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There was a faint click: the passenger side of his truck being unlocked. I hopped in and shut the door, only for him to step out and warn a lingering employee about a pack of roaming ‘coyotes.’
Returning, he pulled the truck forward and flipped on the low beams. As its light diffused over the foggy field, the sheriff rolled his window up until only a scant seam of an opening remained and cut the engine.
“The better to hear them, my dear,” he said, tugging his ear.
He waited, sitting with one hand on the door, the other a comfortable but brief distance from the gun at his hip. The longer we remained in uneasy quiet, the more suspicious I became of the outside and so the closer I leaned toward him.
chapter 10
LONG DIRT NAP
Every sound brought possibility: wind slithering over the pane, the intermittent tap of his finger against the door, a chain link rattle. After a while, his shooting hand turned the radio low to a blend of classical instruments and static.
“Alright,” Caelan began, adjusting the rearview against the glare of the hardware store sign. “You nixed drinks and a trip to the range but you requested the gun. Now you’ve gone and bought yourself a shovel. Are you planning on putting yourself into an early grave?”
“My plan for tomorrow is gardening. Old shovel’s rusted, so here we are.” Before he could take a pin to my ballooning lies, I added, “What you said about Cho feeding the weeds . . . In a few months when my bearded irises have grown to Viking chieftain lengths and Tammy asks for the fertilizer brand, what do I tell her? The answer is nothing, because they’ll be in a landfill. By the way, thanks for the flowers. The card, not so much.”
“Miscalculated, Miss Davins. Thought you’d accept in person.” He met my eyes. “I’m no stranger to bad decisions. I’m sorry for keeping you exposed in the dangerous situation leading to your injury. Made some big, foolish asks of you, wasn’t right. All because I’d been salivating for the chance to take my pound of flesh from the monster that killed Stephen. I could’ve just shot the damned thing.”
“That a werewolf urge?” I asked.
“It’s a me urge,” he corrected. “Stephen was a very close friend. I was off-duty for a reason and you suffered for it.”
“I wouldn’t have survived without you.”
“Having seen you in action, I can say with certainty you would have held on long enough for the team up the road to arrive,” the sheriff said, lifting his hand to stop me from interrupting. “I used your complaint as an excuse to return to the scene. I should’ve called it in soon as I noticed your broken door. I’m sorry.”
I shrugged. “You kept me in mortal peril. I shot you. I’d call us square.”
He actually looked relieved. “Thank you, Marcy.”
I pointed at my locked car. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve made a few bad choices myself, and I’ll make a few more before the night’s through.”
“This should help.” He stretched for the small container on the back seat holding my grandmother's revolver and two boxes of bullets. “Practice.” He jiggled the first box then the second. “Silvered. I included information for a shooting range a few miles west of Bayberry Town Center. Instructor by the name of Antony Vanya agreed to a few private lessons with you. Silvered are less accurate; you’ll need to improve your aim.”
“Thank you,” I said, popping the box of silvered bullets. They seemed brighter in tone, but the difference was slight and most likely intentional given the secretive nature of the Otherworld.
“I don’t make a habit of returning weapons to folks who shot me, especially ones buying last minute shovels, but there are wolves even I can’t keep at bay.”
Setting the bullets on the floor, I looked at him. “What do you mean?”
He drummed the steering wheel. “My boss read my report on Cho’s death and made the determination to extend an invitation to you.”
I pulled the card from my pocket. “Aggressive.”
“They intend to frighten you.” He took the card and tossed it into the center console. “The Otherworld uses this as a plain-sight invitation and banner of pride. Are you familiar with the imagery?”
“Benjamin Franklin created the political cartoon around the time of the French and Indian War,” I said. “I’ve no idea what it means to you.”
“Organization and unity against an outside threat. While the Otherworld’s population composes far less than one percent of the United States, there’s enough activity for a sheriff per state, Marcy. So, where are all the witnesses?”
Rather than wait for the answer stalled in my throat, he rolled the sleeve of his left arm. In the shock of seeing him strip and the impending violence, I hadn't thought anything of the serpentine tattoo or the mechanics involved in him or a tatted Stephen shifting.
“Oh,” I said softly, other words and dire concerns tangled on my tongue. Curious, I reached to touch, paused, and then at his permitting nod traced the broken snake along his forearm to his wrist. “Magic?”
“Minor enchantment.” He covered the design. “Every sheriff bears the mark. We’re tasked with distributing invitations and by extension, handling the RSVPs.” He gestured for the revolver, took the box containing silvered bullets and chambered the rounds. “There are two types of humans good with secrets: those with reason and those tucked tight for a long dirt nap.” He passed the weapon over.
I accepted, remembering to check the chamber this time. “Are you inviting me tonight?”
