by Lisa Ladew
“Hey,” Rogue said, softly, not wanting to startle him. “There’s a homeless shelter about two miles from here.”
His eyes flew from the ground to her face, like he’d been hoping she wouldn’t talk to him, but when she did, everything had changed for him. “Homeless… shelter?” he’d said, like he had no idea what such a thing would even be.
“Yeah, you can warm up there, they’ll feed you. Maybe even let you sleep there. Give you some shoes.”
He looked from her face to his bare feet, then back again. “Will there be, ah, lawmen at the establishment?”
His voice was as small as his body, and he spoke with rigidness and an accent she couldn’t place. “Lawmen?”
The small man cleared his throat, looking around furtively, and Rogue’s heart went out to him. No one should have to sleep in the woods on a cold night.
“Yes, well, that is to say, a Sheriff. Will there be a sheriff at the establishment?”
Ah, so he’d broken some law and didn’t want to get caught. She took him in from head to toe, unable to decide what exactly he might have done. He looked weak as a kitten and half-starved. “No, probably not, unless there’s a fight or something.”
He’d tried to smile then, and bow at the waist, even though he was sitting down. “Thank you, Mistress, for your kindness. I shall go directly.”
Rogue pursed her lips. He was lying to her. And she was about to do something stupid. But she would never forgive herself if she didn’t. Besides, something about the man called to her, spoke directly to her, like a voice of a trusted friend whispering in her ear. Her need to know his story eclipsed anything else. “Look, I’ve got a change of clothes that will fit you at my place. And some leftover pizza. Why don’t you come home with me? It’s just gonna get colder tonight.”
“Oh no, Mistress. That is perfectly alright. I’ll be fine.” But his voice broke when he said it, and when she looked closer, the bottoms of his feet were torn up, the skin curled and weeping around open sores, like he’d been walking over sharp rocks for hours.
She bent and hoisted him under his elbow. “Sorry, Pops, but I’m not leaving you out here to get turned into a pops-icle. Let’s go, alley-oop. All I’ve got is cold deep-dish and Pepsi, but the place is warm and you’ll be off your feet.”
He’d cried then, but she hadn’t let it sway her. He’d cried again after she fed him and clothed him, but she could understand that, especially if he’d been homeless as long as he looked like he had.
Things hadn’t gotten too weird for a few weeks.
Chapter 14
Back in Serenity, speeding down the rural route in the work truck he’d signed out, sunshine spreading across the fields that surrounded them, Mac huffed out a breath so Bruin would know he was irritated, while Bruin craned his neck theatrically, so Mac would know he hadn’t given up hope of finding The Honey Grounds. They’d left Chicago a few hours before, traveled the entire way in silence, and Mac wasn’t any closer to deciding how he felt about what they’d found.
If he concentrated, he could still recall the tangy scent of the female who already had his heart. If her personality and her looks were anything like her citrus-y smell and her lovely sharp voice, he would be a goner.
He gritted his teeth. He was so over ready to be a goner for his mate. So why couldn’t he find her? The close calls were starting to eat at him, making his body a live wire, a tense block of muscles and tissue that wanted direction, purpose. Wanted a warm female body to point toward, to press into.
Bruin rolled his window down and stuck his head out, looking so much like a dog excited to be going for a ride that Mac had to laugh. Bruin pulled his head back in, his expression excited. “I smell it.”
“You smell what? All I see is trees and farmhouses.”
“Honey. I smell honey.”
“Just cuz the place is called The Honey House doesn’t mean it smells like honey.”
Bruin stuck his head back out the window, then back in again, not deterred at all. “We’re getting close, I know it.”
Mac nodded dryly. “Ok, Detective Shnoz, I’ll take your-” But on their right, a clearing opened up showing a gravel parking area and a quaint red building, the large sign with letters big enough to read from the road declaring it to be, The Honey Depot.
Mac swung in immediately. “Well, what do you know. I’m not going to starve to death after all.”
A wide smile crossed Bruin’s face as he scrabbled for his door handle, not even waiting for the truck to stop before he jumped out, hitting the ground at a roll, then popping up and brushing the gravel out of his hair like he meant to do that.
