by Amy Star
I think I made the right choice, he wanted to confide in Chris, as he walked into the kitchen, feeling rejuvenated from his experience with the mysterious girl. He was speechless when he opened the door and saw her stooped in front of the makeshift larder. She was barefoot and her toes were craned as she squatted, peering into their supply of canned fruit. She had a spoon in her mouth. Her eyes widened, like a deer caught in the headlights, and he realized she was only half-dressed. The black thong she had had on last night did little to cover the smooth pale length of her thighs, or the seductive angle of her buttocks, which folded out from her tight back. She had on a short green undershirt but it was loose enough that as she stretched he could see the rippling expanse of her stomach, flat and muscled. The hem of the thong was low below her navel and he could distinctly make out the divot of her labia standing out against the fabric.
“Oh!” she gasped, and then seemed to realize what she looked like and stood up quickly in a show of false modesty, the spoon still in her mouth. The buds of both nipples corkscrewed against the green T-shirt.
“Uh,” Dylan said, quickly turning his eyes toward the stove and scratching his head, more as a distraction for himself. “Glad… glad to see you’re up.”
“Yeah, I was, uh…” she removed the spoon from her mouth and he saw her wince in embarrassment, “just still really hungry from last night. I mean, with changing… I mean, back and forth, bear to human. I always get… hungry.”
The awkwardness was palpable and Dylan knew that if Chris were up and awake he’d probably be bristling with laughter. As it was, there was only the two of them and he cleared his throat and made a b-line for the stove.
“Well, I’ll get some breakfast started, then. Chris usually makes dinner… but he loves to sleep late, so that usually means I have to do breakfasts. I was thinking… I mean, if you’re not still sick of salmon… a salmon egg’s Benedict, yeah?”
“That, that sounds great,” Sarah said more softly, and hugged her chest. “Just let me… get some pants on, first.” She bolted back to her bedroom and slammed the door – almost loud enough to wake Chris. Dylan couldn’t help but sneak a look at her as she passed. Her buttocks bounced with careless abandon as she skirted toward the door and he felt something akin to desire strike a nerve.
She returned several minutes later in a pair of raggedy jeans with holes in the knees and he blushed, as if it were a delayed after-effect of having seen her in her underwear.
“Very grunge,” he observed comically, trying to act normal. As if a half-naked girl in my kitchen were a normal thing, he thought with some bemusement.
She didn’t seem to understand, until he motioned to her jeans she blushed. “Oh, heh… they’re actually from a friend. Kind of a good luck charm.”
He went to work but was acutely aware of her standing off to one side as if he’d walked in on her doing something indecent. He spoke over his shoulder as he broke the eggs, asking her to make some milk from the powder. She obeyed almost instantly but there was still something… distant about her.
Dylan frowned, even as the eggs began to sizzle in the heavy cast iron pan. Not five minutes earlier he had been excited to see her, eager to work on the rapport they had seemed to excel at only the night before. On the beach she had been open, laughing. Now she seemed withdrawn. Did I do something wrong, he wondered.
As though sensing his discomfort she broke the silence. “Listen, about last night…” she began.
“It’s okay,” he interrupted, and then didn’t really know why he’d been so quick to cut her off. “It’s uhm… I mean, I know we’re supposed to be engaged,” the word sounded alien in his mouth, “but I didn’t… I didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. I’ve been changing back and forth, bear to human, so much on the island, I didn’t stop to consider your feelings… I know it’s sort of…”
“Intimate,” she filled in.
“Yeah,” he said, “other than Chris, Lilah’s the only one I’ve changed in front of.”
“Lilah?” she asked, her voice was mostly curious, but there was something of an edge to it as well.
Jealousy, Dylan wondered.
He laughed quickly. “My kid sister. She’s an adept shifter. Kind of a prodigy.”
She opened her mouth and mimed an ahh sound. “It’s not that… I’m glad you showed me the island. And… and it is refreshing, to be able to change with another person. It’s just,” she looked away quickly, “I guess the whole marriage thing crept up on me. I’ve known, objectively, I was going to get married for a long time… but, it didn’t really hit me until last night. I just feel scrambled.”
He gave an understanding nod. “Just like these eggs.”
She chuckled. “Yeah, more or less. Anyway… it’s… it’s not you…”
“Take as much time as you need,” Dylan said, and looked back at the pan quickly. Even though she was still a stranger to him, those words had hit a nerve. As much as he wanted to believe that her reticence now was due to her own feelings – and perhaps her own misgivings – it was impossible for him to fully extricate himself from the equation. Other than the island, he was the only new variable in her life, and if she was having trouble accepting the circumstances, than he was invariably at the center of it.
Already, his mind was racing, trying to decipher some sort of solution that would put them both back on equal and stable ground. There is no stability with emotions like these, he thought sagely, and then for the umpteenth time since he’d been on the island, worried that Chris’ somewhat pedantic (if unerringly wise) ways were rubbing off on him.
“Maybe you’d better wake up the old bear,” he said, thumbing toward the door of his own room. There was still an audible growling sound as Chris snored away, like an idling chainsaw.
