by Holley Trent
“Granada in Spain, you mean?”
He perched on the tiled wall of the fountain and stirred the warm, bubbling water with his hand. He kept his gaze on the variegated blue tiles and not on her. She wasn’t a Coyote. He couldn’t alpha-stare her into talking or complying.
“Yes,” she said.
“Hmm.”
Knowing what he did of history, he could make some inferences about her, but not without knowing when she’d been there. He didn’t want to make guesses. He needed facts and was going to have to adjust his strategy in order to get them. He didn’t just want to understand her so he could maneuver her into behaving the way he needed her to so he could efficiently run the pack. He wanted to understand her because someone needed to for her own good. It wasn’t right that she was so alone. He didn’t like that. Didn’t sit right with him.
“Here.” He patted the space beside him and scooted over so she didn’t have to sit in the wet spot. “Sit down. I don’t bite, and I don’t have any germs except the usual Coyote stuff.”
She breathed out a quiet little huff. “The usual Coyote stuff could have me howling at the moon in a month.”
“You’re not quite human, so I don’t know if that’s true.”
“I don’t see how it wouldn’t be. As far as I know, I’m not immune to shapeshifter infection.” After staring at the offered seat for long enough that he started doubting she’d take it, she moved cautiously toward it. She didn’t sit until he moved over a bit more.
He was trying to be conscious of her need for space, but his canine instincts impelled him closer to the people he considered his. The human part of his brain didn’t want to unpack what that meant. He was generally better at ignoring people and things that sought to make him miserable.
She’s not trying to make me miserable, though.
So much about Willa seemed to be reflex. If they were going to get past their obstacles, he was, unfortunately, going to need to break those habits. She’d have to look to him for support, but he could be generous when he wanted to be.
“I’m not a true immortal. I’m not bulletproof, just more resistant to some things. I even manage to pick up a pretty bad cold from the kids at least once every year,” she said. “If that’s not compelling evidence I don’t have any magic, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“All the same, as curious as I am to see what would happen, I don’t plan on biting or clawing you. No offense, but I don’t think you’d make much of a Coyote.”
“Thanks a lot,” she said dourly.
He chuckled. “Really, I didn’t mean it as an insult. I just can’t picture it. When Diana and I were kids, sometimes we used to hang out at the mall with our mom before the divorce and people-watch.”
Willa turned her knees into the gap between them and nodded for him to continue.
Just a bit more, and they’d be touching.
You can come closer.
He could be still until she did. He didn’t want her to think he’d be upset by a casual bump.
“Mom would point to random strangers,” he said, “and we’d all guess what kind of shifters they’d be if they had the magic. We almost never agreed, but it was fun, and I guess I still do it on occasion when I’ve got nothing else on my mind.”
“What kind of shifter do you think I’d be if I were one, then?” She was sitting primly, fingers entwined atop the knees she had pressed tightly together. He could imagine her as the governess she’d once been in all those billowing skirts and proper bonnets that covered all her hair except a few wisps.
Aside from the occasional donning of unfashionable oversized cardigans, she usually struck him as a woman out of her time. The modern era didn’t suit her Puritanism, but he wasn’t entirely sure he’d change that about her. She was a rare breath of innocence in a jaded world.
He shook his head.
She frowned prettily, the tiny creases at the corners of her eyes deepening. “That bad? What is it? Some kind of man-eating snake shifter?”
“Not at all. I can’t picture you as any kind of shifter. Not feline, canine, ursine, or any other thing.”
She’d get eaten up. She probably wouldn’t even raise a paw in self-defense if she had to. Instead, she’d stand frozen and wait for the attack to pass. More than likely, she’d be what some shifter groups called an omega. Bottom of the pack. Pain in the alpha’s ass.
“How did you find this place?” she asked at the same time he asked, “How did this Coyote mess get so out of hand?”
She started to shut down immediately. He was starting to recognize the signs. The tightening of her lips. The immediate flush of her cheeks. The way her gaze flitted as though she was seeking an exit. The sharp spike of hormones that told a predator like him She’s gonna run.
He didn’t want her to run. The very idea of her taking off soured his belly and made his palms sweat.
Just stay put, woman.
He pinched up a dangling thread from the hem of her polo shirt and said, “I know pretty much this whole town at Coyote eye-level. I patrol at night sometimes to make sure none of the pack is out when it shouldn’t be. Kenny and Lance do the same thing. We take shifts. When I’m on four legs, I’m bolder about walking into yards and through open gates. Discover lots of stuff that way.” He flicked the thread onto the ground and immediately noticed another piece of string dangling. He reached for it, only to freeze because upon closer inspection, he saw that thread was the only thing holding the hem together. A few little holes in the fabric hinted that the shirt had been put through its paces, washed and dried and worn probably dozens of times.
School apparel probably made up the bulk of her wardrobe. He rarely saw her in anything else. He wondered what she’d look like in anything else. A tank top or a flannel shirt, or even a sundress.
Or maybe especially a sundress. With her golden skin and lithe frame, she’d probably look like some kind of nymph—some ethereal thing that wasn’t really there, but left a lasting mark on his imagination all the same.
