Chapter 14
14
Elliot Crane
Are you doing okay?
Seth Mays
Fine.
You?
I’m good.
What are you up to this weekend?
I still wasn’t sure how I felt about Elliot texting me. It was familiar—but at the same time, I recognized that it was our constant text exchanges that had gotten me into this mess in the first place. And yeah, okay, I was glad I’d moved out here, even if it didn’t end up with me and Elliot together, but it had also given me the gnawing ache under my sternum that I wasn’t particularly enjoying.
It was weird, if I were being honest. It felt like we’d broken up, but we’d never been together in the first place.
I was the one who had crossed the boundaries Elliot had set and I’d agreed to, but now that I was trying to actually uphold those boundaries, Elliot was the one who was texting me first.
I kept telling myself that I needed to stop hoping every time I got a message. To stop thinking of it as a what-if and just recognize that he was texting me the way a friend would. The way Quincy would. Or Hart.
Except no matter how many times I told myself to stop hoping, every time the little chime went off telling me I had a message, my heart beat a little faster, wondering if it was Elliot.
I sighed, then answered his question, because clearly I was terrible at learning my lessons.
I started a fire investigation course.
Like, arson investigation?
Yeah.
Is that something you’re interested in?
I am, yeah.
That’s good, then.
Congrats.
I didn’t explain that this was the first time I’d worked a fire scene. Richmond had its own arson investigation team who got called in to process fire scenes. So the burned-out car off highway 29 had been the first time I’d been at any sort of fire. The fact that it had been arson was coincidental. But now that I knew that was a possibility… Let’s just say that one of the coolest things about chemistry is that chemicals do really interesting things when you combine them with fire and heat. The way things melt can tell you a lot about what they’re made of or what they aren’t made of, and so on.
I knew some of that from biochem, but I hadn’t gotten to use it very much—occasionally there would be evidence that someone had set fire to in a trash can or thrown into a fireplace, but that had been the extent of it. Being able to play with accelerants and test things like melting temperatures and interactions between different things just seemed like fun.
I had a moment of regret that I didn’t have my lab equipment here in Shawano.
I’d looked into a storage unit, and they were cheaper out here, but what I didn’t have was the amount of money it would take to move a whole bunch of expensive and precise lab equipment that would require very careful packing and/or specialist movers. I’d have to save up for a year or two before I’d be able to even think about affording that .
I deliberately closed the text app, forcing myself to finish getting dressed so that I could drive the hour or so it would take to get to the training site in Green Bay.
Then I changed my mind, opened it again, and sent a message to Quincy. I’m starting fire investigation training today!
It was early, so I didn’t figure she’d respond for a few hours yet, because when left to her own devices, Quincy was about as much of a morning person as Noah—which was to say not at all.
I was pouring coffee out of my new thrift store french press into my travel mug when my phone buzzed.
Jealous! Quincy had sent me. I’d rather be doing that right now. Instead, I’m staring down at another hit and run. Remember the faun from March?
I remembered. Yeah. Another faun?
No, she sent back. Elf.
I winced. That sucks , I sent back.
Yeah, came her response. But cool about fire investigation. You joining arson or something?
We don’t have an arson team, I informed her. Too small. Sheriff’s Office does the investigation, and they send someone from fire out of Peshtigo.
Where the fuck is Peshtigo?
I laughed a little, since I’d said almost the exact same thing to Ziemer.
Close-ish to Green Bay , I sent back.
Where the Packers are?
Yeah. I followed it up with a smiley and a small cheese emoji. I gotta get going, I sent her. Talk later?
Me, too, came her reply. And yes!!!
At least I was smiling by the time I got out the door.
“Arson investigation is going to be so cool!” Quincy gushed over the phone.
I smiled, even though she couldn’t see me. I was making myself some sandwiches for dinner after having had a very long day, and I had Quincy on speaker. “I’m excited,” I told her. “Most of today was just logistics—what it’s going to take, what firefighter training includes, how the certification exam works, that sort of thing. But I’m actually kind of excited for the firefighter training.”