“Motherfuck,” Mac muttered, pulling into a stall and jumping out himself, running to catch up with the goofy bear.
The parking lot was mostly empty, only three other cars. Mac wondered how they got any business at all this far out from Serenity, unless it came from the farmers and the neighboring towns.
A woman stood off to the right of the restaurant, trying to drape a tarp over a sign that looked just like the one on the restaurant, but this one said The Beehive. Every time she pulled on one corner of the tarp, it slid off the other corner because it was so long. Bruin ran over to help her. Mac rolled his eyes and followed.
The woman looked to be in her fifties, dressed like a hippie straight out of some Woodstock picture. White, poofy shirt, long brown skirt, macramé hair band around her forehead, long brown hair parted down the middle. Mac threw a look over his shoulder at the front door, wondering if it was a theme restaurant.
Bruin grabbed the tarp on one end and tucked it around the sign, while Mac hovered over the middle of the long piece of heavy wood. If she wanted it wrapped all the way around, he would lift.
The woman stood straight and wiped her hands on her skirt, then favored them each with a smile. “Thank you, boys, it’s good to see young men willing to lend a hand. Wrap it tight if you don’t mind. My daughter changes the name of the restaurant so often, I never know if she’ll want to go back to an old version, so I keep them all wrapped and stacked right here.”
Mac nodded, then took charge, telling Bruin what to do and how to do it. Bruin ran around the sign, following Mac’s orders like an Australian Shepherd puppy learning to herd cattle, thrilled to be put to good use. Within a few moments, they had the sign wrapped up tight and leaning against the other ones, all the creases facing down so rain wouldn’t get in.
The woman watched them, hands on her hips, then nodded once and held out her hand to each of them. “Right good job there. I’m Lucinda, this here’s half my place, and the other half belongs to my daughter. You boys single?”
Mac snorted out a laugh and shook his head no, surprising himself. “Nah, I’m not, but the big guy here is.”
Lucinda had already shaken Mac’s hand and was working on Bruin’s, so she pulled him in close and looked him up and down. At one point, Mac swore she even smelled him. She stood on her tiptoes, putting her hands on Bruin’s shoulders to pull him down to her, then whispered something in his ear.
Bruin looked at her, surprised, then shook his head. “No ma’am, I’m not.”
Lucinda stepped away and pouted. “That’s too bad. Willow would love you. You’re just her type.” She shook it off. “You boys come to eat?”
Bruin nodded emphatically.
“You tell the waitress, Pam’s her name, that I said you could have free desert. Anything you want. The blueberry pie is the best.”
“Thank you!” Bruin practically sprinted up the stairs to the wide porch that surrounded the building.
Mac nodded his thanks and followed his friend, grabbing the door that Bruin yanked open, allowing the scents of buttered eggs, salty bacon, and something sweeter to spill out.
Mac gave the place the once over and grudgingly approved. Neat as a pin, lots of rusty red checkerboard patterns, some farm-type accessories on the walls like antique plows and tools, flowers everywhere, and an open, airy layout. Pleasant. Good enou
gh for brunch, certainly.
Until he ran into Bruin’s back with a thud. He bounced off and circled past the male, who had stopped dead in the middle of the restaurant, his nose pointed up. Mac edged past a withered old couple who were only picking at their lunches at the closest table, and got in front of Bruin, giving him the once-over. “What in the hell, B?” he asked. “We eating or wh-?”
He cut off when he heard the noise coming from Bruin’s chest, like a rough-idling chainsaw engine. Mac frowned and smacked his friend a good one on the arm. “Quit it.”
Bruin ignored him, turning in a circle, his eyes everywhere, his nostrils flaring. When he faced Mac again, Mac stepped in a little closer, trying to figure out what that fucking noise was. And then he knew.
“You’re purring. Aww, isn’t that cute.” His voice turned hard. “You big pussy-”
The woman at the table next to him swatted him with her pocketbook. Mac jumped and shielded himself with his arms. “Pussycat, lady! Geez!” He grabbed his friend by the elbow and hauled him across the room, muttering, “Perv,” at Mother Nature behind him, who was still yielding her pocketbook like a shield.