“You’re going to give me a complex if you keep staring at my shirt like that,” she said softly.
Grimacing, he tucked the string under and made a mental note to find out if he could order more of those shirts for her. “I’ve got lots of little niches like this I go to,” he said. “I file them away in memory for the next time I’m on two legs and need someplace to sit and contemplate.”
“As long as I’ve been here,” she said quietly, “I’ve never stepped foot into this courtyard. I didn’t know what was back here.”
“Not much for exploring?”
“It’s not that. I just . . . avoid churches and missions now. They remind me of things I’d prefer not to remember.”
“You wanna leave? If I’d known, I wouldn’t have brought you here.” He would never have guessed that she’d be bothered. Churches were spiritual sanctuaries for a lot of people. There were traps everywhere, and he didn’t even know what they looked like so he could avoid them.
Her gaze tracked up to the always-silent bell again, and she canted her head and took a deep breath. “No. It’s . . . fine. I suppose, as long as I’m not alone. Distract me. Tell me something that isn’t about a church. Tell me about the other places you go.”
He could do that. Talking was one of his best things. “Well, let’s see.” He stirred the fountain water again and gave a tiny floating leaf a flick toward the filter. “Sometimes I hang out around the airport. Some of the locals fly drones out there at night after everything’s shut down. I sit in the shadows and watch them practice maneuvers. Or I’ll go out to the drive-in.”
“The drive-in?” She scrunched her nose. “That’s been closed since the seventies. Trust me. I was here.”
“Yeah, I know.” He bobbed his eyebrows at her, stifling a laugh at his imagined construction of her in polyester bellbottoms and crocheted vests. “Actually been thinking about buying it and seeing what it’d take to get it functioning again. I doubt it’d be profitable,
but at least it’d be something to do around here. There isn’t a movie theater within an hour’s drive.”
She perked up at that, spine straightening and enthusiastic gaze falling to his face. “People might actually like you if you did that.”
“Oh, hush.”
“I mean it. It’d be a boon for the local economy. You’d be offering jobs for some of the young people in town, an entertainment opportunity that doesn’t revolve around alcohol, and a reason for the folks out on those remote ranches to make trips into town to spend their money.”
“You’re talking to me in the language of capitalism. Tell me more.”
She covered her grin with her hand until it passed.
He wished she wouldn’t. When she smiled, he could almost convince himself that he wasn’t completely irredeemable.
“Seems like a simple prospect to me,” she said, “but I suppose I know Maria a little better than you do. I think you’ll make your money back, and then some, within a year even if you do have to replace the equipment out there and install a new concession stand and restrooms.”
“Hmm.” The opportunity was worth further looking into, even if he wouldn’t be sticking around for long. The idea of leaving so soon forced a wave of sourness up his throat. He rubbed his Adam’s apple. Swallowed. “Maybe I’ll shoot Noelle a message and see if she knows who the owner is.”
“I’d do it fast if you’re really interested. With that new distribution center getting built up, lots of prospectors are going to start edging into town scouting for locations for condo developments.”
“Yeah, I know how it goes. Big business comes into town, and then a bunch more follow it trying to get in before the boom. Office parks and strip malls are going to start sprouting up all over the damn place.”
Willa shuddered with apparent disgust. “That’ll ruin the vibe of the town. I wonder if the local government has given any thought to controlling the sprawl before it happens.”
“Could probably bring it up in a town council meeting. I know of other incorporated places that enacted rules about what could be built within the town limits and what it had to look like. Seems like Maria could vote to do something proactively.”
“Someone should go talk about it so it’s at least on record. The mayor is too busy wooing the online superstore’s new facility to think far ahead about what the population influx will do to the town.”
“Why don’t you bring it up?”
Willa shook her head hard and rubbed her thumb against the fountain’s tile rim. “I don’t do that. I don’t . . . do public speaking.”
“Don’t want to be recorded?”
“That’s only a small part of the issue. Yes, I try to keep myself off recorded media as much as I can. I don’t even like having my picture taken for the school yearbook, but I’ve got an agreement with the photographer. My photo is always a little bit blurry, and I always decline to have it retaken when the yearbook advisor asks. I don’t like public speaking for the same reason I never endeavored to become a solo artist. I’ve always played in ensembles or in private.”
“You’ve got stage fright.”
The line between her brows deepened. She added her other thumb to rubbing the tile. It had some sort of shiny blue glass embedded in it. Hard to ignore, and probably hard to stop fondling. “I don’t know if that’s an aggressive enough diagnosis. As long as I feel like I can hide in a crowd of others, I do okay. Nobody’s looking at me.”
He found that hard to believe. Maybe it had been true for him before when he hadn’t known how to look at her, though. She tried to make herself inconspicuous and androgynous, but anyone who gave her the time she deserved wouldn’t be able to look at anyone but her. She didn’t need colorful plumage or a loud voice for him to pay attention to her lately. The mystery of her was just too compelling to ignore.
