by Holly Gunn
Shifters have come out—people who shift into animals, if that’s to be believed.
Christ, I think.
Then again, in my very own town, I’ve seen quite a lot of magic.
So, I shouldn’t be surprised by the blind woman’s eyes burning bright with magic and revealing her true nature.
And yet, it hit me yesterday and just now.
There really are shifters.
“It’s not in your head, Aaron,” I mutter and then grunt when Bjarke comes up behind me, slapping me on the back.
“It is not a good thing, I think, old man, to talk to yourself. In my day, you would have been culled.”
In your day, I think with an inner growl as I glance at the man who just mated my daughter, as Irina’s father, I would have killed you before it came to that.
I don’t say this aloud, but my eyes gesturing toward Bjarke’s hand on my shoulder must convey my meaning.
Bjarke does not remove his hand.
He smirks.
I sigh and rub my hand across my face, unable to hold back a smile. Bjarke is as tall as me, but where I’m lean and fit, he is a beast of a man. During police academy training, he would have been the grunt work guy. His mind is sharp, though. He is no grunt.
Bjarke nods toward the three strangers who are amongst a large group of strangers as yet another local festival comes to its end. Tourist season will not die with the start of winter only a month away. In fact, besides our festivals and parades and the myriad of charms the town holds, the winter season is our busiest with the nearby mountains.
“Are they trouble?” he asks.
I think on his question and shake my head.
“Not trouble, just odd,” I reply. “I don’t like not knowing who comes into my town.”
“Are they married to each other?”
I know what he sees, two women of about the same age, both with wedding bands. The blonde wears a small sapphire engagement ring as well, but the pink-haired woman’s second ring is, even from here I can see, a tattoo. I don’t know why I know the tattoo is her engagement ring, but I do. I also notice she’s got a strange pattern all along her uncovered arms, one that trails from the chest area of her tank top and further underneath.
I’m curious about the pattern.
Not about what is beneath her shirt.
I know at fifty-five, I’m beyond the years of dating a woman in her thirties. And even if I wasn’t, there’s only one woman I would ever want for myself, and that woman is not my ex who left me high and dry, like the coward I didn’t see her for, eighteen years ago.
“No,” I answer, my voice rough as it always is. “They don’t touch the way lovers do.”
That is all I say, but that is enough.
He grunts in answer, and I smile again.
My daughter is nineteen, and although my ex, Diane bailed when Irina was one, and it left a hole in our lives, there are times when I think Irina must be an old soul. She grew up fast, even though I tried to keep her young. She took on tasks that most children wouldn’t have to, and that I never intended for her to take on.
I’m a man. I’ve always done my own laundry, mowed my own lawn, caught my own fish even though I can’t really stomach fish that much recently, and shot my own deer. I’ve also always cleaned the kitchen, taken out the trash, and done what needed doing. I even learned, as Irina grew, that a little sewing was not beyond my grasp.
What came of this was jeans that Irina would call, “Frankenjeans.”
Add to this that my weekly laundering was always done on a Sunday, my kitchen-cleaning took place every night after a long night of work when I was dead on my feet, and slowly, as my daughter grew, I noticed she took on more and more of the chores I had always done, even when her mother and I were married.
Irina, although now a Smior, has always been a Holmes through and through.
I let her take over these tasks because it made her feel as though she had a place, but also because my sewing ability, as has been established, is damn abysmal, and thirteen-year-old girls need their clothes cleaned more than once a week.
But I might also have taken it for granted.
Because now that she no longer lives at home, I feel almost bereft.
I don’t care that I have to do my own laundry or the dishes after a long day of work.
I care that I now do these things alone.
But I’m also silently happy that my daughter and Bjarke won’t have that worry. They’ll age together. They’ll love together. And god help me, they’ll make children together that will mean that, old man that I am, I’ll have some company around as my hair gets more grey and the years start to fade.
Damn, I think. I’m broody today.
I know why, of course.
It’s the start of the full moon.
The mermaids and mermen of the lake will be coming out to find their mates, and the woman I want for my own will do the same—and she’ll take more men into her bed.
But she will not take me.
I rub my hand across my face again and refocus.
“Keep an eye on them, Bjarke. They may not be trouble, but there’s something about them that makes me wary.”
My son-in-law nods, his face serious, and I walk away.
I glance back at the three and see that the blonde is watching me, which is impossible, of course. She might not walk with a cane, but the pink-haired woman has guided her enough that I know she can’t see.
Still, I know the woman’s eyes follow me.
A prickling plays along my neck, and I inhale deeply.
Our gazes hold, this blind woman’s and mine.
Not in connection. Her ring says she has someone, and the way I’ve seen her play with it as I’ve found my eyes following them today, I know she loves her husband whoever he is. Our gazes hold because she knows something, something I don’t think I want to know.
I turn on my heel and march toward the station where I have a package for a tiny mermaid who along with her sister will join the other magical beings onshore in just a couple hours. As I do so, I have this feeling that no matter what I do or do not want to know, I won’t have a choice in the matter.
