Page 7

I pull my gloves off and shove them into my back pocket, but the woman’s scent from this morning comes back to me without permission. Warm skin and something sweet and clean. I close my eyes, which is a mistake, because my wolf surges forward so quickly that I open them again.

“Enough!”

A startled crow launches out of the nearest tree.

I consider whether shouting at my subconscious in public is finally enough reason to move farther into the woods. Probably. Except I’d still be taking myself with me, which feels like a serious flaw in the plan.

There are two places in town I can go without anybody expecting conversation. Home is one, and The Cartographorium is the other.

I choose Penumbra.

The bell over the shop door gives a dull brass clunk when I step inside. The place smells of old paper, ink, and dust. Rolled maps stand in wooden barrels, framed ones crowd the walls, and thick atlases cause the shelves to sag.

Penumbra is behind the counter, peering at a parchment with a magnifying glass. He looks up when I enter, nods, and returns to his parchment.

I head for the back shelves and pull out an updated survey of the north ridge, even though I own the previous edition and nothing important has changed. I spend twenty minutes pretending the contour lines are interesting enough to occupy my full attention.

They aren’t.

The woman is still lodged somewhere inconvenient behind my thoughts, along with the yellow sweater, the overloaded car, and that smile I didn’t even see properly.

But my wolf did.

My grip tightens around the edge of the map until the paper gives a warning crackle.

“Buy that now,” Penumbra says from the front of the shop.

I look down. I’ve creased the corner. “Fine.”

When I carry it to the counter, he takes one look at the damage and sighs like I’ve shot someone. “You’re an animal.”

Technically accurate.

“Charge me double.”

“I have.”

I hand over the money. “I’ll pick the map up on my way home later.”

Penumbra nods, and I’m halfway to the door when he says, “New woman in town.”

Every muscle across my shoulders tightens as I look back. Penumbra hasn’t raised his head. He’s returned to his parchment as if he hasn’t just spoken more words to me in one sentence than he usually manages in a week.

“Don’t care.”

“Didn’t ask.”

I stand there for another second because apparently, I enjoy losing arguments to men who won’t even look at me, then push through the door.

Witchhazel Way is busier now. Two children chase each other around a lamppost while their mother haggles with a market stall owner. Nearby, a violinist is playing badly enough that even the gargoyle perched on the roof of Ink and Intent looks offended. A cluster of tourists is taking pictures.

I head toward my truck, but my wolf pulls the other way. It’s not a physical force, not exactly. More like a pressure under my skin, a steady awareness pointing toward Nightjar Row.

“No.”

He pushes again.

I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. “This is pathetic.”