“Seriously?” She sounded incredulous. “You want to learn how to run into a burning building?”
“I mean—I have shifter strength and speed now,” I pointed out. “I might as well use them.”
“And not tell anyone?”
I was quiet for a moment, then figured I might as well tell her. “There are eight of us, and we’re all Nids.” Mostly shifters, plus one faun and one orc. The faun, an Indigenous guy named Nathaniel Rivers, didn’t have to do the firefighter training because he already was one. The orc, an absolutely massive woman who had to have been nearly as tall as Mason Manning with vibrant green skin and bright yellow eyes named Kitty Matuszak, would be doing training with me, as would another wolf shifter named Bruce Demain.
We would, Ziemer explained to us after he’d let the rest of them go, be doing our training with normies and Arcs, but it was up to us whether or not those of us who could pass actually wanted to try.
He left unsaid the fact that in a life-or-death situation, it would probably become crystal clear to whomever we lifted something way too heavy off of that we weren’t human.
Bruce had looked nervous about that. Kitty clearly didn’t have a choice. It didn’t make me nervous, exactly. Just… resigned. I didn’t necessarily like the idea of running around waving my shifter flag, but I also didn’t want to lie about what I was—not really. I still felt weird about not masking in places like the grocery store, because it definitely got you weird looks, but, then again, if I’d become a different kind of Nid, it wouldn’t be an issue of choosing.
I decided I was just going to do what I did—not try to hide being a shifter, but not wearing my Hands and Paws t-shirt, either. At least until I put it on at the end of a laundry cycle and promptly forgot.
Ziemer had given us our schedules—when we had our firefighting training, when we had classes, when we had off. The program was designed for people with jobs—we had classes a couple nights a week, but online, so we could log in from home to do the classroom portion. Over the next year, we’d do weekend in-person training, finishing our firefighting training after about six months, then continuing for another year-and-a-half after that with both in-person and online classes and tutorials before we were ready to take our certification exams—those of us who stuck with it, anyway.
I told all this to Quincy, who let out a low whistle. “So everybody in fire investigation is a Nid?”
“I mean, everybody in my class is,” I replied, putting my completed sandwiches on a plate and sitting down at my small kitchen table—a Habitat thrift store acquisition. “And Chief Ziemer is.”
“Huh.”
“It does kind of make sense,” I pointed out. “Speed, strength, and our senses of smell.”
“I thought you hated doing that sniff-test thing for Maginot,” Quincy said.
“Apparently I was doing it wrong,” I told her. “Or so the Chief maintains.”
“I mean, I hope so, if you’re going to have to do it again. Because you looked like you were in hell.”
“Oh, I was,” I assured her. “So I am not particularly looking forward to those classes. But if it’s better and it helps us solve an arson case or a murder…”
“Yeah, that’s always how it goes, isn’t it?” she said, and she sounded tired.
“How?” I asked, taking a bite of my turkey sandwich.
“We do whatever it takes,” she replied. “Late nights, skipped meals, shit pay, three-a.m. calls, lost weekends…”
“And burning out our nasal cavities,” I added.
“Exactly.”
“Long day?” I asked her.
“Ugh,” she said. “Long week. Long month.” She sighed heavily. “Honestly, it sucks a lot more without you here.”
I felt emotion push at my throat, and I had to set down the sandwich I’d been about to take another bite of. “Aw, Quince.”
“I’m not mad or anything,” she said hurriedly. “Just… we had a good team. And now it sucks because they just… didn’t even try to replace you. Not that you’re replaceable.”
I knew what she meant. “I get it,” I told her. “We were already barely making it, and being permanently a person down has to be hellish.”
“You don’t need another person in wherever-the-fuck-you-are, do you?”
“Is it really that bad?” I asked, worried about her.
Another gusty sigh. “No, not really. We’ve just had a string over the last couple weeks, probably because it’s been hot as balls.” Heat made people short-tempered, and that meant more homicides.
“I’m sorry,” I told her.