Bruin moved, although not as fast as Mac wanted him to, dragging his feet, still looking everywhere at once. The door opened and a few more people spilled into the restaurant. Mac pulled Bruin to the far side where there was a bar, with cheery stools in front of it.
He pushed Bruin into the stool closest to a retaining wall, shaking his head at the purring still coming from his chest. “Sit, kitty, shut that stupid noise off and I’ll order you a saucer of milk.”
Bruin sat obediently and Mac shoved a menu at him, waiting for the purring to stop. It didn’t. Bruin took the menu, but swiveled in his chair, not paying Mac any attention.
Mac sat next to him, then snapped his fingers in front of Bruin’s face. “What is going on, Garfield? Don’t make me start calling you cat names, that’s just gonna piss me off.”
Bruin finally looked at him, the lawnmower still racing in his chest. “I don’t know, I can’t help it, I just-” He looked around one more time, then leaned in close. “Do you smell that?”
“Yeah, I smell a lot of things. Greasy spoon shit. We’re in a freaking restaurant.”
Bruin raised his head again and took a big sniff. “No, the honey smell. It’s like sunflower honey from the driest, hottest summer imaginable, when the bees had to fly no more than thirty feet to get it, the first rows of combs, when the nectar was the sweetest.”
Mac frowned. “Sunflower honey? Never heard of it.”
Bruin took another big sniff, then thumped his hand on his chest, his voice reverent. “It’s so pure. Nothing gets into the nectar because no one uses pesticides on sunflowers, and the long stem traps soil pollutants.” He took another monster sniff, the noise from his chest now so loud that a man walking by gave them a funny look. Bruin lowered his head and leaned in close to Mac. “I can’t stop it.”
Mac frowned. He was hungry. But damned if he’d have an appetite with Colonel Purr turned up to high next to him. “Is this… normal?”
Bruin shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never heard any bearen do it before.” His face darkened with a realization, while his chest kept vibrating. “Except for the cubs. They do it when they nurse, or so I’ve heard. But it’s been so long since I’ve seen a cub-”
Mac cut off that line of conversation before his sensitive friend could go all sad on him. “Lemme try something.” He made a fist and punched Bruin hard in the chest, only interrupting the noise for a moment. “Hey, it almost worked.” He punched him again, harder, then stood up so he could get a better angle, really wailing on Bruin. The noise stopped.
Mac sat back down. Nice. Smart idea he’d had. He looked at Bruin waiting for Bruin to compliment him, but the male was only running his hands over his face.
“You still smell it?” Mac said.
Bruin nodded stiffly, his nostrils waving like flags in a stiff breeze.
A waitress came out from the kitchen carrying three plates. She took them to a table, then came back to Mac and Bruin, her pen poised over her pad, her sharp face swinging back and forth between them. “What’ll you boys have?”
“What’s good?” Mac asked.
“Reuben sandwich is our signature. All our breakfast is amazing. Most of the pies are great.”
Mac looked up and down the menu. “Gimme two Reubens and…” he ran his finger down the desert menu. He looked up. “The skillet chocolate chip cookie.”
The waitress opened her eyes wide and shook her head an inch to the right, then left, her eyes speaking volumes while she said nothing at all.
“That good, huh? Ok, give me a slice of pie instead, any kind. Bring it with the food.”
She wrote it down and turned to Bruin. He closed his menu. “I’ll have a blueberry pie.”
“One slice blueberry,” she said, writing in her notebook. “Anything else?”
“Not a slice. The whole pie.”
The waitress raised her eyebrows and assessed him before deciding he meant it. “Ok, then.” She disappeared.
Mac looked behind him at the jingle of the bell over the door ringing again. The lunch crowd was filling the place up. Lucinda came in behind them and headed for the kitchen. Mac leaned over to talk softly to B. “What did Lucinda ask you outside?”
“She wanted to know if I was an angel.”
