by Sam Burns
Worry clenched Fletcher’s gut. This was a bad idea. He shouldn’t be telling an outsider their secrets. It didn’t matter how much he already knew, or how nice and well-intentioned he seemed.
Aldric stirred. Danger?
No, it’s fine, Fletcher answered. He wondered if danger was the only thing Aldric thought about. Oak’s comments about fearful people replayed in his mind. It was hard for him to judge, given his state of terror for the last five days.
“Fletcher, it’s okay. I’m not going to tell Frank and Bob, I promise. I know you don’t know me, and that means nothing, but your secrets—your town’s secrets—they’re safe with me.” Conner cupped Fletcher’s face in his hands. “I like you. And your town seems kind of nice when everyone’s not glaring at me. The diner has the best carrot cake I’ve ever had.”
Fletcher leaned forward, resting his forehead against Conner’s. “You can’t know how much you scare me. I want to believe you’re a good guy and you’re not going to tell your friends about everything. But Oak and Max and me—your friends would kill us all without even stopping to consider it. And they’d murder any human, like my father, who got in the way.”
Conner’s lips pursed. He looked conflicted, but his shoulders slumped, and he sighed. “Yeah, they probably would. I don’t know how I can convince them to leave though.”
“He’s dead,” Fletcher said, as quiet as his voice would make the words. “White is dead. That’s why we’re sure he’s not in town and not coming back.”
Eyes wide, Conner opened and closed his mouth a few times. “You’re sure?” he finally whispered.
“Really sure.” Fletcher took a deep breath. He didn’t want to tell the truth, and he didn’t want to lie. When had everything gotten so hard? “He followed my friend Isla into town to steal a book from her. She was the first person he attacked. The last night he—” Fletcher paused in the middle of a sentence, out of breath and gasping.
Conner pulled away for a second, then drew him in, turning him so they were spooned together with Conner’s arms wrapped around him. It should have been a terrifying position, but somehow wasn’t. It was probably better that he didn’t have to look the man in the eye while describing White’s death. “He attacked someone over a book?”
“It was a magic book. Isla took it from a mage, and the mage sent White to take it back. The last night, he attacked Isla again, kidnapped her from the clinic. Almost killed my partner. When he came at me, I didn’t even think, I just pushed him away. But he’d started this fire, and it—I pushed him into it.” Fletcher had to take deep breaths to keep from gagging at the memory of White going up in flames, the taste of ashes filling his mouth.
Squeezing him so tight he could barely breathe, Conner buried his face in Fletcher’s neck. “That’s horrible, Fletcher. I’m so sorry.”
“I killed him.”
“From what you’re telling me, you defended yourself.” Conner pulled his face back and planted a tiny kiss on the edge of Fletcher’s jaw. “That must have been awful for you.”
Fletcher flipped over so he was facing the other man. He stared into Conner’s eyes. “You don’t think I’m a monster, even though I can turn into a fox, and I killed a man.”
“You killed a guy who was trying to murder you. And you’re a cop. It’s your job, in a way.” He cupped Fletcher’s jaw and stared into his eyes. “And that noise you made after you turned into a fox, Fletcher—I swear, it hurt my heart. You sounded so sad. Nothing like a monster.”
“I thought you were a killer. I thought you were going to hate me. Hunt me.”
“I’m not,” Conner answered, tone final and absolute. “I wouldn’t hurt you. You’re a good guy, and I like you. I’d really like to get to know you better. Not that me not murdering you hinges on that.”
Fletcher gave his chest a tiny shove but didn’t actually push away. “You’ve got a career to get back to. You can’t stay in Rowan Harbor forever,” he mumbled into Conner’s shirt.
“I own half the company. I can work from wherever I want. It’s not like I’m talking about buying a house or anything. Just maybe hanging around. Or visiting often if staying is too much.” He ran his fingers through Fletcher’s hair as he spoke. “Gary and Mom would be thrilled if me running off with my father’s old friends landed me dating someone instead of wandering around the country playing bounty hunter. Hell, dating a cop.”
