparently he’d bought her ruse. “Want to hear the rotating IPA special?” he asked me.

  “Please no, never.” I cringed at the thought of all that bitterness. “But another rosé would be, uh, sweet.”

  At my pun, his gaze took on a stoical set. The younger generation appreciated nothing. “Coming right up, miss.”

  “And another share plate of fries,” Max put in. “With extra ranch sauce.”

  “Sorry, I’ll be more careful not to be overheard,” I said once he�
�d walked off with our order. “That was pretty creative, though, keeping a fake character sheet in your purse for such situations.”

  She gave me a look. “Who says it’s fake? Who says I don’t play Werewolf: The Forsaken with a nice group of guys and gals, down at Gunnar’s Games on alternating Sundays?”

  “Never mind. Of course you do.”

  “And I’m not just ‘thirsty for rabbit blood,’ for your information. When I’m in that state, I’m still myself, sort of. Or half myself, half something else.”

  I asked the question I’d been wanting to ask since I found out she was a shifter. “Can you control it?”

  She seemed to take a moment to think about that one, finishing her beer and setting it down. “Control is too much to ask,” she said finally. “But sometimes I think I’m finally getting it together. And, sometimes I still wake up naked in the woods with half a lizard in my mouth. Does that answer your question?”

  “Yeah? But it also asks a whole bunch of new ones.” I closed my eyes, trying to imagine what Max’s life experience might feel like. There was that one time, after my last breakup, when I’d tried in vain to go on a diet. I woke up from a 3 AM dream about gorging on devil’s food cake . . . only to find I had sleepwalked to the kitchen—well, kitchenette area—and was sleep-gnawing on squares of bittersweet baking chocolate. Chocolate fingerprints on the counter and everything. That memory still made me shudder, but it was still a far cry from the gruesome scene Max was describing. As for how much money she must have to spend on clothes . . . her haphazard fashion game was starting to make sense.

  Suddenly I felt the deepest empathy for Max. No wonder if she seemed a little off sometimes. Being a shifter sounded like a nightmare that never ended.

  “Hello, Hazel? Did you zone out thinking about Bryson’s hot body or something?” Max tossed a french fry at me. “I ordered these for the table. Feel free to eat up to 50 percent of them. Anyway, let’s table the burglar thing for now. I can smell that it’s stressing you out.”