Second Nature

by Jae

  "I'm not sure." Anger and sadness still gripped her when she thought about how badly Will had been hurt. Jorie sat down on the other end of the couch and softly stroked Will too. "He was already missing his leg when he came to the animal shelter where I worked. But whatever it was that happened to him, it made him distrust people. It took me weeks to get him to relax while I was in the same room with him, much less sitting on the same couch. That's why I'm so surprised that he seems to trust you."

  "Maybe he can still smell the bobcats on me and thinks I'm one of his bigger cousins, not one of the evil humans who hurt him," Griffin murmured.

  "Maybe," Jorie said. She slowly stood. "Do you want a cup of tea or hot chocolate?" The two meetings at the diner had taught her that Griffin was not a coffee drinker.

  "Tea is fine, especially if it's herbal," Griffin said.

  They walked to the kitchen side by side, and Jorie realized what was so different about the way Griffin moved: she was walking on the balls of her feet instead of placing her heel first. Small children sometimes walked that way. She had never seen it in an adult, though, and now wondered why she hadn't noticed it before. Did she walk like this when we met at the diner? It's almost... catlike. An idea flashed through her mind. Maybe I could have my cat-shifters walk like this.

  Deep in thought, she turned on the small light above the stove.

  "So is being a writer always this much torture, or what is it about this book that is giving you sleepless nights?" Griffin asked as she took the kettle from Jorie and filled it with water.

  Jorie hesitated. She was used to discussing her writing with her beta reader, other writers, and a few fans — people she met online. Never had she shared her writing with people she met face-to-face. "I'm not sure," she finally said. It was the truth. "I'm just not clear on where to go with this scene." The scene wasn't the only problem, but it was a good start.

  "Maybe I can help?" Griffin asked. "I know I'm not a writer, but I'm a reader, and that's who you're writing this book for, right?"

  "No."

  Surprise lit up the normally controlled, whiskey-colored eyes. Jorie's determined answer had caught her off guard.

  "Don't get me wrong; it's nice to have people read and enjoy my books," Jorie said. "Very nice. Earning enough money not to starve to death is a plus too. But I'm writing this for myself. I would continue to write even if it didn't earn me a cent and not a soul read my books."

  Griffin brushed a piece of imaginary lint off the sleeve of her T-shirt. "Wow. Not a lot of people can say that about their job. I know if working for the... um... Forest Service didn't earn me some money and a certain independence..." She left the sentence unfinished. "I guess writing is not just a job to you."

  It wasn't. Writing was a part of her. Jorie poured hot water into their mugs before Griffin could take over the task again.

  "Maybe that's why the scene is giving you so much trouble," Griffin said, taking one of the mugs from Jorie. "It's personal for you. Maybe you are too close to the scene to see it clearly."

  "And you are not; that's what you're saying, right?" What Griffin said sounded reasonable, but Jorie still wasn't convinced that showing Griffin her writing was what she wanted to do.

  A shrug stretched the seams of the borrowed T-shirt. "It certainly can't hurt. But it's your choice, of course." Griffin leaned back against the kitchen counter and didn't say anything else to convince Jorie.

  Jorie dropped two spoonfuls of sugar into her mug and swirled her spoon through the tea. "Sugar?"

  Griffin shook her head. "No, thanks."

  "No sugar, no caffeine... You lead a pretty healthy life," Jorie said. Still, one glance at Griffin's solid body told her that she didn't miss a lot of meals.

  "Not really. I eat my fair share of junk food, but you have to draw the line somewhere."

  Drawing the line... Jorie made a decision and set down her mug. Not allowing herself to hesitate again, she went to the living room and printed out the last page of her story. The way back to the kitchen felt unusually long. Doubts about herself, her writing, and Griffin's trustworthiness spun through her busy mind. The single sheet of paper was heavy in her hand. She laid it down on the counter, her hand still on top, not ready to give it up and share her writing with Griffin just yet.

  The golden-brown eyes just looked at her, waiting, not judging.

  With a deep breath, Jorie slid the sheet of paper across the counter and lifted her hand away. "Read," she said.

