Chapter Six
F riday night settles in, temperate and beautiful—just warm enough for short sleeves, the air just crisp enough to make being outside tolerable. Guy’s house is alight with soft lanterns and gently burning candles, white tablecloth high-tops, an old-time bluegrass quartet playing in the corner of the patio, and liquor flowing freely. I’d spent most of the day in my room watching workers come in and out to set things up, only finally emerging at the appointed hour.
I didn’t see any point in resisting because, right now, I just need to survive.
The day after I first emailed Dawn—well, Guy emailed Dawn, so she thinks—I got a reply that the request was in and that it would take about two weeks to get the certified copy, but it would be in the office when it was ready. I permanently deleted the chain. Now all I have to do is wait, spend the remaining days of June doing what I can to prepare myself, and not draw any ire from Guy.
A white-coated bartender hands me a flute of champagne, and I accept it. Across the patio, Guy, casual yet polished in a light summer suit, speaks with a jowly businessman and nods to me. I lift my glass in acknowledgment. The businessman’s deep-set eyes follow Guy’s gaze to me and linger for a minute, almost hungrily.
I straighten my shoulders. Well, I guess I can’t blame him.
I picked out a sleeveless dress in mint with a matching bow holding back the short front pieces of my hair that can barely be called bangs, plus some wedge heels and a swipe of makeup that just...appeared in my bathroom.
So I know what I look like. And honestly, I don’t mind playing dress-up, even if I tell myself it’s just a disguise to keep myself safe.
Guy motions for me to join him, and I slowly make my way across the patio, weaving through party guests, pretending I don’t hear their murmurs and stares as I go. I have no doubt that Guy put it out to whoever he invited here that Richard De Mornay’s long-lost, abused, orphaned daughter was under his wing now.
And that, in itself, is noteworthy for the gossips of Sherwood.
That, and the fact that I look hot as shit, and I know it.
“Maren,” Guy says, and his hand finds the small of my back to guide me into place. He indicates his conversation partner. “Tobin Anderson the Third.”
“You don’t know me,” the jowly guy says, “but I knew your daddy. Fine man, that Richard.”
“Thank you,” I say, nodding.
“And a loyal customer,” Mr. Anderson goes on, guffawing in a way that sets the red flesh of his face bouncing.
Something about the phrasing sends a jolt down my spine, which I hide, for whatever reason. It makes me think of Rob because my dad was, technically speaking, a loyal customer of his too.
“Mr. Anderson is president of Sherwood National Bank,” Guy explains.
“Oh,” I say and paint a smile on my face with a slight nod. “Of course.”
“ Retiring President Anderson,” he corrects. “Just another two weeks, and I’ll be free as a bird.” He puffs his chest out a little. “I’m going to sail around the world with the wife.”
“Well, congratulations,” Guy says. “Shame you’ll miss the Fourth of July to-do in town.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss that for the world,” Anderson says, patting his considerable stomach. “Certainly not the barbecue. You’ll be there, I take it?” His eyes go from Guy to me.
I do some quick mental math. The Fourth of July is about when my birth certificate should be in. If I don’t have to be in Sherwood, I won’t. But it seems easier just to go along with whatever, at least for this conversation. So I nod.
“Looking forward to it.”
“Oh, we’ll be there,” Guy says, flashing a look at me that barely confirms that I’ve registered anything, let alone affirmed as much. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
We? I think.
“Well, you can’t now, can you?” Mr. Anderson says, ribbing Guy. “Now that you’re going for this prominent position.”
“Indeed,” Guy smiles ruefully. “Lots of shaking hands and kissing babies to do.” Both of them chuckle.
I feel my stomach growl and wish there was something more for me to eat. There are all kinds of nice little appetizers circulating on platters, but for some reason, the waitstaff always seems to be just out of reach when I approach. I eye a waiter with a tray of pigs in a blanket lustfully.
“It’s a necessary evil, my friend,” says Mr. Anderson. “Fortunately, you’ve got lovely company.” He nods at me.
My mind spins. “Oh yes, I’m just, uh...”
“A family friend,” Guy finishes for me. “I’ve known the de Mornays for ages.”
“Of course,” Mr. Anderson says.
“Though I have to admit,” Guy goes on, “I do enjoy a good parade. There’s something about the way life’s supposed to be in a Fourth of July parade—you know, honoring our heritage, our first responders, our local community organizations.”
