“Like how my mom thinks your whole town is full of nudist burglars?”
Michael winced. “Yeah, about that. I really am sorry. If I’d known the house belonged to someone I never would have gone in.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Alison said. “I enjoyed the show.” She needed to keep talking. To keep it light and bouncy and flirty. Flirting kept her mind off the stones that shifted under her feet, off the sagging cliff wall, the slick rock face, the thousand-foot plunge into a sea of splinters. Keep talking, she told herself. Keep talking, don’t look down.
So she did. All the way down the path Alison told Michael about her dream to open a brewery using old techniques and modern technology to make microbrews for the discerning traveller. She told him, obliquely, about Drew and watched with satisfaction as the man’s shoulders tensed at the mention of a boyfriend and then eased down when the word ex came out. She and Drew had stayed at a Bed & Brew on the east coast, on vacation visiting his family. The place had been delightfully raucous, with sawdust on the floor and a band playing the kind of bass-heavy music that got everyone’s butt shaking. Everyone but Drew. Drew didn’t dance. The food had been decent enough, but the beer had been lackluster. Thin and hoppy and bitter, without any of the complexity that a good brewer could bring to the mash. The night had been one of joy, tempered with an insidious disappointment, both in the beer and in Drew. The man had cared too much about appearances to dance. If he’d danced, he might have looked foolish. Someone might have snapped a pic of him and put it on Facebook. His world was full of mights and maybes and what if I look dumb doing thats.
“Do you dance?” Alison blurted out, surprising Michael.
“Sure. Not well, but I dance. Especially in the kitchen.” The path was so narrow that he couldn’t even really turn to look at her, so he pitched his voice off the raw rock of the mountain, half twisting so he saw her out of the corner of his eye. “There’s not really any good place around here to go dancing, except like weddings.”
Weddings. What an ominous word. Drew had tossed the idea around so many times, dangling it like a carrot. If she lost weight, he might propose. If he got the promotion, he might propose. If she ditched her research job and got some proper job with big pharma, he might propose. At some point the carrot became the stick and the idea of marrying Drew had felt like a punishment, not a reward. Her mother, too, used the word as a weapon. Cut your hair or no man will marry you. Wear skirts and heels or no man will marry you. Stop eating butter and bread and chocolate and beer or no man will marry you. The word was an end state, a victory condition, a shiny bauble seized for the win. Maybe that was why her mother had been married seven times. She saw matrimony as a destination, not as a journey. Alison didn’t want that. If she got married, it would have to be as part of the next phase of her life, not some vague trophy grasped and put on a shelf somewhere.
Marriage wasn’t a beer. It wasn’t some product that you sweat over and cooked up and then consumed. No, it was alchemy. It was taking two disparate ingredients and merging them together in just the right way at just the right time so that you got something new and wonderful and delicious out of it that lasted forever.
“Speaking of weddings,” Alison said, enjoying how Michael stumbled slightly at the word. “My sister is getting married next month and I need a date. If we get through this whole thing and you aren’t in jail and I’m not disowned, would you go with me?”
“I broke into your house naked and you’re asking me out on a date?”
“Well, when you put it like that.”
“Of course I’ll go.”
“You’ll have to wear clothes.”
“Never mind then. I thought it was one of those naked weddings.”
“The nakedness happens afterwards,” Alison said without thinking, and then felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. “I mean, like the newlyweds. The newlyweds get naked. And other people too, probably.” She thought of Michael’s naked body. She’d sort of been thinking about it a lot since witnessing it last night. But every time she did it was like all of her thoughts sat down in silence to appreciate the beauty of it and her brain sort of switched off.
“I suppose I could put clothes on. Just this once. Does it have to be a full-on tux, or can I wear one of those ironic tuxedo t-shirts?”
“It depends on how much you want my mother to kill you.”
Michael laughed, his voice booming out over the forest, startling a flock of starlings who took to the air in annoyance. For the rest of the way down, he took a turn talking. Telling Alison about his wrecker, his auto shop, and his real passion in antiquing. He didn’t call it that, of course, no straight man ever said the word antiquing. But it was what he described, combing through estate sales and auctions for treasures he could polish, repair and sell. The man’s face lit up with a gorgeous light as he described the very best scores he’d made in the few short years he’d been in business, and before she knew it, they were at the bottom of the cliff, facing the wall of forest that surrounded the Roost.
“Are your feet on solid ground?” Michael asked.
“Yes, why?” Alison said, turning to face him, bracing herself for the punch of handsomeness that was coming. She was prepared this time for his golden eyes, his pouty lips, the dusting of stubble on his square jaw. But she wasn’t prepared when he picked her up, pressed her against the mountain and kissed her.
Chapter 5
Bearly There
Her lips were soft and yielding, just like the rest of her. Michael held Alison’s ass in his hands as he pressed her against the raw stone of the mountain and kissed her like he was dying and she was the only water in the world. His body was trembling with need. Being close to her, smelling her, hearing the music of her voice drove his bear into a frenzy. The bear wanted to mate—it cared about nothing else. Michael had never been especially good about controlling his bear. Marcus kept his on the tightest leash possible. Matt and his bear were so simpatico that control wasn’t even an issue—they always wanted the same things. But Michael, his bear was wilder. He was younger and still trying to get mastery of it.