  Griffin picked it up.

  "Wait. Let me turn on another light, or you'll ruin your eyes." Jorie reached for the light switch.

  Instead of reading, Griffin strode past her to the living room. When she returned, a pair of reading glasses balanced on her strong nose.

  Jorie couldn't hold back a smile. The reading glasses looked out of place on the big, intimidating woman and gave her an unexpected gentleness. With the keen intelligence sparkling in her eyes, she now looked like a scholar, a scientist, for the first time. She's full of contradictions, and I'm sure there's a lot that I haven't even glimpsed yet. She really would make an interesting character, Jorie thought. A part of her wanted to run off to find her notebook and write down all the interesting ideas racing through her mind, but the other part wanted to stay and hear Griffin's thoughts on the scene.

  She waited anxiously until Griffin finished reading.

  * * *

  Finally, Griffin lowered the page. It wasn't the dramatic scene she had imagined. There was no shape-shifting, no big fight between two predators, no hunt for humans. The two paragraphs simply showed Quinn, one of the main characters, at work. "I take it Quinn is the tiger-shifter?" she asked as if she didn't already know from the chapters Jorie's beta reader had sent her.

  Jorie nodded. She was clearly still uncomfortable discussing her writing with Griffin.

  "And she's a pastry chef?" At least that's one detail she didn't get right. No Puwar in his or her right mind would want to work in that profession. Being up to your elbows in flour and dough all day was just too messy for a cat.

  "Yes. Pastry chefs work mostly at night, and I thought a job like that would fit a cat-shifter pretty well." Jorie searched Griffin's face for a reaction.

  "It's a great idea," Griffin said. Encouraging every single fact that Jorie got wrong in her manuscript seemed like a good strategy. "Most other writers made their were-creature a police officer, and I like it that you didn't go down that stereotypical road." She smiled to herself when she saw Jorie relax. "So where's the problem?"

  The fingers of Jorie's right hand plucked at the bandage, reminding Griffin of the injury beneath. Guilt crept up again, but she pushed it back. What was done was done. She still had a job to do.

  "Well, I can understand why other authors gave their shifter a job in law enforcement," Jorie said. "It offers a lot of potential for the plot. Being a pastry chef doesn't really give Quinn a reason to keep running into her love interest, does it?"

  Coming up with plot and characterization and making it all fit together was harder than Griffin had ever imagined. Why would anyone want to do this for a living? Her respect for Jorie grew. You're a saru here on a mission, not a fawning fan. She forced a chuckle and answered, "Not unless her future lover is addicted to pastries so that he sees her every day when he comes in to satisfy his addiction." And if the fictional lover was a tiger-shifter too, that was unlikely. Not being able to taste sweetness, cat-shifters tended to be indifferent toward pastries.

  "No. But what if I give the love interest another reason for returning every day..." Jorie was thinking out loud.

  "Love at first sight?"

  "No," Jorie answered. "I like a slower buildup."

  Is she talking about the plot of her story or about her private life too? Maybe that was why she hadn't reacted to Dr. Saxton's overtures. "So her future boyfriend is there for professional reasons. Maybe he works in a hotel or a restaurant that serves Quinn's pastries," Griffin said. Helping Jorie with this small d
etail that had nothing to do with the shape-shifter part of the story was fun and a good way to win Jorie's trust.

  "Hmm. Hotel, restaurant... No, but what about a social worker who works in a homeless shelter? Maybe the pastry chef agreed to let them have the pastries from the day before." Jorie picked up a pencil and began to scribble notes onto the piece of paper.

  Sipping her herbal tea, Griffin watched as Jorie continued to write, oblivious to her presence. Griffin grimaced. Just my luck. With only a few words from her, Jorie had gotten unstuck. Well, my fathers always wanted me to get better at working in a team. Seems they finally got their wish. Who knew I was so good at this brainstorming stuff?

  One long glance made sure that Jorie was still scribbling away furiously. Griffin strolled out of the kitchen. As usual when she had spent some time in her animal form, she had to remind herself to walk on the whole sole of her feet instead of just her toes. It always took her some time to adjust from feline to human gait.

