by Chant, Zoe
“I’m busy, Chick!” Kesley called, and to Jameson, hurriedly, “Maybe a cup of coffee.” And she darted into the eatery.
And as soon as she got inside, she stopped short. Idiot! Chick didn’t know who the guy was. He’d only heard about Marlo. Now Chick was going to think Kesley was dating . . . and he’d be off to spread the news.
Kesley sighed. She loved her family, her friends, and her town, but sometimes she wished everybody didn’t know everybody else’s business, usually within seconds of it occurring. If not before.
She looked up, to find the guy regarding her curiously. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No, no, I just . . .” She couldn’t think of any excuse, and flopped down into a chair. “I have work in half an hour, is all.”
Ralph appeared, carrying a pot of steaming water and a cup and saucer. “Here you go, Kesley. Just got in some good Assam. How’s the family?”
“Oh, everybody’s fine,” Kesley said, and raised her voice as a loud roaring from outside drowned her out. “Thanks for the tea, Ralph.”
Ralph glanced out the windows, scowling. Kesley turned her head in time to see four pairs of guys on motorcycles cruise slowly down Main Street. The dark glasses on the first two pairs turned back and forth slowly. “If they’re looking for trouble, they won’t find it here.”
“Or nudists,” Kesley said.
The corner of Ralph’s mouth lifted as the bikers vanished down Main, taking their noise with them. Then he dipped his head in a nod and walked away.
“How did that guy get the name Chick?” James tipped his head toward the street.
“It’s short for Thunder-Chicken,” Kesley said, then caught herself up, horrified. She’d let those leather-clad motorcycle guys with those creepy dark glasses totally distract her. Would James hear the ‘Chicken’ and think of shifters? She added hastily, “Um, Chick got the nickname when he was a kid. Watching cartoons. His favorite. His name’s really Dwayne Junior. But who really wants to be stuck with Dwayne?”
James smiled. He had a very attractive smile, with a little quirk at either side of his beautifully shaped, masculine mouth. She snatched her gaze down to her teacup as he said, “And what was that he called you . . . Bandit?”
“That’s a family joke,” she muttered as she poured out the tea. Crap, her hand was shaking, and her heartbeat thudded against her ribs. She didn’t know if it was his questions or him, but as soon as she could swallow this tea, she had to escape.
As Kesley busied herself with dunking the tea strainer, as if that would make the tea any stronger, James said quietly, “Does everyone in this town know each other?”
“Pretty much,” Kesley said, and tried not to roll her eyes McKenzi-style.
“Would you like breakfast?” James asked as he lavishly spread honey on his toast.
“No, thanks. I already ate,” Kesley said.
“Mind if I . . .?”
He certainly was polite.
“Please. Ralph’s food is way too good to let get cold,” Kesley said. “Anyway, I really have to leave soon for work.” She sipped at her still-scalding tea. One cup, then she’d go.
“Did you grow up here?” he asked as he stirred more honey in his coffee.
She nodded, sipping slowly at the tea, figuring, least said the better. Or even better than that, lob the conversation back at him. “How about you?”
“I’ve got vague memories that I’m pretty sure are from the east coast—sunrise coming up over the ocean. Snowball fights when I was a kid,” he said. “Right now most of my recent memory is a blank.”
This was completely unexpected. A cameraman with no memory? “You don’t have to talk about it if it’s painful,” she said quickly, though curiosity whooshed through every cell in her body.
His smile was quick and surprisingly sweet, causing a flash of warmth that made her toes curl in her shoes. “Questions are okay. I just don’t have answers. It only hurts if I push too hard trying to find them.”
He flicked his free hand up toward the scar on his face. She was distracted by his hands—long hands, strong-looking, beautifully shaped. She wondered what they would feel like on her . . .
Clash! The cup clattered into the saucer. “Ulp. Sorry,” she said, knowing her face was radioactive red. “Too hot!”
He flashed that sweet smile again as he said, “How far away is your work?”