“Spoken like a true politician,” Mr. Anderson says, chuckling into his glass. I snort a little myself. “So, not participating in any of the mountain man games then?” he says, looking at Guy.
“The what?” I ask.
Guy scoffs. “He’s joking. He’s referring to all the sporting events sponsored by the Fox Hunt Club. You know, an actual fox hunt, some equestrian events, the archery tournament.”
In spite of myself, my heart skips a beat at that last one. Not that I’m any great shot, but, well, I don’t miss when it counts anyway.
“Planning on entering, Maren?” Mr. Anderson asks.
“Oh God, no,” I say quickly. “I just—I didn’t realize that was something people still did,” I finish lamely.
Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think I see Guy working his jaw.
“Unfortunately, not all of the practices that are traditional around here are so noble and refined,” he says. “And the archery competition tends to draw out some...rougher characters.”
Mr. Anderson’s face is so pink now he must be drunk, and he’s speaking very freely, which I, for one, kind of appreciate, because I can’t help it—an archery tournament? I mean, obviously that’s something Rob would enter. He might be entering, for all I know, except for the fact that he’s probably trying to lay low.
“Oh no,” I say, feigning shock. “That doesn’t sound good at all.”
“No, missy,” he says, wagging a sausage-like finger. “A while back, there was the same person winning every year, as soon as he was 16 and old enough to enter.” He lets out a low whistle through his teeth.
“There will be plenty of other things to keep us occupied,” Guy interjects. “Tobin, if you’ll excuse us.” He flashes a smile and lightly presses a hand to the small of my back to whisk me in a different direction.
“Forgive me,” Guy says, whispering in my ear, “but if I didn’t get us out of there, we would have been stuck talking with him all night.”
I bristle a little and slide out of Guy’s gentle grasp. “Oh, he didn’t seem too bad,” I say lightly.
“No, no,” Guy replies, casting a glance over his shoulder. “But the point here is to mingle. I’m trying to make a good impression on people. After all, you’re not bored, I take it?”
“Not to death ,” I answer truthfully.
A waitress in her mid-60s with a tray of mini quiches scoots past us, just out of reach when I grab for her. “Damn it.”
“Hungry?” Guy asks. He dips to the surface of a table as we pass and hands me a spring roll.
“Thanks,” I say, because it was generous of him, except it’s just a mouthful of tasteless vegetables wrapped in rice paper. I eat it in two bites and wish I had another.
“Hang in there,” he says, and then someone motions for his attention.
“Ah, Mrs. Vandelay, how good to see you! And Ms. Williamson, of course.”
Two society matrons engulf him, visibly pleased at having the full attention of the handsome young lawyer, and I take the opportunity to sneak away.
I DON’T GET FAR, JUST to the library, where I idly stroll around and sink onto one of the leather armchairs with my half-drunk glass of champagne. I lean back and close my eyes, imagining my birth certificate like I’m trying to manifest it into my hands, but I have to wait.
The library’s no different than it was on my first visit—shelves lined with books that look like they’ve never been touched. Not that I blame him. Half of them are ancient, filled with things no one reads anymore, or maybe never did. Still, I find myself wandering toward them, maybe because I’ve had one too many glasses of champagne, or maybe because the idea of making small talk for another hour makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
I trail a finger along the spines, the faint smell of leather and dust hanging in the air. “Might as well,” I mutter, pulling a random volume from the shelf.
It’s as dull as I expected—some old tome about the history of European literature, endless passages about art and philosophy that make my head swim. I set it aside and reach for another, thumbing through the pages without really seeing them. I’m tipsy enough that I figure maybe something will grab me, but so far, no luck.
Until I see it.
The book’s cover catches my eye—intricate blue leather, the spine embossed with a long, curling Latin title. I squint, the letters blurring a little under the soft light. I can’t make out a word of it, but something about it pulls at me. I tug it off the shelf, open it carefully, and that’s when I see the pictures.
Engravings, delicate and strange. Men transforming into animals—wolves, bears, birds. Creatures that are almost human, but not quite. There’s something familiar about the images, something that makes my heart pick up speed.
Shapeshifters .
It hits me all at once, like a gust of wind. This is some kind of book about shifters, like Rob and Will and Tuck and LJ. Holy shit.
I flip through the pages faster now, my mind racing.
