Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
The goddamn nerve of those two. I had spent almost a decade carefully guarding my secret ability to become a furball, only to have it exposed twice in one night.
Somehow Bale had sniffed out what I was. Was it part of his whole scarecrow persona? I knew that even in my human form, I possessed certain attributes that were a little beyond the human average.
It should have been a silver lining that Bale held his own twisted secret, making it unlikely for him to divulge mine. But then there was Corbin. What was to stop him from telling everyone in this rinky-dink town what I was?
The only thing that put me at ease and cut through my paranoia was that, clearly, he was reliable enough to protect Bale from being exposed. It still left me feeling vulnerable, a feeling I didn’t handle very well.
How does one even become a scarecrow shifter anyway? It was just one of many questions nagging at me without answers.
Each stomp of my foot on the path leading back to the lingering festivities in the courtyard was firmer than the last.
I could feel the start of a splitting headache pulsing at my temples. The taste of Corbin still lingered on my tongue.
Shit. I hadn’t meant to bite him. In my flight mode, all I knew was that a pair of large hands had grabbed me. The effort to think past the assumption of danger had been too little too late when survival was baked into my blood.
I’d need to apologize to him eventually, but not tonight. Not when Bale had me riled up in more ways than one.
He wanted me to hate him? For what? Being hot then cold, publicly cocky but privately tender, and doing his best to keep his shit together like the rest of us? That wasn’t worth hating, but it was arguably worthy of a swift kick to the balls to bring his ego down a notch.
Fear him? Pfft, no. I hadn’t run because I was scared, I ran because I had common-fucking-sense. There was no chance in hell I was going to stop and interrogate him on how much self-control he had in his scarecrow form.
Honestly, something told me Bale was all bark and no bite.
The punny thought made me chortle quietly to myself.
Smoothing out the front of my dress as I approached the edge of the central gathering spot, I tried to melt the tension from my shoulders.
Scanning the crowd, there were still a hefty number of Falstonians celebrating the beginning of the week’s activities. Lamp posts and strand lights illuminated the open space.
Tony Gilbert, the town’s auto mechanic, was sitting on the edge of the stage. He swayed side-to-side, dangerously close to toppling over each time as he drunkenly belted out off-key lyrics to a song the band wasn’t even playing.
Off near the main entrance stood a cluster of women in their early forties. Each of them held a paper coffee cup, but I was willing to bet it was so-called “mommy juice” of the wine variety by the way they giggled and whispered too loudly.
I got halfway across the space only to remember that I still hadn’t gotten any apples. Dammit. Showering away the shifter-sludge would have to wait an extra five minutes.
Hm, I wonder if Bale gets the same residue.
Drawing a deep breath to cleanse the thought from my head, I backtracked to one of the tables that had bushels and bags of apples that looked too perfect.
You know the type. Too round, too shiny, and smelled too sweet. The type of apple that you suspected had conned Snow White into landing herself into a coma.
The plump woman sitting on a metal folding chair behind the table smiled at me with far too much cheer. Her cheeks donned enough blush to compete with the color of the fruit she was peddling.
“Hi, honey!” She greeted me enthusiastically. “You need a few more apples?”
Offering a polite smile, I nodded. “Yeah, just a small bag, please.”
She clapped her hands like a five-year-old, giddy and obnoxious. As she gathered a half dozen apples for me, she kept glancing at me. It was like she was debating whether or not to say something.
Finally, she nestled the final apple into the brown mesh bag, but didn’t hand it over yet.
“You’re Wade’s oldest, right? I heard you have a fascination for books.”
Dreaded small town small talk. I obliged her by keeping a small smile on my face. “That would be me,” I confirmed.
She launched into a story that I only half paid attention to about her great-aunt’s neighbor, who had a collection of supposedly rare coloring books.
Digging around in the sewn-in pockets of my dress, I searched for the cash that should have been tucked in them. Panic was beginning to set in that I had lost it somewhere between the dance, my shifting, and my swift escape from the guys.
Just when I was about to interrupt her story, a presence appeared at my side, and a smooth baritone voice spoke up.
“The apples are on me.”
Looking to my right, there stood Chadwick Dennison.
Wavy auburn hair, all lanky limbs, brow bones that stuck out too far, and a mustache too thin to be considered anything other than creepy.
The only distinguishing feature from his twin brother, Malcolm, was the flesh-colored mole tucked against the bottom curve of his left nostril.
He flipped open his wallet dramatically, pulling it open wider than necessary to make a show of the thick stash of bills inside it. After retrieving just enough to cover my purchase, he tossed the money onto the table.
The night air almost carried the payment away with a gentle breeze, but not before my hand slammed down on top of the bills. A resounding thud came off more aggressively than I had meant for it to be.
“Chad, right? Thank you, but it’s really not necessary.” It may have come off sounding polite, but it was anything but. He seemed the type of man that, after he pays for you once, considers you indebted to him forever.