“Ugh. Let’s stop talking about work. Work sucks.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
“How’s your hottie?”
It was my turn to sigh. “Let’s just say he doesn’t feel the same way about me, and that has been made crystal clear,” I told her, admitting it out loud putting a pit in my stomach.
“Oh, shit, that sucks,” Quincy moaned in sympathy.
“Yeah, well. I did it to myself,” I replied, trying to force an equanimity I didn’t feel. “How’s Aaron?”
“He’s good!” She sounded genuinely happy. “We’ve been having more serious conversations, I guess. Nothing too serious, though,” she hastened to say, stalling whatever questions I might have been about to ask. “But, ohmigod, we’re going to look at a couple senior kitties tomorrow!”
“That is exciting!” I said. “You’d better send me pictures.”
“Oh, definitely.”
We spent another half-hour or so talking about the senior cat setup she and Aaron had put together, how many cats she wanted to eventually foster at once, but how they were going to start with just two.
She seemed in better spirits when we hung up, and so was I, although it did make me miss her. I hadn’t thought we were really that close, but moving halfway across the country will teach you who your real friends are, I guess.
Mine were Quincy and a crotchety elf.
So I texted him to tell him about starting fire investigation training.
Good for you , came back almost immediately. You can start by getting away with burning down Elliot’s garage.
Why would I do that? I asked him.
Because he’s a stubborn furry asshole and deserves to have a fire lit under his ass , Hart replied, and I couldn’t help a half-strangled laugh that, had anyone heard it, probably would have made me sound slightly insane.
He’s been clear about what he wants, I sent back. And what he doesn’t.
He doesn’t know what the fuck he wants , Hart informed me.
I let out a long breath. Not much I can do about that , I told him.
Stupid dick. Not you. You are neither stupid nor a dick.
I snorted. Thanks, I think.
I am also a dick, Hart texted. See previous messages.
I did laugh out loud at that, and sent him the appropriate lol.
Did anybody tell you Ward and Doc adopted fucking kids? he asked me.
I blinked at the non sequitur. No?!?!
My phone started buzzing, and I swiped it. “They adopted kids ? As in, plural? Don’t they already have Mason’s nephew?”
“Two of them, yeah,” came Hart’s voice. “Taavi’s basically become an uncle,” he said, and I could hear both the affection in his voice and his attempt to not sound like he was enjoying any of it.
“But not you?”
Hart snorted. “I work too fucking much,” he replied. “Also, I’m me .”
“Right. I forgot that part.”
“Jackass,” the surly elf grumbled at me, but I could feel my face smiling.
A beat or two passed before I spoke again. “So you’re just going to tell me they adopted two kids and leave it there?”
“Zane and Grace,” he said. “They’re like a week apart in age or some shit, so basically twins. Zane’s a faun, Grace is an orc. I guess both came up for adoption around the same time, and those two big softies couldn’t decide between them.”
“Jesus,” I murmured.
“Jesus is fucking right,” Hart replied. “One ten-eleven-however-the-fuck-old-he-is death witch nephew, and now an infant faun and infant orc. They’re both out of their fucking minds.”
“Not much work getting done at BTV, I guess, then.”
Hart snorted. “They just bring the babies to work. My office is now a goddamn nursery.”
“You planning to use it again?” I asked him.
“Nah,” came his reply. “It’s just weird. Those two are so fucking domestic.”
I couldn’t help smiling again, although I didn’t say anything to Hart—but the baking-obsessed elf was one to call someone else domestic. I knew Mason cooked, but I wasn’t sure that cooking qualified as any more—or less—domestic than baking. “So no kids for you?”
“Fuck, no. Taavi can have his students and play uncle for the Campion-Manning brood. I want to sleep in on my precious few days off, not wake up five times a night to change diapers and feed some greedy little shit that can’t wipe its own ass.”
I was laughing outright now. I didn’t know that I wanted kids, either, but I felt like I was slightly more positively inclined toward the possibility than Hart was. “But Uncle Hart—” I made my voice into a sing-song whine.
“I will fucking cut you, Mays.”