“Just down the hill—”
The door tinkled as it opened, and Marlo appeared, with a big smile. “There you are! And already getting a start, that’s wonderful!” She turned from him to Kesley. “I’m Marlo Evans. I’m so sorry, but what with the rain and the wind I neglected to write down your name.”
Kesley knew it had been her fault for knocking into the woman. She picked up her tea again, wishing she could hide behind it as she said, “Kesley Enkel.” She was totally unprepared for anything resembling cloak-and-dagger, and wished McKenzi were there. She’d make up some fake name and spin out some story in two seconds flat.
Ralph came up, and Marlo said, “Just coffee, thanks, and some low-fat yoghurt, if you have it, and if you don’t, just a piece of plain toast. Wheat. And I would love to interview you, if you have the time when your breakfast rush is over. You must know everybody and everything in Upson Downs.”
Ralph gave a polite nod. “Sure do,” he said. “Toast up in a minute.”
Marlo turned to Kesley. “So, tell me about this town. Upson Downs? Is that deliberate?”
“I’m sorry to say it is,” Kesley said. “A guy named Jeremiah Upson started the town after he built a hotel empire during the Gold Rush days. He retired here, after building a giant mansion up on the hill behind Main Street. The town grew up around it.”
Kesley snuck a glance at the two. Marlo looked polite, but James leaned forward, his gaze on her. Interested. Intent. Prickles of heat trickled down her core to pool deep inside and she wrenched her gaze away as she said, “When his house burned down in one of the wildfire seasons about a hundred years ago, the Upsons moved on, but the town stayed.”
“The history sounds fascinating,” Marlo said in a flat, polite voice, then she leaned forward, her gaze intent. “But I’m more interested in the present. As I think I explained, I’m doing a story for NPR, on California cults and sects. I’m told there is an interesting one here, based on the idea of human-animal transformations.”
“There isn’t,” Ralph said, appearing behind them. He set down her toast and coffee, then straightened up. “What you need to do is track down the young con artist over the hill who uses the internet to scrape up a bunch of college-age peeping Toms who want a gander at the kids skinny dipping down at the beach during summer. Or canoodling up on the hill.”
He jerked his heavy, grizzled jaw toward the window, through which the scrub-covered hills could be seen, then added, “Can I get you anything else?”
“No, thank you, this will be perfect,” Marlo said sweetly as she reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out the clipboard.
Its papers were now neatly stacked, with a pen attached. Kesley stared at it as if it was a rattlesnake as Marlo lifted the top sheet and read a few lines. “Yes. That’s interesting, but it doesn’t quite corroborate what Mrs. Julia Bashir, at the motel, told me yesterday morning.” She ended on an interrogative note.
Kesley just said, “Oh?” And gulped some tea.
Marlo went on patiently, as if Kesley had asked, “According to her, there is a practicing group of neo-pagans—she called them hippies—who use one of your hilltops for worship. She said something about animal totems, and that they welcome new joiners. She said there is even a flyer, and if I wanted to know more, I could ask . . . someone. Unfortunately, the name I wrote down got smeared when the paper dropped on the rainy sidewalk.”
Which was my fault, Kesley thought. Thanks for reminding me. “Oh, there might be a few of those people somewhere in the hills. Old cranks. There was a group, back in the seventies,” Kesley said—feeling sa
fer with the truth, because there really had been a group of hippies, apparently. “My dad told me they were going to live off the land, but nobody wanted to do the work, and their teepees kept blowing over in the rain. They kept coming into town to cadge supplies by offering chakra readings in trade, stuff like that, but I thought they were pretty much gone before I was born. They might have kept sheep and chickens and goats, or something.”
“My understanding,” Marlo said in that sweetly inquisitive voice that made Kesley’s neck grip, “is that this is far more recent? Like in the last few years or so, with young people participating?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Kesley said, trying not to sound defensive. “I went away to college, and when I got back, I went to work at the pottery. And weekends, I exhibit my art in Overton.” She swallowed a giant gulp of tea that made her eyes water, and then she rose. “Thanks for the tea. I’ve got work. Bye!”