Whatever this creature knows will come to pass.
I can feel that truth in my bones, and I never ignore a hunch.
God only knows if what is to happen will be in my favor, but whatever it is, hopefully, it won’t touch the people of my town.
CHARLOTTA
“Martini,” I order after sliding into a booth rather than my usual barstool.
There are casual glances my way, some whispers, and my skin crawls. The worst of these looks aren’t from the few locals gossiping, however. The worst of the looks come from two men at the bar, both of whom I’ve already shared a bed with. Both of whom did not see my mate mark. Both of whom look as though they want more.
I harden my jaw and pointedly force my gaze elsewhere.
Essie is down the street spending time with the occasionally cranky but ultimately loveable Rickard, the owner of the jewelry store, as he shows her his most recent gemstone acquisitions.
Aaron will find me soon, and I need this drink for fortitude, not to get through my time with him. To get through the time with him knowing I’ll be in someone else’s bed tonight.
Although it is still a week or two before Thanksgiving, the bar is nearly empty due to the celebrations going on, as those who will need to return to the lake waters take part in the American holiday a little early.
There will be laughing, dancing, and warm plates of food all shared with loved ones.
In years past, Essie and I have met at Rita’s and shared a table in the back. Rita often joins us before cleaning up and then leaving to join her own family, leaving the key with us.
We’ve done this for as long as I can remember Rita’s being open.
And in the past couple years, we’ve made our home ashore at Breezy’s boarding house.
It’s not home, but then again, w
e’re used to making a home where we land.
One of the bartenders, Tamara, brings back my drink and hands me a menu. It’s limited, mostly your typical bar fare, but I have a love of potatoes in every form that is “uncommonly disturbing,” Essie’s words, and The Saucy Wench is very accommodating of potato lovers the world over.
Essie doesn’t lie, though.
Thin french fries, deep-fried wedges, steak fries, twice baked, home fries, tater tots, mashed with bacon, mashed with cheese, mashed with bacon and cheese …
Even thinking about potatoes makes my mouth water.
The only thing better than potatoes is Rita’s Thanksgiving stuffing.
“What do ya want, sweetheart?” Tamara asks, and I smile at her.
She’s another townsperson who doesn’t see me as the town harlot. To her, I’m just Lotta.
“Hmmm,” I say, drawing out the word even though I know what I want.
“Potatoes with a side of potatoes?” she asks.
Hand to my chest, I say, “It’s like you know me better than anyone, Tamara. I should give up my lifelong search for the perfect man, meant to satisfy my every need, turn lesbian as it is obvious females are superior to males and marry you. I’d be elbow deep in potatoes all the time, and my life will be complete.”
She doesn’t laugh like I think she will.
Her eyes become sad.
The joke’s on me, of course, but for some reason, it’s her I want to comfort.
Her hand moves to my arm, and I feel the comfort of her touch. It’s been a long while since someone other than Essie touched me in comfort.
We stay like that for a moment, but of course, that is when I feel him.
I also hear Aaron’s greeting to those at the bar and his deep voice ask the bartender for a beer.
He’s off duty, I think excitedly, trying not to show how eager I am. When he’s off duty, he stays longer.
I glance up at Tamara and see her eyes glance between the two of us, and by the, “Make your move” way she looks at me, I can tell she’s known for a long time that if I could direct my own fate, Aaron would be my choice.
Alas, I have become quite familiar with fate’s tendency to prove to a person at just the right moment that they, the Fates, are in charge, and we would do well to stop making grand plans.
I run my fingers through my long, curly blonde hair and force a smile to my lips.
Clearing my throat, I tell her my order, “Can I get the steak fries, tater tots, a bison burger, and an assortment of sauces to go with my fries?”
Tamara’s quiet for a moment, her gaze too assessing for me, but then she nods and pulls my menu from the table before heading to the kitchen.
I take a deep breath.
And I wait for my skjoldr.
He doesn’t take long.
I rise as he gets close, my body anticipating his hug.
And I’m glad I’ve prepared because no matter that he does this every full moon, it never ceases to amaze me how powerful his touch is.
Like honey coating my body in sweetness while a warm fire burns in the background.
Dear god, that sounds ridiculous. And yet, it’s true.
His arms come around me, and his chest flattens my nose as I draw in his scent.
Mountains and lake and man.
He smells as I think every man should, but no other man matters.
Just this one, just this man with his strong arms holding me tightly as though he knows I need it, longer than anyone else does.
I could be fanciful and think he holds me this way because he secretly cares for me as I care for him, but that’s even more ridiculous than me calling his hugs honey and warm fires.
We separate slowly, but he doesn’t release me as he has in times past. He holds me tighter and looks down at me, something new in those blue eyes.
“Hey, Lotta.”
His voice is as filled with strength and honor as the rest of him is, so much so, my belly dips and I glance at him from beneath my lashes, and reply with my own, “Hey.”
I see his smile, and we both laugh softly at my ‘hey’ knowing it’s an inadequate word for a greeting after not seeing each other for a month.