Leaning in close—too fucking close—he gave a smile with more teeth bared than a cornered jackal.
“It is my greatest honor to help Falston’s most beautiful flower.” His words came out with a purr. His hot breath fanned over my face, reeking of something like burnt sugar mixed with curdled dairy. Too sweet and abrasively foul.
Naturally, I am awful at controlling my face. I forced what I thought would be a gracious smile, but the way my lips curled likely presented an unflattering expression.
“Thanks, Chad,” I forced out.
He pressed a finger to my lips. “No, please. It only feels right for you to call me ‘Chadwick.’ The sound of my full name on your lips is like poetry from the gods.”
Stunned by his boldness, I stood stiff as a rod and didn’t dare blink. Maybe if I didn’t move, he wouldn’t see me.
He pulled away from me, removing his bony finger from my lips.
Bowing before me with a flourish of his arms, his hands gestured to the bag of apples. “Your bounty, milady.”
Briefly, I considered the ramifications of ditching the apples. The idea of taking my chances with whatever mythologically cursed creature that would haunt me if I didn’t leave a proper offering seemed a better prospect.
I cleared my throat and slowly slid the cash over to the woman at the table. Daring a quick look at her, I noted how she all but drooled and had heart eyes for Chad. Chadwick.
Exchanging payment for the small bag of produce, I lifted it in a gesture of thanks. “Appreciate it, Chad…wick.”
He beamed like it was Christmas morning.
Not daring to make any sudden movements, I took measured steps away from the awkward and bizarre situation. Turning towards the exit, I stopped short. My gaze locked onto two familiar figures standing near the cider stand.
Corbin and Bale both had eyes locked on me, their expressions a combined violent mixture of roaring thunder and heated lightning.
Their bodies may have stood there giving off the false sense of nonchalance, but all their energy was seeping out of them.
It tasted like a blood oath consumed with the intoxication of the world’s finest wine.
Time seemed to slow as they stared at me. I should have stormed over there and demanded to know what their problems were. But it was the red bandana wrapped around Corbin’s hand, the hand I had bitten, that had me thinking better of it.
I forced myself to look away, turning towards the archway made of dried corn bundles that marked the entrance and exit to the festival area.
As soon as I cleared the courtyard and crossed over Main Street, I felt relief wash over me, though the slight pang of guilt from the sight of Corbin’s makeshift bandage lingered.
It still wasn’t enough to erase the sticky, invisible sensation of glue post-shift, the chilling creep factor Chad left in his wake, or the heat rolling through my veins that Bale and Corbin had sparked.
The further down the sidewalk I got, the heavier the silence around town got.
All the shops had long closed before dusk due to the celebrations.
Making it to the end of the street, I turned the corner where the town’s worship of all things of the fall season stood embodied as a bronzed statue.
Carved into the base of the massive piece of art was a scarecrow the size of a doll, a crow perched on its shoulder.
It was funny how tonight I saw scarecrows in a completely different light. I turned and kept walking down the small side street, passing the side entrance of the library. The interior was all dim save for a faint glow from the egress windows of the basement.
With exhaustion tugging on me, I wrote it off as janitorial staff forgetting to turn off the basement lights and continued down the small road that led home.
Ten minutes later, I was turning onto the long dirt driveway.
The porch lights on the main house were a beacon of something familiar and safe.
The second-floor windows were illuminated, the light shining through the drawn curtains indicated my mother was likely up working while sitting on her exercise bike in the master bedroom.
The set of windows next to it, Beth’s room, were dark, but I knew she was likely just in bed scrolling through her phone while talking with friends.
I cut through the first floor of my parents’ house, dropping off the bag of apples on the kitchen counter. Not before taking one for myself.
Passing the bottom of the steps, I paused as my mom’s voice called from upstairs.
“Har, is that you? Did you get the apples?”
A tiny smile tugged at my lips. She didn’t miss anything.
“Yeah, they’re on the counter,” I responded.
There was the distinctive clicking sound of her unclipping her special riding shoes from the exercise machine.
Before she could ask about the festival, I scooted away from the stairs to avoid conversations I didn’t want to have.
Leaving through the back door, I followed the worn path to the cozier caretaker house that I called my own.
“No place like home,” I murmured dryly as I paused at the front door. The aged, heavy wooden door was a welcome sight after a day far more eventful than I could have foreseen.
Stepping inside, I shut the door behind me and flipped on the overhead lights. Before getting more than two steps into the rustic living area with exposed beams for ceilings and furniture designed for basic comfort, I looked down at the apple still clutched in my hand.
Huffing out, I turned and went right back to the front door and yanked it open with more force than needed. I placed the apple on the welcome mat outside.
“Stupid fucking tradition.”
Yet here I was doing it anyway. Maybe it would keep the shadows of whatever unlikely ghoul, goblin, or scarecrow away for one night.
I slammed the door shut with finality.