Page 26 of Dreamscape Therapies

My stomach growls loud in the quiet restaurant.

“They make the tortillas fresh here,” I tell Vincent, and he nods his head distractedly.

We order at the counter and take our number to a booth near the window. Vincent slides into the seat across from me. He picks at a crack in the red vinyl booth while the last sunlight catches in his light brown hair.

I watch him for a second too long.

“So,” I say. “Do you like owning a bar?”

“Yeah.” He smiles faintly. “I really do.”

“What's it called?”

“Whistler's Bar & Grill.”

“You didn't,” I choke out in disbelief.

He raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“You named your bar after an old Skinwalker legend.”

He looks entirely too pleased with himself. “Of course I did. Humans used to have all these myths about Skinwalkers luring people into the woods by whistling. Or mimicking the voices of people they knew. Hiker hears his mother's voice. Follows it into the woods. Never comes back.”

“That is horrifying.”

“Right?” He smiles. “But statistically speaking, it was usually just some regular human serial killer.”

I nearly choke on my margarita. “I'm sorry. What?”

Vincent laughs. “Humans blamed everything on monsters for centuries. Meanwhile, actual mythical beings were sitting around thinking, Wow. Bernard from church is really making us look bad.”

I guffaw.

I can't help it. I'd never really considered how supernatural beings might view the myths humans created about them because Sandman legends are mostly accurate. Apparently, Skinwalker legends aren't nearly as reliable.

“So now,” Vincent continues, tearing apart a warm tortilla chip, “alcohol is what I use to lure people.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You lure people with alcohol?”

“I don't murder them.” He pauses. “Usually. Sometimes people do go missing overnight, but no one has ever gone permanently missing from my bar.”

“Well, thank the gods for that.” I chuckle.

Our food arrives, saving me from whatever direction that conversation was heading. We dig in, and for a while, the conversation stays light. The bar, favorite foods, my PhD, his terrible opinion about pineapple on pizza.

And then I realize something.

I like talking to him.

I like talking to him a lot.

“So,” I ask, “what does a Skinwalker actually look like?”

His fork pauses as his expression changes, and I immediately regret asking.

“Sorry. You don't have to answer that.”

“No. It's okay.” He takes a breath. “It’s just… my ex hated my shifted form.”