With a smirk, Fletcher looked up at him again. “My reputation does play well for parents. Mrs. Akiyama once told me she wished Takao was gay, since then he could date a nice boy like me or Wade.”
Conner burst out laughing. “Oh my god, this town.”
“You like it.”
“I do.”
Fletcher took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “They take time to warm up to a person, but if you’re really the guy you say you are, they will.”
“Then I’ll have to stick around and give them reasons to trust me, won’t I?” Conner’s eyes still sparkled with amusement, but as always, he seemed sincere. Fletcher had never faced the possibility of someone doing something drastic—like visiting a state they didn’t even live in—for him. He thought he might like it. Conner’s gaze dipped to his lips, and Fletcher unconsciously licked them. “Would you bite me if I kissed you?”
“Is that a fox crack?” Fletcher asked, smirking. After a second, he let it fall. “No, I won’t bite. Hard.”
Conner leaned forward and pressed his lips to Fletcher’s, soft and gentle. It was what Fletcher expected, after all that concern and those big, doe-eyed looks. He didn’t push for more, didn’t try to possess or take charge, just leaned in and gave.
It was the best kiss Fletcher had ever been a part of. He almost followed when Conner drew away, but restrained himself. The man had come into town with Bob and Frank. It didn’t matter how attracted to him Fletcher was, he needed to take things slow, and Conner seemed to respect that even more than he did.
“I feel like I might be setting unreasonable expectations, what with letting you in my bed and kissing you before we even go on a date.” Fletcher swallowed hard and pulled back a few inches himself.
Conner shook his head. “No expectations. Just that. Then maybe that date. Lunch?”
“I can’t. I swear I’m not blowing you off, but even when I was planning to work today, I had a lunch appointment with Devon. The guy from the yarn shop?” It occurred to him that Conner might think he was dating Devon, but no. Conner didn’t even waver.
“Okay. Dinner? Or is that too desperate? Maybe I should say lunch tomorrow, or—”
Fletcher leaned back in and kissed him again, just as soft and sweet as the kiss Conner had given him. “Dinner is good. The Half Moon? At six?”
“The only restaurant in town at six. Done.” Conner bit his lip, then gave Fletcher the cutest tentative smile. “I’ll see you then.” He slid out of bed and started toward the door, then stopped and sighed.
“Car keys?”
He nodded and hung his head, leaning against the bedroom door frame like an embarrassed kid. “Car keys. I was gonna be so smooth, just making a date and getting out of your hair, but I had to go and get drunk last night and act like an idiot. Sorry about that whole debacle.”
“I’ve got to be honest, after shifting in front of you yesterday, it’s the least stressful result I can imagine.” Fletcher stood and stretched his arms over his head, yawning. “Besides, you stay the night at casa Lane, you might as well get the whole package and stay for the pitiful breakfast.”
“I’m guessing there’s no bacon involved?” Conner asked, but he didn’t seem put off, just amused.
Fletcher laughed. “Bacon. Please. It’s sugary breakfast cereal or Pop Tarts. The chocolate kind.”
Shoulders shaking, Conner buried his face in his hands. When he came back up, he had a huge grin. “What are you, twelve?”
“May—be,” Fletcher said, drawing the word out. Then he turned serious and shrugged. “I’m a mediocre cook,
and I can’t just go eat at my Dad’s every morning, so I eat a lot of cereal and frozen meals.”
“Sugary breakfast cereal it is. I have a rule against chocolate before noon. Like wine, only I don’t drink wine at all.”
Fletcher rubbed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes tight, pretending he was in pain. “I’m sorry, but if you don’t like my chocolate breakfast pastry, you can’t like me. Same if you don’t like Disney movies.”
“The cartoon ones?” Conner asked. The guy was taking him seriously. Awesome.
“That’s right, the cartoon ones. Problem?”
Conner shook his head. “Nope. I’m with you. Cartoons and breakfast cereal.”
“Oh man, I am twelve, aren’t I?”
This time Conner didn’t answer, just held out his hand. Fletcher took it, and they walked to the kitchen.