***
The next few days passed without incident, becoming a kind of blur for all three of them. For the most part, Chris stayed out of the way of Dylan and Sarah, as if encouraging them to get to know each other better without his supervision or intervention. There was a sense of politeness between Dylan and Sarah that almost seemed formalized. They would greet each other, smile, share pleasantries, try to help out with the daily chores whenever possible, but it was as if each polite gesture was somehow placating a deeper anxiety.
For Sarah, it was like walking on the thread of a spider-web, even though she knew that the majority of the tension they were all feeling was mostly because of her. She was the outsider who had invaded the men’s private world and as much as she tried to act normal and take it all in stride, something was holding her back.
That first day, fresh off the floatplane’s wing, she had vowed to take charge. It was only natural, considering she had been thrown into a situation that wasn’t her charge. She couldn’t blame the men either; Dylan had done, and seemingly continued to do, his best to be welcoming, but both of them seemed to be skirting the elephant in the room.
We’re supposed to get married. It wasn’t that the notion of marriage particularly appalled her. Part of her training had been learning to accept it as a casual fact and she had to admit the idea of it excited her, deep down. The idea of finding a mate, of being able to share her life with a common soul, and of course, of the more physical aspects, thrilled her. She blushed, even though no one was in the cabin at this time of day. Dylan always left early in the morning, whether she was awake or not. If she was, she got to enjoy his famous breakfasts, which were always filling and gave her energy for the rest of the day.
But it was lonely sometimes to wake up to an empty cabin. Although Chris slept late, these days he too had taken to leaving the cabin early, reveling in the domestic duties of the island, such as lugging water up from the creek, cleaning, clearing brush, or maintaining the many trails that circulated over the island like a webbed circuitry. The latter was an odd duty, considering more often than not, Dylan preferred to roam as a bear, and Chris usually realized in hindsight that it would be quicker to get from point A to poi
nt B by simply bushwhacking.
She sighed and tossed her dishes in the sink and felt little motivation to clean them. Instead, she slipped on a pair of running shoes and her shorts and decided to go for a run. At least I’ll give Chris’ hard work a sense of purpose, that way, she resigned.
It was cloudy out, the perfect weather for running. The Pacific weather was very fickle though, one moment it could be raining, the next it could be sunny and blistering hot, and the next, snowing. The coast seemed to inhabit this temperament throughout. Even the sparse wildlife, which consisted mainly of rabbits, the occasional doe and her fawns, and a multitude of birds, shifted back and forth between capricious braveness and sheer timidity.
Absently, she wondered if it had anything to do with them as shifters. Maybe they can sense the alternating current of human and bear, she thought to herself, looking up through the canopy and starting at a slow jog. Soon, the wind was whistling in her ears and she felt endorphins pumping through her veins, filling her with a general sense of well-being. The main trail she liked to use wound its way like a sporadic tributary over the main rise of the island, and then circled the bluffs and ended up down on the beach Dylan had taken her that first night.
She blushed again, hating herself for it. It was a terrible habit, and every time she felt blood rushing to her cheeks and her eyes watering it was another small reminder of all the ways she wasn’t in control. She increased her speed, cursing under breath. Running was a good way to distract herself but today it wasn’t working.
As she worked her way around the bluffs, following familiar roots and rocks in the path, and re-learning the different smells that represented sections of the trial – old man’s beard here, the spicy tang of wild ginger underfoot there – her frustration only increased. What am I doing on this island, she wanted to scream. Down a steep incline that made several switchbacks down to the ocean she almost didn’t notice another sound that was echoing in sync with her heart-rate.
Consciously, she slowed down. Through a veil of ferns and cedar boughs, she could see a shape out on the waves in the bay. It was small, just big enough for the four figures that were sitting or standing in its white painted hull. A small outboard hummed against the crash of waves. Sarah ducked down further and pulled the green headband further over her forehead to conceal the white flesh, which might give her away.
Very slowly, she crept down through the bushes of salal and ferns, trying to get a better look. She was enraptured by the thrill of sneaking up on a quarry, even if it was something as innocuous as a boat. At one point, she went down on all fours and slithered on her belly over the moss – how ladylike I must look now, she mused, wishing her parents could see her now.
Through another gap in the salal she propped herself on her elbows and looked down. It was definitely a small boat with a pulsing outboard. Too small to have made it all the way here on its own, though; part of another vessel? She frowned. Chris had been quite adamant that this island was, in his own words, a ‘protected enclave’, whatever that meant. She figured money had passed hands at some point among the clans and turned the island into a park.
“It’s off limits,” Chris’ voice echoed in her head, “the public isn’t allowed on it.”
The four men in the small white boat seemed to fit the description of public. All four were tall, middle-aged, except for the one manning the outboard who looked to be in his early twenties, around Sarah’s age, but all of them were wearing camo outfits, head to toe. They looked like a motley regiment of amateur soldiers. She suppressed a grin.