Alison wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, holding on to him tightly. She kissed him back, her tongue tasting his and liking what it found. A low growl rumbled in his throat and he felt himself growing uncomfortably hard in his jeans. He was grinding against her, wishing he could make her pants and his vanish by sheer friction. It would be so easy to reach down and ease his pants off, to free himself right here, to take her on the soft ground.
Alison moaned as he kissed his way down her neck. He wanted to rip her shirt open, to gather her breasts in his hands and taste her skin.
“Stop,” she said. “We can’t do this.”
No, his bear roared. She is our mate. We will take her. Michael closed his eyes and put her down. He held his breath as he stepped away from her. He was the master of his bear. It wouldn’t control him, not now. In the wild, bears mated for a season. They fucked and ran, leaving the female behind to deal with the offspring. He couldn’t do that. Wouldn’t do that. His bear didn’t even really want that. His kind, the bear shifters, mated for life. When they found their true mate, it was for ever and ever. It was one of the ways that his human side strengthened the bear. He had cunning, sure. He could use tools. He could make plans and follow through. But also he could fall in love. Wild bears didn’t. The man and the bear joined together were greater than either separate, their strengths were magnified, and their weaknesses diminished. But it wasn’t always easy.
“You have to back away from me. Your scent is driving me crazy.” Michael fell to his knees, trying to keep his head. The bear roared with fury at being denied its mate and it wanted out. It wanted to shift, but if he shifted now he’d lose Alison forever. He knew it.
“My scent? I don’t even wear perfume.”
“Back away,” Michael growled, his voice deepening as the shift threatened to come on.
“Wait, just
a sec,” Alison said. She ran twenty feet away, to a clump of purple flowers that to Michael looked like mountain weeds. She grabbed a handful of the flowers and their unopened pods, crushed them in her hands and then rubbed the mash across her neck and arms. Almost immediately her scent vanished, replaced by something earthier and pungent. Michael’s head cleared and his bear calmed down.
“What is that stuff?”
“Salvia clevelandii,” she said with a grin. “Musk sage. It’s like a stinkier wild cousin to the normal household sage.” She picked one of the purple flowers and sucked from the stem of it. “Also the nectar is delicious. It grows just everywhere around here and people overlook it because it’s kind of a shabby flower, but it’s delightful and very useful. Bees go crazy over it and make lovely sage honey. In fact, I have an amazing recipe for sage honey mead. I haven’t made it since college, but if we find a local hive or apiarist I’d love to make you a bottle.”
Michael watched her, how animated she was when she discussed all she knew. It was like her mask of shyness fell away then and revealed the truly gorgeous woman beneath. He could listen to her talk forever. He hoped he’d have the chance.
“Try one,” she said, offering him a delicate purple sage flower. The stem of it was like a narrow cocktail straw and he sipped the sage-flavored nectar from it. “That’s really tasty.”
“Right? The woods are full of so many secret amazing things.” Her smile dazzled him.
“If I didn’t think it’d kill me, I’d kiss the hell out of you right now.”
“What even is this?” Alison asked. “This thing between us? I can feel it, like a connection. An energy here,” she tapped her heart, “that wants to be close to you.”
“Do you believe in love at first sight?”
“I believe in chemical attraction. In hormones. In dopamine and oxytocin. But this feels different. I feel like I’ve been waiting to know you my entire life.” Her warm brown eyes grew larger as she said it. Her pulse raced. Her full lips parted and when her tongue darted out to moisten them Michael had to stifle a groan.
“This is love at first sight.”
Take her, his bear roared. Even under the smell of the mountain weeds, you can scent her desire for you. Take her now. Claim her as yours!
Somewhere above a raven cawed raucously and his bear went still. It was the call of a hunting party.
“We have to go,” he said. “The ravens know we’re here, and we need to present ourselves before they decide we’re spies.”
Hand in hand they ran into the woods. Even though the maps said they were still within the borders of Bearfield, everyone around knew this was raven territory. Rook’s Roost was the spire’s name, a name that predated the shifters moving in. But the ravens loved irony, loved anything that could be bent to more than one use. The temptation of the name was too great for them, when they came to Michael’s father seeking asylum.
The trees in the Rookswood were larger than normal, with leaves wider than Michael’s hand and trunks so thick four men holding hands couldn’t reach around them. Old Jack Harper, who ran the hardware store in town, claimed the ravens fed the trees shifter blood. He said they performed sacrifices of their kin who broke one of their many laws. But Maggie Mayhew, Jack’s wife and head of the Ladies Quilting Society, said that the trees grew larger here because their roots had found the great bear spirit under the earth and his strength nourished them and made them wild strong. Michael didn’t know what the truth was, he just knew that it creeped him out. He’d only been in the Rookswood once before, as a child with his father, but the size of the trees made him feel like a child again, lost in the deep dark wood.