She got up without looking at him at all, and escaped into the cool air. What was it about Marlo that bugged her? Maybe it was just her persistence, and the fact that no one wanted outsiders to find out about the shifters. Or even the possibility. NPR. Shudder.
Kesley slowed when she was out of sight of Ralph’s, and tried to get her head together. Grandma Zhao would have a load of teacups waiting, which meant Kesley needed steady hands.
She entered the Flying Cranes shop, sniffing appreciatively at the smells of paper and books at the left side of the shop. The right side was where the Zhaos sold their pottery. Kesley said hi to David Zhao and was about to open the door to the back when David waved her over.
She walked up to the counter, where David was busy restocking. He straightened up, shoved his glasses back up his nose, and shook back his ponytail. “Chick was just here,” he said. “You were hanging out at Ralph’s with some guy?”
“He’s with that woman from NPR who’s trying to do a story about humans changing into animals.”
David’s glasses flashed as he straightened up. “Animals. Like . . .”
“Like maybe someone has seen one of us shifting. And put something on the net, and she found it. And is here to investigate. Do you know anything about that?”
“No!” His eyes widened. “I don’t anyone who would screw up that way. Did she say something specific?”
“All I know is, she cornered me at Ralph’s just now. The camera guy didn’t say much, but she started in about how Auntie Julia told her that story about the old hippies. And right before that, Ralph said it was skinny dippers. We’d better decide on one story, and stick to it until she goes away.”
“Right. I’ll text Chick and Amelia,” David said, pulling his cell from his pocket.
Kesley hoped the fastest texters in the western hemisphere ought to be able to come up with a plan. She passed through to the storeroom, and the studio beyond. Grandma Zhao wasn’t there, so Kesley went to the work table where the latest order was set out, ready for decorative painting.
She got her brushes and paints, and put on music to get herself thinking about other things besides nosy reporters, and a pair of handsome hazel eyes.
Chapter Four
Jameson discovered that he hated lying to Kesley.
He considered that as Marlo laid out her plans for the day. She wanted to work her way down to each store, catching locals as she could.
He listened with part of his attention, but his main thoughts zeroed in on Kesley, the neat way her hands held a teacup. Her glossy hair falling gracefully around her shoulder blades. How cute she was, blushing when she had nothing to blush about. Or was it nerves? She’d certainly seemed intimidated by Marlo. He frowned, feeling an urge to protect Kesley, though there was certainly nothing to protect her from.
He just didn’t like seeing her unhappy. Which was odd, considering he didn’t know her. That was as odd as the fact that he didn’t mind being James Cannon to Marlo. To anybody, really. But when he’d forced himself to say ‘James’ to Kesley, it was like biting into a peach and finding a mouthful of ash.
Ash. Heat. Voices shouting . . . Arabic?
He shut his eyes . . . almost had it. His head panged, and he decided he needed fresh air, and movement.
He discovered he’d eaten every bit of his breakfast, whereas Marlo hadn’t touched her toast—and she’d switched to complaining about the fat content in bread.
He closed out her complaints as another almost-memory caused his hands to come up, and his muscles to tense in readiness. Sparring?
“I need some exercise,” he said when she stopped talking long enough to drink her coffee.
“Go ahead,” Marlo said. “Exercise would be excellent for you. I’ll settle up here.”
“See you later. Good luck,” he said.
Jameson got outside and drew in a deep breath. He felt . . . restless. Maybe that was a result of flushing the meds down the toilet these past couple of days. How did he really know that that was a good idea? He no longer needed the painkillers, but maybe the other stuff would help his brain recover memories?
He set out at a brisk walk down the street. Stretching his legs felt good, but that sense that he needed to . . . do a sweep caused him to turn his head slightly, scanning his periphery. It was strange, how instinct kept him from looking around obviously, but before he could put himself through the usual mental runaround, he caught sight of a reflection in the huge window of a bike sales and repair shop. The high hills on the other side of the street jutted along the top of the reflection, with regular bumps along it.