Mac frowned. What a strange question. But then, she seemed like a strange lady. He turned in his chair to people-watch. “Why were you purring?”
Bruin rubbed his chest like it hurt. “No clue,” he said, and Mac checked him out. He seemed off.
Their food came and they dug in. The waitress had been right. Reuben had been a good choice, but, for some reason, there was a tin of honey on the side, like for dipping. He ignored it, till he felt Bruin’s eyes on it, so he handed it over.
Bruin took it to his nose, sniffing delicately. “Basswood honey. Great choice.” He poured it over his pie, using his fork to assist.
Mac couldn’t watch. He focused on his own food, getting most of the way through the first sandwich before his phone went off. He left it in his pocket for a second, but then another text came in, and another and another. Not a good sign. He fished it out, read the messages that were still streaming in like a live news feed, then hit Bruin on the shoulder. “We gotta haul ass. There’s a bomb threat at the station.”
Bruin stood up, cradling his pie, shoving the last few bites in his mouth and swallowing whole, while Mac threw some bills on the counter. Good thing they’d gotten to eat. Who knew when they’d get another chance.
Damn shame the rut was scheduled for that evening at the Watson building. Unless this thing was cleared up fast, there would be a bunch of unhappy females milling around the big space with nothing to do but each other.
Chapter 15
Still musing about the small quiet man who’d become such a strange fixture in her life, Rogue turned into the parking garage where she had another car, making the switch automatically, her senses telling her there was no need, no one was following her, but habit pushing her forward.
After about three days of solid sleep in her guestroom, the old guy had been a new man, although he had already looked older. She learned his name was Boeson, which she’d shortened to Boe. She’d invited him to stay for a week, just till he’d gotten back on his feet, and he’d agreed shyly. She’d had to show him how to use everything, the toilet, the fridge, the TV-which he’d backed away from like he was seeing a ghost-the stove, which she barely knew how to use herself, and even simple things, like books, had seemed to amaze him. He spent hours in her library every day, reading book after book after book. Old Westerns were his favorite. Horror, he wouldn’t even touch after reading a chapter or two. Rogue wasn’t a reader, but her sister had loved books from an early age, so Rogue kept the library stocked for her, you know, just in case she ever returned to Serenity.
Rogue had a habit of stopping
at Serenity garage sales, buying every box of books they had, then bringing them to her home and arranging them by color and size. Boe had taken three days and rearranged them by type after asking if it was ok, whistling and humming to himself the entire time. They didn’t look like art anymore when he was done, but as she stared at the packed shelves built into the walls, she realized Amaranth would probably like them better this way. Their haphazard peaks and valleys from bigger to smaller book, their colors scattered like rainbows playing over the carpet from a crystal on a string in front of a window, set to swinging and twirling by a child.
Boe’s quiet, unobtrusive, non-judgmental companionship pleased both of them, and a week had somehow turned into however long he wanted to stay.
But the weird part about Boe, and the part that was pertinent to her werewolf problem, was when he’d started having nightmares.
Rogue sat straight up in bed. What had woken her?
It came again. A shrieking, sobbing cry from somewhere else in the house. “I’ve forgotten how! My animal has deserted me! The Father has taken my very nature and now I am bereft.”
Rogue shot out of bed and ran down the hall in her sleep clothes, booty shorts and a tank top. She found Boe standing near the bathroom in his pajamas, one hand on the wall, seeming to convulse. She tried to speak to him, but he ignored her, then fell on the floor and moved forward a bit, as if he were trying to crawl, or, more eerily, trying to walk on all fours and not being able to.
“No,” he huffed out, then collapsed on his side.
Rogue dropped to her knees next to him. “Boe. Boe, you’re ok. Talk to me.”
He had, the words coming in a streaming rush, his eyes still closed. “I am not ok. I am lost. Swirling down the nothingness. Half a foxen.”
She frowned at the word, but it was not the first strange thing he’d said that she didn’t understand.
He went on. “I might as well throw myself on the mercy of the wolves. They may kill me, but any knowledge they can glean from my hide could redeem me in some small manner.”