And yet, it is all we need when we catch up every first night I’m back on land, like clockwork, every full moon period for over fifteen years, now that I think of it.
We start to take our seats when Tamara calls out, “Sheriff, your usual?”
Aaron nods, and I glance his way, sharply.
We don’t usually eat dinner together.
He’s never said it aloud, but I know he knows why I’m on land.
Aaron shocks me further when he calls out, “And put Lotta’s drinks and meal on my tab, Tamara.”
I can’t help that my mouth drops and I start to say, “Aaron, you can’t—”
He gives me a smirk and shakes his head. “Let me, Lotta. It’s Thanksgiving.”
“Not for another couple weeks,” I grumble, unable to help the fact that I know I’m being ungrateful.
This only makes him smirk further.
Then he leans forward and quirks his finger my way. “Darlin’,” he drawls, and I hate it because, with that one word, I’ll do whatever he wants. He clears his throat in such a way that I wonder if my eyes have given away my inner turmoil. “I only get you one night a month, let me pay for dinner.”
I fall back to my seat, and try not to let those words simultaneously tear me in two with pain and still warm me. His words say that he enjoys spending time with me, but he knows that I’m giving myself to other men the other two days.
My eyes are focused on the table when I hear him say, “Shit.”
I slowly move my gaze up and see he’s stood and is now sliding in next to me.
“Aaron, really, it’s no big deal. I’m fine. You’re fine. Everybody is fine.”
His hand moves to my jaw, and he lifts my head so that we’re now face to face.
“It’s not fine.” He grits his teeth. “That’s not what I meant. That’s not—”
He cuts himself off, lets go of my chin, and rubs his hand across his face.
Then, direct as can be, he angles in closer and says, no ... he growls. The cool as can be, good boy with an edge, fifty-five-year-old sheriff growls, “I want you, Lotta.”
For a moment, time is suspended, and I think, he wants me. It’s what I’ve dreamed of, what I’ve wished for.
Then, time starts and my heartbeat quickens for an entirely different reason.
Something nasty crawls through my belly, something dirty, and it’s worse than the two men at the bar eyeing me and looking for me. This feeling is something I never thought I’d feel with Aaron.
He wants me.
No, I correct myself. I can see it in his eyes.
He doesn’t want me. He wants sex.
And god help me, but he knows exactly where to get it from too, doesn’t he?
I push him out of the booth, and I hide my eyes from his view, knowing they’re wet and that I’m so close to tears, it’s embarrassing.
“I’ve got to go,” I say in a rush. “Essie …” I lie. “She and I were supposed to meet. I forgot—”
His hand grabs my arm, and he whirls me around, but my head’s still ducked so he doesn’t see how weak I am right now, how vulnerable.
“Lotta, aren’t you going to say anything?” he asks, his voice sounding almost hurt.
I want to laugh at that.
But not more than I want to cry at this whole situation.
I hate my curse, but I’ve never hated it more than I do in this moment.
“I need to go,” I tell him, my voice breaking on each syllable.
His hand tightens on my arm, not painfully but commandingly.
“Lotta—”
“Please, Aaron. Please just let me go.”
A man has never let go of my arm so fast.
Like a hot potato.
I let out an involuntary snort, something between a half
-laugh, half-sob.
Then, I run.
On two legs ... wishing for the very first time that I had my tail and I could swim leagues away, never to return.
AARON
“Smooth, Sheriff.”
I may be a fifty-five-year-old man finally reentering the dating scene and also sheriff, but I scowl at Tamara’s comment.
Because everything that just happened did not go as planned. The first part of the scenario that went wrong was, in fact, the part where I told her I want her. I never planned that. I know what she’s up against, and I’ve never had any plans to tell her that I want her. It would do no good. She needs to find her mate to be free.
I start to rub my hand across my face and then stop myself about halfway through, realizing that I’ve done this same movement at least a dozen times today. Self-pity and physical tells that give away my level of stress should have a cap for the sheriff of a small town and grown man to boot.
“Tamara, wrap up dinner, yeah?”
I intend to head home and do what I’ve been doing since my daughter left—or if I’m honest, even before that.
Throw on my sweats, my flannel, turn on the tv, and set out my dinner tray to eat a meal in front of the tube while watching a procedural crime show. Yes, my life is that damn thrilling.
Tamara slides into my booth instead.
“Tam—”
She throws up a hand and takes the damp towel from her shoulder, smacking the table and causing a resounding thwack to vibrate more than it should against such tough wood.
“You tell a woman like that you want her, when she thinks you hang the sun and the moon, and you expect a different answer?”
“Sun and moon, my ass, Tamara. She ran out of here like her dress was on fire, so while I don’t know why in the sam hell I’m sharing this with you, I’ll be honest. No, I didn’t expect a different answer. I think there’s some damned stupid part of me that hoped for a different answer, but well, that was also the part of me that didn’t think I’d have a quite so public scene to my first set down in two decades. I guess I hoped for better. Stupidity,” I tell her. “Just a lapse. I guess I was just needin’ to get it out of my system.”