The grin disappeared quickly when she saw one of the men turn and noticed the giant rifle slung over his back. Its heavy wooden stock was burnished dark like burnt umber, and the pitch black muzzle was the color of graphite. Now, as they drew closer, she saw they all had guns, different makes and sizes, but all high powered rifles. She gulped. Hunters.
There was a natural predisposition for shifters to fear hunters. While in bear form, they were virtually inseparable in appearance from their wild cousins. In their long history, it had not been uncommon for one or another shifter to have met their end at the long sight of a firearm, she knew the old stories well. The elders toyed with the term occupational hazard, which she hated. It was more than that.
She ducked lower, even though she was in human form. Some primal fear rose up and she found herself breathing hard into the moist-smelling ground. Her black hair fell over the headband and she froze, instinct reeling, the only movement was of her half-closed eyes watching the boat.
No, not hunters, she realized. Poachers. Which was even worse. While she knew that she had to be careful of hunters, hunters generally had their own code of ethics, the same way bears did. Kill what you need, use everything, honor the kill. But poachers were a different matter. You couldn’t reason with them, they were ruled by greed and bloodlust. And more often than not, they were unpredictable because of the very fact that they were engaging in illicit activities. A cornered poacher is more dangerous than a cornered bear, she reminded herself, recalling an old mantra her grandmother had taught her.
She watched them another ten minutes as the boat veered over the bay. The men occasionally looked out toward the island and she felt a chill every time they did. They were looking for something, animal sign, no doubt. It wasn’t until the sound of the engine had dispersed and the white boat had become a blinking lash on the other side of the bay did she dare stand up again. Her legs and neck hurt from the awkward position and she felt her muscles crack as she straightened.
The others. She had to tell the others.
She turned back up the slope, not even feeling the burning in her legs until she was back on the path. Her breath caught in her throat like a burr and she sprinted back toward the cabin. Her scalp felt like a thousand needles were pressing into it from every direction and sweat ran off her eyebrows, trying to blind her.
*
Chris was the only one home when she barged into the cabin, panting. Sweat caked her body making it feel like a second skin, smothering her naked legs and fusing the tank-top to her firm narrow bodice. She collapsed on the edge of the sink as the big man watched her shovel a handful of water into her mouth before she could speak again.
“Poachers. In the bay,” she pointed uselessly in the direction of the ocean.
Chris was usually calm and collected, even in the direst situations, taking it on himself to lighten the mood and approach a problem as objectively as possible. But that single word, poachers, seemed to ignite something behind his eyes as he stood up with a start, causing the chair he was sitting on to reel back onto the planks of the floor.
“Sarah, sit down… take a breath and explain,” he motioned toward the table.
She did as she was beckoned while noticing that there were an array of fishing hooks and lures and flies on the table. Another one of his domestic hobbies, she supposed. She took in a deep breath and found it easier.
“I was going for a run… you know, I always take the main trail, the one that goes around the bluffs,” he nodded, urging her to get to the point, “and as I was making my way down to the beach, I heard a sound. I looked toward the bay and saw a boat. At first, I just thought they were tourists or fishermen or something. But then I saw… they had guns. All of them.”
A cruel arc twisted over Chris’ heavy lips, and he looked away from her toward the window, as if contemplating something. “You’re sure you saw what you saw?” he asked, and she nodded. “That could be trouble.”
“Maybe they’ll just pass by,” she asked, hoping she was right.
“Maybe,” he agreed, but something was bothering him. “Most of these islands don’t have game big enough to worry about. There’s deer, sure, some feral goats but no big game. It’s a well-known fact. However… there have been stories, around the fishing villages, the mainland… about this island.”
Fear clutched at her heart and she was almost afraid to say anything. “What kinds of stories?”
&n
bsp; He shifted his weight and reached out, shutting the blue tin case that housed his fishing lures. “The kind about us,” he said at last, “people saying they’ve spotted grizzlies on the island, down by the shore or a black or brown shape disappearing into the undergrowth. Just stories… and most people dismiss them. How could a grizzly possibly get here from the mainland?” he asked rhetorically. Sarah resisted the urge to follow with by floatplane.
“You said most people dismiss them.”
“Aye,” another pregnant pause, “but if there’s one thing a poacher or big game trophy hunter can’t resist: it’s those urban rumors. The ones that can’t possibly be true, but just might be. I told Dylan all about this of course… we’re both very careful about changing and touring the shoreline, just in case there is some wary hunter or fisherman out for a leisurely boat ride. But the stories are still there.”
“You think they’ve come looking for us? I mean… I mean bears?”
Chris shrugged. “I’d rather not have to ask them. But it is worrying. I’ll get on the horn and let the council know we might have some trouble… if anything, they can send a coast guard to do a ‘routine tour’ around the island. Other than that, we should put a hold on transformations.”
He said all of this, counting it off on his fingers with a judicious pause between each item. There was something definitively mature about him, despite his off-handedly simple nature. Like he could really take charge when he needed to, if the situation required it. With a pang, she realized he embodied, in as many ways, the attributes she had always been lacking in abundance. She merely nodded and then her eyes grew wider.
