Leigh Evans - The Thing About Weres

I can’t. I’m stuck in my head. Just a dreamwalker without a true body, my gaze somehow fastened on you, as if you were the quavering needle on my compass, watching you and knowing that I won’t be able to —

“Mannus was right about one thing: this slice of heaven has never met a douchebag with a chain saw. Most of it’s virgin forest.” His head swiveled left, then right, his brow furrowed. “That’s the thing about Merenwyn. The land’s whole in this realm. You can taste it—pure and clean—on your tongue. The wind smells—”

“Sweet,” I whispered. “It’s the magic in the air.”

“Maybe. Mostly it smells clean without the humans polluting the place. They smell, and they don’t even know it. Their accessories are worse. Their cars, their barbecues, their—”

“You liked driving.”

He frowned, as if surprised he’d forgotten that. “Yeah, I did.” Then with a light shrug, he pointed to a hill at least a mile in the distance to his left. “There’s some whitetails up there. Smell them?” I shook my head to remind him— I’m only half Were, my little Fae nose isn’t as keen as yours, Trowbridge —but his eyes had become slits, predator sharp; his concentration turned to fix on the quarry in the forest. “One of the bucks is rubbing his antlers against the bark of a tree. Hear it? He’s telling all the other bastards to keep out of his way. He’s chosen his doe.” He listened for a bit, his face rapt. “There’s so much game up in those hills.”

His nose is perfect. Long and straight. Not misshapen and bleeding.

Trowbridge rubbed his shoulder and stared thoughtfully at the narrow lane that had been cut into the old woods. “How long do we have before the Fae come?”

“They won’t come tonight.”

He blew some air through his teeth. “They always come. How about giving me a crossbow to fire back at them?”

“I…” My voice trailed off.

“Can’t or won’t,” he finished quietly. “That’s our basic problem. You keep making decisions without consulting me first.”

Not fair, Trowbridge.

The trees behind him swayed, their leaves rustling and parting to reveal the glint of the sinking sun: a yellow-orange ball of fire, as luminous as one of Threall’s brightest soul lights.

He lifted his nose to the wind. “Wait … something’s on the wind.”

Not yet, don’t let the guards come yet. Just a little longer .

Another inhale, deep enough to flare his nostrils and lift his pecs. “Someone’s burning something in the hearth … peat? Yeah, I’d say it’s peat. Wouldn’t it be better to have this conversation beside a cozy, warm fire?”

“You know what burning peat smells like, huh?”

“I’m a figment of your imagination, kid. So, basically, I know everything you know. Hear your thoughts, too.” He began a slogging march through the hip-deep water. Six paces to the left, a sharp turn, and eight paces to the right. With each lurching step, the pool’s water level rose and fell on the high-water line on his tawny skin. One step and the water was up to his waist, drowning his hands, with the next, it had lapped away, providing a coy glimpse of the soft swell of his ass.

The yearning to touch him began to grow again. Long roots had my desire—like weeds growing between cobblestones.

Trowbridge shook his head. “You know, the only bearable bit in the first twenty pages of The Highland Warrior’s Mistress was the news that burning peat smells like scorched dirt. One day, I’m going to toss a handful of peat moss on a campfire, just to see if it does. Probably doesn’t.”

“Why are we talking about this?”

“I’m telling you, I’m well past done with that romance shit. Seriously, who calls his woman ‘my sweet wee lassie’?” Water churned behind him in swirling eddies. “The next time you send Biggs to Barrie to satisfy your book binge, let the poor bastard come home with a few thrillers. Lee Child, Robert Crais, maybe an Ian Rankin or two. I don’t know how he stands going through the checkout line at Walmart. Why don’t you go buy your own books?”

Because you might come back while I’m gone.

“Not going to happen unless you’ve suddenly remembered the words to summon the portal. How’s that going?” He paused in his pacing, his head shifted to one side, his eyes cast down, seemingly intent on something beneath the surface of the water.

Over and over, I’ve tried . The Gates of Merenwyn are summoned by song. One with very specific lyrics. Which I couldn’t remember for the life of me.

When I didn’t speak, he sighed, the way men do when they’re trying to be patient—through the nose, teeth lightly clenched, jaw hard, impatience a stretched, jagged shadow behind his façade of tolerance. Very softly, too softly, he said, “If I can’t find a way home, you’re going to have to take your role as Alpha a whole lot more seriously.”

“I am taking it seriously. I sign stuff. I—”

“For starters, calling yourself their Alpha-by-proxy is just asking for it. The pack has zero sense of humor about shit like that. Can’t you see it’s messed up, the way you approach the pack? For us, it’s always about status. Who’s higher than me, who’s lower than me.” Water sprayed as my mate swept his arm to demonstrate his point. “You can never let your guard down. You must act, think, and smell like top dog … not…” He scratched his ear.

A Fae? “I’m doing my best to hold on to your pack but being a leader doesn’t come naturally. Until you come home, they’ll just have to make do with me. It won’t be for much longer anyhow. Sooner or later, I’ll find a way to get you home.”

“Sooner or later one of them is going to challenge you for leadership,” he said.

For a bit, neither of us said anything. Trowbridge swished water through his fingers. I watched a dark smudge in the far distance, winging its way toward us. A bird. Long wings, torpedo-shaped body. Perhaps a duck, but they never flew alone.

“I have my flare,” I said.

The bird dipped low, skimming the tree line. An emerald-green cap, a flash of gray and white.

“You have to turn into your wolf, Tink. They have to believe that you are one of them.”

“It’s a really good flare.”

Wings beating furiously, the mallard came in for a landing. It reared back, wings arched, feet thrust forward. A splash and then a long glide. The duck preened its feathers, then paddled sideways to give us a bird glare from its beady eye, before it swam to the end of the pool where the water was murky and the trees hung low.

“Friend of yours?” Trowbridge asked.

I scanned the sky but it was night-gray and heavy, and as far as my gaze could sweep, I could not spot another dark smudge. “Shoo,” I said to the mallard. “Go find your mate before winter sets in.”

Trowbridge watched the bird, his lips twisted. “Let it go, Hedi.”

“Tell me about your life there,” I asked softly. “Have you found Lexi yet?”

He shook his head, ever stubborn. “It’s moontime there, isn’t it?”

“Tomorrow.” Three nights of hell. “How’d you know?”

“You’re more anxious around the full moon. That’s when the worst dreams come.” Trowbridge’s shoulders flexed as he spread his arms wide. He bent his head, his fingers skimming the surface—seemingly poised for a dive.

Don’t. Not yet .

Water curled up to his navel and then dipped back. “Have you heard from the NAW yet?”

The letter came this morning. I didn’t explain how the air in the trailer had thickened with the sharp spice of Were anxiety after Harry, Cordelia, and Biggs had taken their turns reading it. But then again, in my dreams, I didn’t need to.