Guy must know. He must know that shifters are real. The realization sends a jolt through me, and I keep turning the pages, trying to make sense of the strange engravings, but—
“Find something to interest you?”
I gasp and drop the book, my heart leaping into my throat. I whirl around, my pulse pounding in my ears. There’s Guy, standing in the doorway with the top of his shirt unbuttoned, his tie loosened, looking every bit the relaxed host now that the event’s over.
His eyes flicker to the book lying at my feet. He’s smiling, but there’s something sharp in his gaze.
“Oh, uh...” I stammer, trying to play it cool despite the pounding in my chest. “I didn’t see you come in. How’d the rest of the party go?” I can hear the shakiness in my voice, so I keep talking, as if filling the silence will calm me. “Everyone seemed like they were having a great time.” I phrase it like a question.
Guy just hums, polite but vague, not really engaging as he steps closer. He’s not even looking at me anymore; his eyes are fixed on the book I dropped. My skin prickles, and before I can react, he stoops down, scooping it up with unsettling calmness.
It’s too late to pretend I wasn’t reading it. His fingers glide over the blue leather cover, tracing the intricate details like he’s reacquainting himself with an old friend. His expression shifts, his face tightening with something I can’t quite place.
“That’s not a book for nice girls like you to read,” he says softly, his voice taking on a strange mix of amusement and...something darker.
He snaps the book shut, the thud of the thick cover reverberating through the quiet room.
I swallow hard, my nerves on edge. “What do you mean?” I manage to ask, though my voice feels small.
Guy’s eyes meet mine, a glimmer of something vicious in them. He slides the book back onto the shelf with a deliberate motion, but doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he studies me for a moment longer, his smile widening in that way that makes my stomach twist.
“It’s just... old stories,” he says, his tone light but dripping with something sinister. His whole demeanor has shifted—he’s animated now, like he’s caught the scent of prey, eager, poised, but ever composed. “Legends of things that can’t possibly exist. Men turning into beasts, magic that only belongs in fairy tales.”
He steps closer, close enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne, and lowers his voice. “But you and I both know the world isn’t always what it seems, don’t we?”
My heart stutters in my chest as he continues, the air thick with a tension I can’t escape. “Some things are best left alone, Maren. Especially by someone like you.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, but the question comes out too soft, too afraid. There’s something in the way Guy is staring at me, something simmering beneath the surface. It’s not just unsettling—it’s downright terrifying.
Guy’s lips curl into a smile, but it’s wrong, devoid of warmth. He steps even closer, the tension in the air tightening like a noose. “What I mean, Maren,” he begins, his voice dropping into an eerie kind of fervor, “is that my crusade for righteousness doesn’t end with the law of the land. No, the law of man is just the beginning. I strive for the law of nature—the way things are supposed to be.”
I can’t speak. My throat feels dry, my body frozen in place. Guy’s eyes are lit with a strange passion now, almost gleeful as he continues, “You see, there’s a natural order to things. There always has been. But when certain... abominations decide to stray from that order, to twist and defy the rules that govern us all—well, that’s where men like me step in.”
He’s completely serious, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous. “My interests, I’ll admit, are a bit esoteric. But I have reason to believe that Sherwood is a hotbed for these sorts of... animals. Beasts masquerading as men.” He says it like it’s an undeniable truth, something he’s been certain of for a long time. “They don’t deserve to walk this earth. And if I ever find them—if I ever catch any of these things—I’ll kill them. I’d flay them like animals. Like the vermin they are.”
My heart is hammering in my chest. The air is thick, suffocating.
He’s talking about Rob. About Will. About Tuck and LJ.
I don’t know what to say, but it wouldn’t matter anyway. My mind is spinning, caught between the icy terror of his words and the brutal reality of what this means. He wants to find them. He wants to hunt them down like animals, torture them, flay their skin. My stomach turns, bile rising in my throat. No matter how mad I might be at Rob and the others, I would never—never—wish that kind of pain on them. Guy’s not just dangerous—he’s a monster.
And if he ever finds out I’ve got something unnatural in me too...
I shudder.
My pulse races as I force myself to smile, a tight, terrified smile, praying he doesn’t see the fear I’m barely holding back. I nod like I understand, like I’m agreeing with his twisted vision of the world, and mumble something about going to bed.
I can’t let him find out what I am, what I might be capable of. Even if I don’t know it myself. I can’t stay here.