6
Fletcher Carries On
Fletcher hoped that Devon wouldn’t mind him arriving hours early. Devon was hard to bother; everything seemed to roll off his back and leave him with a smile on his face, but that didn’t mean Fletcher wanted to be the guy who tested him.
When he walked into the shop at ten a.m., Devon greeted him with apparent pleasure.
“Hey man, you’re early!” He stood and headed for the back, motioning for Fletcher to follow him. “You want some tea?”
“Sure,” Fletcher agreed. “Sorry I’m so much earlier than we planned.”
“No worries,” Devon called back. “Wade warned me things might have changed. I hope that’s okay of him.”
Fletcher made his way into the back room of the yarn shop and seated himself at the tiny employee table. “Yeah, it’s fine. I don’t expect you and Wade to keep secrets from each other on my behalf. Everyone knows everything in this town, anyway. They all probably know about the book, and that Conner slept at my place last night. I guess they’re making some assumptions that’re wrong, but there’s nothing I can do about that.”
Devon turned from the mugs he’d set on the counter, nodding. “Wish I could tell you otherwise, but nope. Everyone in town is worried about you because they think you’re sleeping with the guy.”
“Including you?”
Devon got this strange, faraway look in his eyes for a moment, then he shook his head. “I don’t think whether you’re sleeping with him is any of my business, but it doesn’t really matter if you are. The intention is there. You like him; he likes you. That puts both of you in danger, so the town is right to worry.”
Fletcher didn’t like the sound of that. “Puts both of us in danger? Not only me? Wait, he likes me?”
“Yeah, both of you. He spends more time with those bounty hunter guys than anyone. You didn’t realize he liked you?” Devon raised an eyebrow at that before turning back to the electric kettle.
“He told me he did, but it’s more reassuring to hear from you. You’re sure he likes me?” He felt pitiful, asking for magical confirmation that Conner liked him. It was like being back in middle school and writing “do you like me? y/n” notes.
Devon was quiet for a while, pouring water into the mugs. He finally turned to bring them to the table and sat across from Fletcher. “I am sure he likes you. That doesn’t mean he won’t do anything that puts you in danger. What if he tells his friends you’re a shape-shifter, assuming that they’re good guys deep down and won’t hurt you if he vouches for you? And whatever they do to you, what do you think they’d do to one of their own who sided with a shape-shifter?”
Fletcher shuddered at the idea of Bob knowing anything about him, much less his possible relationship with Conner. He didn’t know the other guy, and maybe it was rude to make assumptions, but from his minimal knowledge, he figured Frank was more like Bob than like Conner. “I told Conner that Bob was one of the men who killed my mom. I’m pretty sure he believed me.”
“Wow. That’s kind of a big deal for both of you.” Devon sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Is he planning on sticking around?”
“He implied that he was. I know it’s not a real answer, but I think it’s better that way. It would be weird if he moved to Rowan Harbor because he likes me and wants to date me, wouldn’t it?” Fletcher hadn’t been thinking about it over and over until his eyes crossed at all. Okay, maybe a little. That might have been why he gave up after Conner left and came down to the yarn shop early.
A timer made a noise—Fletcher hadn’t even noticed Devon setting the thing—and Devon pulled the strainers out of the tea and reached for the honey. He was quiet while he doctored Fletcher’s tea, then he sat back again and stared at his own mug. “My perception of what’s weird in relationships have been thrown off by moving here and finding out everyone thinks I’m going to marry Wade because of static shock. If you’d told me in October that I’d be here, practically living with a guy by January? I’d have laughed at you. And maybe cried, because it seemed so impossible that I’d ever be in a relationship.”
Fletcher hummed and took a drink of his tea. He understood Devon’s resistance to the idea of having a soul mate. If he’d had people he hardly knew whispering about his future like it was set in stone, he’d have left Rowan Harbor before even unpacking. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get married someday, but that was something he wanted to decide for himself.
“Isla tells me you’re practicing control with Oak,” Devon said, changing the subject.