Jameson drew nearer, and recognized those bumps: guys in dark colors, sitting on top of heavy motorcycles, looking down on the town. At that moment he registered the almost subliminal rumble of idling motorcycle engines, drifting on the slow sea air from above.
Jameson got that weird feeling, as if a target had been painted on his back, and shook off the feeling irritably. Obviously he was imagining things because of that hole in his mind. Why would anyone be interested in him—assuming they even knew who or where he was?
He forced his attention away as he passed the bike shop, and looked along the quiet street.
The town was tiny. He liked that. He also liked the look of the buildings. Marlo had commented on their arrival about how shabby and rundown it was, but he liked the weatherworn structures—each different, but all with a kind of nineteenth-century flavor to them. He passed the grocery store, a bike shop, a barber shop, a hardware store with gold miner mannequins in the front window, advertising goods of a century previous, like washboards and lye soap and Makassar Oil.
Next down, on the corner at the only other stoplight, was a store with a slightly different feel, called Flying Cranes. He glanced in the windows. Books. Ceramic items. ‘Pottery.’ Kesley had said that, hadn’t she?
He peered inside, and caught sight of Kesley carrying a tray of ceramic teapots into the store.
He paused to watch as she set the tray down on a counter, where a woman holding a tablet waited. She looked like a buyer, the way she pored over the trays of teapots and cups, occasionally making notes on the tablet.
Jameson watched Kesley and the buyer talking, each nodding, or pointing at this or that example. He smiled, surprised to catch himself smiling. It was the way Kesley tilted her head a little, her bright-eyed, friendly look, the graceful play of her hands. He found he was even charmed by a splash of pink paint on her cheek, and other paint splotches on the apron she wore over her bulky shirt and cargo pants.
Then the buyer turned away, pulling out her cell. Kesley raised her head—and their eyes met through the window. Jameson’s breath caught in his chest as her whole face brightened in a quick, inadvertent smile before it smoothed to mere politeness.
She followed the buyer to the door. The latter barely glanced at Jameson as she passed him, talking on the phone, “Yes, I got the price down. They can deliver by the end of the month . . .” She vanished around the corner.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Kesley said, question quirking her b
rows.
Jameson was aware of that distant sound of revving engines getting closer. Instinctively he stepped between Kesley and the street, his mind caught between her sudden bright smile and wondering if it was too soon to ask her out.
Then he registered the fast approach of motorcycles.
Really fast.
He turned his head to guard Kesley, and shock stilled him for a single heartbeat as he tried to register the low-bent rider heading straight toward him.
Then two small hands clamped on his arm, and both he and Kesley recoiled, each trying to save the other: he took a step, sheltering her for a second before a violent jolt on the back of his shoulder spun him around. His arms wrapped around her protectively, and then he and Kesley hit the sidewalk, and the little lights flashing across his vision snuffed one by one.
* * *
Kesley sat up, the world spinning. Though James had taken the brunt of the fall, pain throbbed through her hip where she’d landed, and she knew she’d have a whopping bruise on her butt by the time the day ended. But at least, she thought hazily, shifters healed fast—it would be multicolored ugly by nightfall, and gone by tomorrow.
But what about him? She didn’t know what to make of James Whatever. She didn’t know why her raccoon had gone ape-shit inside her while she was trying to finish up the orders from a very important buyer for half-a-dozen boutique stores up and down the coast that catered to tourists.
All she knew was, her raccoon had been frantic—the sense of impending danger had not come from him, but from somewhere else . . .
. . . and then that motorcycle had come out of nowhere, aiming straight at them.
No, at him.
His eyelids lifted, and pale hazel eyes stared upward, traveled around, and then warmed when they lit on her.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice rough.
Kesley couldn’t talk—she couldn’t move—she was drowning in his gaze.
“Who was that lowlife on the bike?” David appeared at the door. “I called 911 on his ass.”
