Happy Friday! Note, this story is NOT polished. I will be posting a scene or chapter weekly. Expect an urban fantasy world. Romance and mystery. And magic, of course. Enjoy!
PART 8
I followed Lobo out the backdoor and watched him lock up. We trudged back through the cool spring breeze to his house directly behind the diner. I still didn’t know why I felt so safe with him. But he’d never looked at me as anything but a house guest, and I got the distinct impression he viewed me as a child, someone to look after, not someone to lust after. Which was funny because he couldn’t have been more than ten years older than me, and I’m twenty-four, I think. Well, I’m pretty sure.
The short trip through the backyard refreshed me after a long day on my feet. The grass had been trimmed, the lush pansies and rising crocuses dancing with laughter in the wind. If I’d been fanciful, I’d have said Lobo had an enchanted yard looked over by brownies or fairies or even a dryad perched in a dense cedar to the side of the yard. But everyone knows they don’t exist.
The single-story craftsman seemed like something out of a fairy tale as well. White trim accented a navy-blue painted house. Wood shingles lined the roof. In the front, a brick driveway led to a two-car garage, and a similar brick walkway led to the front door. Tall grasses, shrubs, and bulbs in bloom gave both the front and back yard a professionally landscaped look, though I’d seen Lobo working outside with his own two hands.
We walked past the wooden patio, and I started to head to the side steps leading up to the room above the garage, where I’d been staying.
“Come on. I’ll make us an early dinner,” Lobo said, forestalling me.
I paused.
“I won’t bite,” he growled, not helping.
I gave it a moment to mull over. “Well, with that pleasant invitation, how can I refuse?” I followed him inside, through the mudroom containing a washer and dryer, into the house, the familiar scent of roses welcoming.
Lobo had a few quirks that set him apart from his kind. Shifters, by and large, tended to be aggressive, pack-oriented, and loud. Lobo was neat, quiet—when not yelling orders at work—and lived alone. He could be aggressive, but generally he seemed at peace, or maybe balanced was a better word, only stirring himself when majorly provoked.
He also liked freshly cut flowers, because no matter when I joined him for breakfast in the mornings, a vase on his coffee table always sported a freshly cut bouquet of roses. The color changed daily; the sweet, inviting aroma did not.
He didn’t have a rose bush, so he must have been buying them. Or someone bought them for him. I hadn’t seen him with a special friend, so I had no idea if he had a lover, but I didn’t want to know, so I didn’t ask.
“Sit.” He nodded to the seats behind the kitchen counter, so I took one. The kitchen overlooked the living area, one big room. Dark brown leather furniture, big enough to fit his frame, sat in front of a coffee table and faced a massive TV. He had a nice-looking sound system and an array of books on the bookshelves flanking the set.
I assumed the hallway near the visible bathroom led to more bedrooms. And then a door off the kitchen leading to the garage.
He handed me a soda. “Drink.”
I did, surprised to find myself parched. I didn’t bother to offer to help him, because I’d learned early on that if he wanted help, he asked for it. “What’s for dinner?”
He glanced at me and put back the package he’d taken from the freezer. He selected a different one. “Salmon.”
“Sounds good.” I loved salmon. “Thanks for dinner.”
He grunted. I watched him work in silence, amazed at his economy of movement. Lobo never used more energy than needed to do anything. He sliced and diced, shredded vegetables, and broiled me a home-cooked salmon meal in what felt like minutes.
“Wow. This smells awesome.” I noticed the clock and realized we hadn’t spoken in half an hour. Weird.
“Eat.”
I frowned at him but tucked into my food. Before I knew it, I’d cleaned my plate. I looked up to see him watching me. “What?”
“Good to see a girl with an appetite.” He took my plate and stacked it on top of his, also scraped clean.
“I should do dishes. You cooked.”
He shrugged. “Fine by me.”
I soaped them up in the sink, conscious of the bear staring at me. I could feel his gaze burning a hole into my back. “Just say it.” Now he’ll ask me what I’m running from, demand to know my life story.
“What do you think about what Amelia was saying?”
I paused and turned to see him guzzling a beer, waiting.
Amelia… The brown-haired witch. “Oh, um. I don’t know.”
“You have power. I feel it. You’re more like us than them.” Them being citizens, the non-evolved. “Do you think we should live in fortified camps, protecting them from us?”
“Or protecting us from them,” I said, feeling that truth to my toes. “Citizens outnumber evos, what? Ten thousand to one? Despite their numbers, it’s natural they’d feel nervous around people with such a power differential between us.” Great. Now he had me doing the us/them thing.
“But what of the less powerful evos? The lower levels? Do they deserve to be rounded up as well?”
“I don’t think anyone should be rounded up, no. But I came west because I knew it was safer out here for evos than out east.”
“You’re low on the scale, a level 2 finder.”
“How did you know?”
“It’s on your ID card.”
That I hadn’t given him. “Snoop.”
He grinned, his brown eyes sparkling. “I’m not a cat, but I’m told I’m as curious as one.” The beauty in his joy struck me. Something about the moment seemed so familiar…
“You’re a bear. Why don’t you live in a den?” A den for shifters wasn’t a cave or anything. He wasn’t an animal. It was more like a large group home, from what I’d read and seen on TV.
“I’m also human. I like my own space. Why aren’t you living in a regulated apartment complex with other mindmages?”
I understood. “My power isn’t who I am.”
“Exactly. When we let ourselves be defined by one thing, we sacrifice our individuality. I’m a shifter. I’m a bear. I’m also a man who likes flowers, who likes to cook, and who–”
Banging on the door interrupted us and shot me three feet in the air. Soapy bubbles sprayed his curtains as I slapped a hand to my chest. “Sorry.”
He frowned and held up a hand. “Stay here.” He walked to the door and stepped outside, closing it behind him.