“Yeah, they think it might help me with the book thing.” Fletcher set the tea mug down and leaned his elbow on the table. “The situation has gotten more complicated though.” He hadn’t intended to tell anyone about Aldric, but telling Devon things always seemed like a good idea. Even if Devon didn’t know how to fix something, he always made you feel better.
Devon’s face was the picture of polite, neutral curiosity. Fletcher was a little worried that, after Isla telling them about the book being evil, and the fact that it had been locked up in the restricted room in the library, everyone was going to assume he was being tricked by Aldric, who must be secretly evil. Or maybe he was worried Aldric was evil.
“The book was a person.” He paused, uncertain, pulling his hands into his lap and fidgeting. “Did we know that?”
“No, but that makes sense. I mean, we know the magic in objects like that comes from magical people or creatures. Isla said the book talked to her, which implies it has a human consciousness.” He stopped and shuddered, then looked back up at Fletcher, sharp eyes understanding. “It’s been talking to you. In English.”
Fletcher nodded. “His name is—was?—Aldric. He’s scared all the time. He says he was a scribe.”
“But he must have been a witch. And everyone kept saying it was an evil book. And the way it whispered to Isla—” Devon broke off, frowning. He started again, stating the items as facts instead of speculations. “Aldric was a scribe, whose consciousness is trapped in a book. He’s learned English because you touched his mind, and it’s your language. He was a witch. He’s—” Devon didn’t pause so much as he seemed to try half a dozen different words and then dismiss them. His eyes flared silver-gray as he finally spoke. “Scared, and sorry, and so, so tired.”
Another tendril of worry uncoiled in Fletcher. Whether Aldric had been telling him the whole truth, he’d been telling some of the truth. He’d been a scribe, and his fear was real, not a play to gain sympathy. Sorry was a little strange. He wondered what Aldric had to be sorry for. “Thanks. I mean, I didn’t come down just to get you to—”
Devon waved him off, then reached up to rub his eyes. “You know as well as I do that would be a waste of time. I don’t have enough control for on-demand readings, or I’d try to use it to tell us what to do next. It’s another wild card. When I told Gran what was happening, she said nothing like that had ever happened to her. That she could tell when someone was lying, but she couldn’t pull random truth out of nowhere.” He reached down and wrapped his hands around his mug. The fingernails were tinged purple blue, like his hands w
ere cold.
“Is it stressful?” Fletcher asked.
Devon shrugged. “It’s mostly stressful that I could have a useful ability, but I don’t have any control, so it’s worse than useless sometimes. I mean, I can tell you that your scribe is tired and sorry. Wow, right?”
“No. I mean yes? That was important. I was worried I was being an idiot and Aldric was lying to me. It’s inconvenient that you can’t control it, but you told me what I needed to hear to stop freaking out. Besides, I can’t talk about being unable to control my abilities.” He wanted to reach out and take Devon’s hand, which was weird and probably inappropriate, so he squashed the urge.
“But you’re working with Oak,” Devon said, bringing them back around to the previous conversation. “Oak is a good teacher. They have infinite patience.”
Fletcher chuckled at that. “You should have seen them with Isla. They didn’t even blink at her when she started fidgeting ten seconds into trying to meditate.”
“Isla, bad at meditation,” Devon said. After a moment, he pursed his lips and nodded. “You know, it makes sense. It’s supposed to be about letting go, and Isla likes being in control of everything. Can’t blame her for liking to retain control. How about you?”
“I’d ask which thing you meant, but I guess it’s obvious that I have control of nothing, including myself.” Fletcher grinned at Devon when he opened his mouth to protest. “I don’t think I’m bad at meditating. I’m no Oak, or any kind of prodigy, but it seems to be helping. I shifted yesterday, and it was so fast I almost fell on my ass.”
“I’m not sure that’s good,” Devon said. “Or maybe we just have a different definition of good. I tend to think it means not falling down.”
“That’s because you’re prone to falling down and breaking yourself,” Fletcher pointed out, and Devon glared daggers at him, but only for a second before he smiled sheepishly and shrugged. “If we can get Aldric back out of me and into something else, I might keep trying.”