  By the time she had wandered into the living room, her stride could again pass for that of a human. Her gaze roved over the desk and the coffee table.

  The living room held nothing of interest. She had searched the whole room while Jorie had been asleep. Nothing hinted at where Jorie's inside information was coming from. She had ruled out a personal visit from a Wrasa in Jorie's house and also contact via computer or old-fashioned mail. Now she was the one stuck and running out of ideas.

  She had hoped that her run through the forest would help not only to heal the bump on her head but also to give her new ideas on how to proceed. Well, it did wonders for the bump, but obviously it didn't make you think any clearer or you wouldn't have helped her with her story. Winning Jorie's trust without helping her with crucial parts of her story was a balancing act, and even though Griffin usually had great balance, Jorie made it hard to stay on track this time.

  The half-open bedroom door stopped her prowl through the living room.

  Her superior night vision revealed the crumpled sheets on the bed. Her gaze wandered through the room — and suddenly stopped.

  A notebook lay on the bedside table. Not the blue one that the Maki had stolen, but another one. A pen was resting on it as if it had recently been used. Is she keeping a diary? Or is it another writing notebook? Maybe this is where she keeps the inside information. She had to get her paws on the little book.

  Griffin had just taken a step toward the bedroom when her ears picked up the low squeak of the kitchen door. She quickly stepped back and pretended to make the couch presentable again.

  "Hey," Jorie said as she entered. The dark eyes that had seemed so tired just minutes ago were now sparkling with enthusiasm. "Are you hungry?"

  Griffin nodded. She was always hungry, and if Jorie was making breakfast, at least she would have to stop writing.

  "Give me a minute to change, and I'll take you back to your hotel room. You can shower and change while I try to get a new driver's license and a new ATM card. Then I'll take you to a place with great pancakes. Okay?"

  "Fine with me," Griffin answered.

  Jorie closed the bedroom door between her and Griffin.

  A minute later, Griffin heard Jorie curse. "Everything okay?" she called and only then remembered that a human probably wouldn't have been able to hear Jorie through the closed door.

  "Yes," Jorie answered. "It's just this damn dressing. It got loose and now... argh."

  Griffin's hand rested on the door handle before she could stop herself. "Come on out here. You can't do that with one hand. Let me help you."

  "No, thanks, I can handle it," Jorie said. Her voice was strained, though, as if she was still wrestling with the dressing.

  For the first time, Griffin could understand her fathers' constant complaints about her stubborn independence. It was frustrating to find herself on the receiving end of it. "J.W., come on. I've patched up bobcats; surely I can handle your wound."

  The door opened, and Jorie stuck her head out. "You got your ear bitten off when you tried to patch up a bobcat," she reminded.

  Griffin smiled. The twinkling in Jorie's eyes drove back her feelings of guilt. "Promise to leave my ears alone and I'll help you with the dressing."

  "Deal," Jorie said after a few more seconds of hesitation. She opened the door farther and let Griffin enter.

  One glance at the bedside table showed Griffin that the notebook was gone. In its place lay the crumpled bandage. Jorie had opened the package of an adhesive dressing, but putting it on one-handed without the edges sticking together or to the wound was an exercise in frustration.

  "Why don't you take a seat?" Griffin pointed to the bed. She picked up the fresh dressing and carried it over to Jorie.

  Dark eyes warily looked up at her.

  "That's exactly how the bobcat looked at me right before it bit off my ear," Griffin joked.

  It had the desired effect: Jorie's tense muscles relaxed. Her scent no longer evoked images of storm-lashed trees and rain clouds chasing each other across the spring sky.

  Their height difference made it difficult to see the wound, so Griffin knelt down. She slid the sleeve of Jorie's sweatshirt higher up her arm.

  The cut was already scabbed over, but the puffy redness around the wound shocked Griffin. A Wrasa would be all but healed by now. Griffin wondered if the cut would leave a scar, a permanent reminder of what her plan had cost Jorie.

  Seeing Griffin's worried gaze, Jorie squinted down at the wound too. "It's not infected, is it?"

