Chapter 7 #2
The next few hours pass on autopilot. My hands know the motions—restocking the bar, prepping ingredients, checking the beer lines.
I chop onions for the French onion soup, the rhythmic thunk of the knife against the cutting board almost meditative.
I check the taps, making sure each beer pours clean and clear.
I wipe down tables, arrange chairs, unlock the front door.
But my mind is elsewhere. With Quinn. Wondering if she slept after I left her window. Wondering if she remembers the amber-flecked eyes that watched her in the forest. Wondering if, when I finally tell her the truth, she'll run.
The tavern starts to fill around eleven thirty. Locals mostly. Old Tom takes his usual seat at the end of the bar, his gnarled hands wrapping around a mug of coffee. The Henderson sisters claim their favorite table by the window and talk quietly over their menus.
They all know what I am. What my family is. Redwood Rise has always had a way of attracting people who can accept the strange, the magical, the impossible. Or maybe the town chooses them. The ley lines pulling at those who can handle the truth.
I'm behind the bar pulling a pint when the door opens and Quinn walks in.
Everything stops.
My bear surges forward, recognition and need slamming through me with enough force to steal my breath. The glass in my hand threatens to shatter. I set it down carefully, because I don't trust myself to hold it steady.
She's wearing jeans and a soft blue sweater that makes her eyes look even more grey-green than usual, like storm clouds over the ocean. Her hair is down, falling in waves around her shoulders, and she looks tired but determined. Like she's come here with purpose.
Our eyes meet across the tavern, and I feel it again. That pull, that certainty. Mine.
She crosses the room, weaving between tables, and the world narrows to just her.
The way she moves, fluid and unselfconscious.
The way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, nervous.
The way she slides onto a barstool directly in front of me, so close I can smell her—that same crisp autumn scent, now mixed with the faint trace of Evelyn's lavender soap from the Pinecrest.
Up close, I can see the faint shadows under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders. She didn't sleep well. Neither did I.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi yourself." My voice comes out rougher than I intend, scraped raw by exhaustion and want.
"Coffee?"
"Please. And whatever you recommend for lunch. I'm starving."
She's looking at me differently today. Searching my face like she's trying to solve a puzzle and I'm the missing piece. Her fingers drum against the bar top—once, twice—before she stills them.
I pour her coffee, and our fingers brush when I hand her the mug. The contact sends electricity through me, sharp and undeniable. From the way her breath catches, the slight widening of her eyes, she feels it too.
Quinn sets the mug down slowly, deliberately. Her hands tremble slightly. "Eli, can I ask you something?"
Every instinct I have is screaming at me. This is it. This is the moment Calder warned me about. The moment where I either tell her the truth or lose her forever.
"Anything," I say, even though the word tastes like a promise I'm not sure I can keep.
She takes a sip of coffee, gathering her courage. I watch her throat work as she swallows. "Last night, I went for a walk in the forest. And I saw...”
A vibration runs through the tavern.
It's subtle—most of the humans don't notice. A glass shivers against the bar top. The lights dim for half a heartbeat before returning to normal. But I feel it deep in my bones, in the place where my bear lives. The ley lines, thrumming beneath us like a second heartbeat.
Quinn's eyes widen. Her hand goes to her chest, fingers splaying over her sternum, pressing hard. Like she's trying to feel what's suddenly woken up inside her.
"Did you feel that?" Her voice is barely a whisper.
"Feel what?" Old Tom calls from his corner booth, oblivious.
But Quinn isn't looking at him. She's looking at me, and then past me, her gaze drifting toward the back of the tavern. Toward the cellar door. She can sense what's beneath, pulsing in the dark.
"Quinn?" I reach for her hand across the bar.
She blinks, her focus snapping back to me. Her eyes hold a new awareness. Confusion, yes, but also a flicker of recognition. Like she's felt this before and doesn't understand why.
"I need to go." She stands abruptly, nearly knocking over her coffee mug. "I have to—I need to think."
"Quinn, wait...”
But she's already backing toward the door, her notebook clutched against her chest like armor. "Tomorrow. I'll come back tomorrow, and you're going to tell me what's really going on here."
It's not a question. It's a demand.
Then she's gone, the door swinging shut behind her, and I'm left standing behind my bar with the ley lines still humming beneath my feet and no idea how to give her the truth she's demanding.