“If I know everyone in the room, I’m fine.” She stopped rubbing the tile and twined her fingers atop her lap again. “I think I have an unhealthy fear of rejection. I’m terrified that people will tell me no to things that don’t even matter, and consuming a performance or listening to a speech provide the ultimate venues or judgment. They reject you with their sour expressions, or their scoffs, or by fiddling nonstop with their phones instead of looking at you. They’re saying no, and that you’re not good enough, and that hurts me more than it should. I . . . have no idea why I’m telling you this.”
She stood and started to pace by a statue of the elderly monk who’d founded the mission.
Just before she’d walked away, he’d smelled that spike of adrenaline and cold sweat again. There was no good reason for her to be afraid of talking to him, so he followed her, took her hand, and guided her back to the fountain.
“I’m not judging you, Willa.” He didn’t want to let go of her hands—not until they stopped shaking. “I’m not telling you no. You can tell me anything you want. I’m not here to critique you.”
“Did you know that I had to have Noelle call you to ask for referrals for alphas because I couldn’t do it myself?”
“I hadn’t thought about it. Maybe because Kenny makes calls for me all the time.”
“That’s because you’re busy. Me?” She shrugged, gaze flitting up to the bell again. “I can make time for a phone call, but I have to work up the nerve. My hands get all sweaty, my throat closes up, and my stomach . . . ” She pulled her hands out of his and clasped them over her gut. “You must think I’m an imbecile.”
“No, I absolutely don’t.”
Knowing how uncomfortable social interactions and confrontation made her actually helped him understand how the Coyote pack had gotten to be the way it was. He couldn’t blame her completely—there was plenty of blame due to the previous alphas—but if she’d been able to care less about how people perceived her, she would have been better able to crack the whip.
Her shoulders relaxed down from her ears. The hand nearest him inched down her thigh toward the seam between their bodies, stopping just short of touching him.
He was as still as the monk statue as she straightened her fingers as if to reach, but she withdrew without completing the action.
“You can touch me if you want,” he said.
“I don’t want to,” she whispered. “And I know I shouldn’t, anyway. You’re . . . someone’s.”
He grimaced. He never thought of that someone until he was reminded that he should, and guilt settled heavily into his gut like a too-rich dessert.
“But I’m calmer when I do,” she said. “I guess it’s that dominant magic of yours.”
“My touch calms you, and so your knee-jerk decision is to avoid it? Sweetheart, that’s some of the most self-sabotaging shit I’ve ever heard of.”
“If I touch you, then what?”
“Then you’ll feel better.”
“And you’ll gloat.”
“What the hell for?” Frustrated, he threw his hands up. “And to who, for Pete’s sake? You treat me more like an STI you don’t want to admit you have than like someone who’s trying to work with you and make things better for you.”
“I can’t touch you.”
“Yes you can. I dare you to, and so you’ll do it. You’ll do it because you don’t want to let a cocky asshole like me think he’s won.” He was manipulating her in the kindest way he knew how, and he didn’t see where he had a choice. She wasn’t making the right leaps of logic, so of course he had to help her.
She gave her head the slightest shake, but he saw that her hand was edging closer, her teeth pressed into the tender flesh of her bottom lip as though the bare touch of his hand was the most grueling ordeal she’d undergone in her countless years.
“Bet you won’t do it,” he taunted. It was mean, but if dirty tricks got the job done, he’d use whatever ideas he had in his arsenal.
“You’re insufferable,” she murmured.
“Probably. Diana seems to think so, but she follows me around, anyway. I wonder what that means.”
&nb
sp; “If I liked my brothers at all, maybe I’d follow them around, too.”
“You don’t like them?”
“They’re not . . . ” Her fingertips hovered just over the back of his palm, exuding the warmth he was coming to expect from her. Of course she was shivering all the time if she was putting off heat like that. “They’re not like me,” she finished, canting her head to the left and looking up once again at the bell.
He had to ask. The curiosity was eating him up. “You seeing something I’m not? Hints of djinn again?”
“No.” The creases in her forehead deepened and nose scrunched as she straightened her head, then shook it. “I keep worrying now that it’ll ring.”
“Can’t. Honestly, I don’t even think it has a clapper.”
“How do you know that?”
Keeping his one hand near hers, he pointed toward the church’s east wall with the other. “Placard there. Says the bell hasn’t worked since 1974. There’s a fund that parishioners can contribute to so they can get it fixed.”
“I hope they’ll never raise enough.”
“Why not?”
“I . . . ” She tapped the back of his hand as though he were no more living or sentient than an ATM machine screen.
A baby step, though. He didn’t bite. Wouldn’t snap. His more primal urges were generally stirred by other predators, not by the sorts of beings that were more comfortable when they stayed hidden—creatures who’d flee rather than attack when their hiding places were discovered.
“There were bells,” she said quietly, mysteriously. She curled her fingers away from his hand, but left them hovering over the back of it. “Every time I heard the bells, they came back. Almost hourly for two days. They tried to break me, and I guess they did. Maybe I was broken long before they got me.”
“Who, Willa?”
She gave him that look again as though she’d forgotten he was there and that she’d only been talking to herself.
“Tell me who. Tell me something.”
He didn’t think she would tell him. She was always so good at putting the cork in and stoppering her words just before he found out anything remotely helpful, but then she dropped her hand onto his.