  "No," Griffin said. The wound probably looked normal for a human. She reached for the antibacterial ointment on the bedside table and spread a little of it over the wound, careful not to touch it directly. Jorie's skin felt cool under her fingers, and she wondered whether it was just the lower body temperature of humans or a sign that Jorie was still in shock and pain. Her fingers wanted to soothingly stroke the injured limb and warm it up with her touch, but she stopped herself.

  Jorie held still while she covered the cut with the new dressing, but Griffin felt her tension.

  She doesn't like relying on others for help. Griffin could relate. She stroked careful fingertips over the edges of the adhesive dressing to secure it to Jorie's arm. "All done," she said and looked up from her kneeling position.

  Jorie's gaze met hers. "Thanks," she said.

  Griffin cleared her throat. "Thanks for not biting my good ear off," she answered and stood abruptly. She needed some distance. "Come on. Let's go."

  CHAPTER 9

  GRIFFIN FIRMLY CLOSED the door of her room at the bed-and-breakfast behind her. The air in the room was stale, and after she had spent the last day elsewhere, the room didn't feel like hers anymore. She slid her hand over the surface of the small table and brushed along the side of the bed, making it her own once again.

  A brown manila envelope was waiting for her on the bedside table. She knew what the envelope held: Jorie's stolen notebook.

  One glance at her pocket watch showed that she still had a couple of hours until Jorie came to pick her up. Enough time to read her e-mails and write her reports. She yearned for a shower, but the urge to find out what was in the notebook also pulled on her. Her glance darted back and forth between the door to the bathroom and the notebook. "Curiosity killed the cat," she warned herself but crossed the room anyway. She would take a look and then hurry through her shower. A quick cat's lick and change of clothes would have to do.

  Impatient fingers ripped open the envelope and dumped the contents onto her bed.

  The blue notebook and Jorie's wallet fell out. Griffin opened the wallet first. Except for an ATM card, a credit card, Jorie's driver's license, and fifty dollars, the wallet was empty. There were no photos, no stray receipts, and no other personal items. One long look at the driver's license told her that Marjorie Carol Price had been born on February 9, 1975. Griffin grinned to herself. I knew she was older than she looked.

  She took out the money and put the cards back. The saru on Osgrove's polic
e force would arrange for the wallet to be found and returned to Jorie. They'd make it look as if the mugger had been interested only in cash, not Jorie's personal information, and had thrown away the wallet in frustration at not finding more money. Maybe that would get Jorie to relax and not be even more careful about people than she already was.

  Her fingertips slid over the blue notebook, feeling the grooves and dents in the cover. It looked well-worn, as if Jorie had carried it with her wherever she went, but still not as battered as the notebook that she'd spied on top of Jorie's bedside table. Maybe that notebook had been with Jorie for an even longer time.

  The first few pages held nothing but names — first names, last names, nicknames. Some of them had been crossed out, and finally, Jorie had circled the names Quinn O'Reilly and Sid Walker. Another page listed possible titles for the novel, with 'Song of Life' highlighted in yellow. Then came descriptions of hair colors, eye colors, build, and facial features. After that, Jorie had devoted a few pages to cat sayings. Griffin had to laugh when she saw the one right at the top: curiosity killed the cat.

  She turned the page and skimmed the information on big cats that she had given Jorie during their two meetings. There was nothing else in the little book.

  Griffin stared at the empty pages until her eyes began to burn. Jorie was hurt. She almost got killed. Her life has been disrupted. All of that... for what? Her throat tightened. It wasn't a total loss, though, her tenacious cat side reminded her. At least Jorie was finally starting to trust her.

  The thought made her feel even worse.

  Stop it. This is your job, your place in life. She shoved the wallet and the notebook into the bedside table and hurried into the bathroom. As she slid out of her clothes, her hand trailed over the side of her head. It was still a little tender if she pressed hard, but no longer painful. One more shift of shape would heal it completely.

  Her shower was much shorter than her Puwar half wanted. Just as she had written and sent off her report, she heard a knock on the door.