“These are all magnificent,” Alison said in wonder. She kept stopping, kneeling, picking up leaves and studying them. She didn’t see the hunting party creeping above them in the branches. Hell, Michael couldn’t see them either, but he could hear them. He could scent them. Three young raven shifters, wearing something smooth that slithered on their skin. Two females and one male. When was the last time they’d even seen a bear shifter?
Alison opened her purse to stuff one of the dinner-plate-sized oak leaves inside but Michael caught her hand.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Steal from the Raven Queen.”
“I’m not stealing anything. And anyway it’s just a leaf.” There was a fire in her eyes. An indignant strength exploded inside her. Even through the stink of the musk sage Michael could smell the adrenaline on her skin. She was stronger than she looked and quick to defend herself. Good.
“To you, it’s a leaf. To me, it’s a leaf. But to the Queen of these woods, it’s a pretext. These ravens, they’re tricksters. They once made Augusta Brown serve them for a month and a day because they accused her of stealing their words without permission.” When Alison blinked at him uncomprehendingly, Michael added, “Because she runs our little town paper and she quoted three of them who were in town getting supplies. Afterwards, Marcus and the Queen sat down with an attorney—Matt, actually—and drew up a giant contract between the ravens and the b—” He almost said the bear word.
“The ravens and the bees?”
“Between them and us,” Michael said, shrugging sheepishly. He was never a very good liar. He didn’t really see the point in it.
Alison put the leaf back down exactly where she’d found it and they continued down the winding narrow path.
“What’s in the contract?”
“Stuff like, you can’t accuse people of stealing your air if they breathe near you. Or stealing your words because they overhear you. You can’t come into town and run con games on the tourists—that was a hard one. Whatever shenanigans they get up to, they don’t do it in Bearfield proper. Maybe they go over to Santa Rosa or down to the city. But the point is, we can’t give them any excuse to take offense and we can’t make any deals or bets with them.”
“They sound like fairies, from the old stories. My gran, my dad’s mother, grew up in England. She was from Kenya originally, but—y’know, it’s a long story—the point is she grew up with all of these old stories about fairies and boggins and redcaps and she’d tell us all about them on the dark winter nights when she visited. The ravens sound like they could have given the old sidhe courts a run for their money.”
A woman’s voice, strong and deep, rang out. “A high compliment, my lady. For that alone you have earned safe passage for yourself and your furry companion.” Michael looked around, but couldn’t see anyone. The hunting party was far behind them, in the high branches of an elm. The voice came from someone else, someone he couldn’t see or hear or scent.
“Umm, thank you?” Alison said and then curtsied. “It was a gift freely given.”
The woman’s voice laughed, the deepness turning into a harsh squawking cry. “Approach my citadel, Alison of the Meadows. You have our blessing.”
Alison shot Michael a look, but he didn’t know what it meant. It was portentous. Did she know what she was doing? Was the queen’s blessing a trick to give the inexperienced mortal the shine of authority, so that she’d blunder into some raven’s trick? Michael didn’t have the head for this. He wasn’t a tricky guy at heart. He was a seeker, a finder, and a hunter. They should have sent someone else to negotiate. He was going to screw it up.
As they walked deeper into the Rookswood, the path enveloped them. Overhead, the tree branches merged, forming at first a light canopy filtering the noonday sun into a dappling of golden green, and then forming a roof above them. So slowly they barely noticed it, the path between trees had transformed into a tunnel of wood and sticks and roots, the ground raw dirt underfoot and the sun nowhere to be seen. The trail threatened to become too dark for Alison to see, but then they encountered the first of the ravens’ lights.
A dollar store lantern, battery powered, with bits of colored glass and feathers and red string dangling from it hung before them. It looked like a preschool class project. Like someone gave twelv
e toddlers a bucket of broken glass, a bucket of glue and the cheapest plastic lantern they could find.
“Amazing,” Alison said. She was clearly fighting the urge to reach out and touch it, to see what it was made of. “I suppose taking a picture of this with my phone would be cause for offense, yeah?”
“Definitely,” Michael agreed.
Nearby, a raven laughed.
The path wound deeper, moving underground into the earth itself. The lanterns grew more frequent, until the tunnel was lined with their gaudy splendor. Between the lanterns, in the dirt walls of the tunnel cave, chunks of shattered mirror were embedded next to shattered TV screens and smashed cell phones and bits of tinsel or aluminum foil. If it was silver and shiny, the ravens had stolen it and jammed it into their walls.
And then they were through the tunnel, in a clearing, blinking in the sunlight. Before them stood the prominence of Rook’s Roost, citadel of the ravens. At the base of the mountain two large doors covered in shattered glass and mirrors stood wide open. Farther out, a village of small houses clustered. Fifteen or twenty homes that looked like turn of the century workman cottages, the one-room affairs with kitchenettes and bathrooms stuffed inside that dotted coastal California. They were cozy and—like everything else the ravens touched—bedazzled to hell and back.
A Taste of Honeybear Wine (BBW Bear Shifter Standalone Romance Novel) (Bearfield Book 2) Page 6