1. Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Delilah
Something the movies don’t tell you about surviving a werewolf’s bite?
For one, you will spend a fortune on concealer. Covering a wolf-teeth sized bite mark is easier than convincing people your sweet corgi puppy mistook you for a frisbee. You will also risk tearing a generous amount of your favorite clothing items–though, to be fair, that hasn’t stopped me from collecting pretty dresses.
There’s no use crying over spilled milk, but I’ve found it helps every once in a while.
At first, I cried all the time, drenched my pillow in tears and snot.
But I had to choose between exiling myself in some out-of-town, abandoned basement or trying to live my life as normally as possible; with the only survey takers being me and my best friend Faye, basement talk was quickly dismissed.
“Most people don’t survive the bite at all,” Faye told me at first in an attempt to comfort me.
“Most people don’t get turned into werewolves,” I countered with a pout.
All I ever wanted for my life was a place to call home, and I’m thankful for the cottage I grew up in that my parents let me keep after they moved. I wanted to work with flowers–with the proper care, they’re as resilient as they are fragile, and Myrta was kind enough to hire me at her flower shop as soon as I asked for a job. She knew me before the bite, and she was one of the few people I felt I could tell after. Don’t get me wrong, everyone in Fern Port is perfectly aware of the kind of creatures that walk among them. I just don’t want anyone to look at me differently.
As for love…not that I’d been having great luck in the department before being able to sprout fangs and claws, but it’s safe to say the bite has complicated things.
By complicated, I mean it made the prospect of ever finding someone just this side of impossible.
I once wondered if dating someone like me could be easier, but despite living in such a small town and being acquainted with everyone, I’m not actually privy to the details as to who bears a supernatural burden here, save for a few exceptions.
That means fellow werewolves aren’t the only thing to worry about; I guess it also means that the supernatural dating pool might be slightly less shallow.
I’m not sure that, say, a vampire-werewolf pairing would work. They’d crave my blood, and I might try to bite them back in defense and listen–blood is annoying to scrub off fabric, which I know from my human paper cut days. I haven’t ever murdered or bitten anyone (which I realize is the bare minimum). Just because it happened to me, it doesn’t mean anyone else should suffer, right?
It’s one of my biggest fears, the idea of hurting someone when I’m not completely myself. It’s the reason Faye has always helped me take precautions… Well, almost always. Turning isn’t something you can get better at with practice, but it’s safe to say I’ve learned a lot from it. Namely, that I can’t be left to my own devices.
I guess you could say sometimes it feels lonely in such an all-encompassing way, I wouldn’t have known how to describe it before. I miss having options. I miss not having to worry about moon phases, about chains strong enough to keep me contained, about being inconspicuous.
It’s hard not to think about what could have happened, had things been different. The people I could have met. Or loved.
I sigh as I select a deep pink midi dress from my wardrobe, the one with silky faux buttons that flares at the bottom, and reminds me of a hibiscus. I sit at my small dressing table, staring at my reflection. I’ve taken the habit of reminding myself of the humanity that is left in me every morning, and every night before bed. It might be a silly ritual, but it’s one thing I have control over, and it gives me courage.
“You’re still you,” I say as I pick up the hairbrush to detangle my sleep-tousled locks. “You’re still Delilah.”
I’m almost ready to leave for work, munching on the last bit of a slice of toasted bread and jam before I grab my purse, say goodbye to my dog, Blaine–
Then my phone pings with a notification.
And the thing is, when in a hurry, I usually don’t do more than glance at the phone, establish the urgency to text back, and resolve to reply at a less chaotic time.
But when I see the message is from Dad, my neurons all but freeze.
Grayson’s tree in full bloom. I thought you’d like to see it.
I stare at the photo, that specific brand of upset I always get when I allow myself to forget even for a moment making my stomach clench. I haven’t seen that Jacaranda tree in person in what seems like a century, but it can’t have been more than a year. I swallow, an image of my brother climbing the sturdy branches and offering a hand to me flashing in my mind before I shut it out. Out of my daze, my eyes move to the top of the screen, and I realize I’m about to be late.
Which never, ever happens, because there is exactly one florist in town and I desperately want to keep my job, even though I’d probably be comfortable betting on my good set of spatulas that Myrta wouldn’t fire me–she’s not fond of tears as a concept.
I fling myself out of the door, not bothering to lock up as I march toward the shop. It’s a ten-minute walk at best, but I’m busy counting back from one hundred in an attempt not to worry that I’m not walking fast enough or suspiciously too fast, when I collide against a wall. A pillar? How did I not see –
“You shouldn’t look at the ground when you’re walking,” a low voice says, and I blink a few times only to find myself pressed against a firm chest.
I skitter back, a furious blush rising on my cheeks.
“You shouldn’t be so hard,” I mumble.
“I beg your pardon?” he asks in a distinctly British accent.
“I–nothing!” I say, louder. It’s too early in the morning to expect coherence from me. I am about to bid this man a good day and get out of the way, but I make the mistake of looking up, and my breath catches in my throat. His dark eyebrows are raised, as if either in expectation or surprise, but I’m the one who is awestruck. He can’t be much older than me, but there’s something in the near black of his eyes and the hard planes of his face that tells me he’s been through a lot. His lips are full, jaw cleanly shaven, and the azure blue of his shirt collar contrasts so perfectly with his irises that instead of staying safe in my brain, the words leave my mouth.
“Oh wow, you’re beautiful.”
His eyes widen, it feels like my chest might catch fire, and before I can make any more of a fool of myself, I turn and run to Myrta’s.
Cedric
What just happened?
Did a stranger, and the first person I met in this town, collide into me, call me beautiful, and proceed with their day as if nothing happened?
I find myself keenly watching the spot she disappeared to, her floral perfume still lingering in the air. I shake my head and regain movement in my limbs when a bike nearly rolls over my feet.
Deep breaths, Cedric. You can do this for a few weeks.
I straighten my tie and grab the hand-drawn map the ferry driver kindly offered me upon my arrival. He clearly has no future as an artist, but it does the job well enough; it looks like I was going in the right direction before that girl crashed into me.
I look around me as I walk, taking in the stubby, pastel-painted buildings and numerous stalls rolling their shutters up and putting banners in place. Apparently, I was so lucky as to get sent here in time for some town food festival–though I don’t care enough to ask for details, lest the people get ideas about extending invitations. Unbidden, a pang of something like disappointment blossoms in my chest when I realize that girl is nowhere to be seen.
A few more minutes of walking and avoiding eye contact with the townspeople take me to my destination: Myrta’s Greenery, aka the one place I should find what I’m looking for.
What I’ve been sent here to secure, rather.
I push on the rose-shaped, rusty pommel of the shop. The doorbell jingles when I enter, and a kaleidoscope of colors assaults my pupils: dozens of rainbow-tinted pots hang from the ceiling, each containing different plants, ranging from deep greens dotted with pale yellow to bright ones with large, disproportionate leaves. Several large pots litter the floor, too, filled to the brim with bouquets of impossibly big daisies, striped tulips, as well as other flower species I wouldn’t be able to identify.
There is no one is behind the white stone-like counter, and I can’t hear anyone speaking either. I step closer, nearly tripping on a tender-looking branch that escaped the confines of its pot. When I reach the counter, I hear a low humming sound, though I can’t tell where it’s coming from. I notice the chipped, fake gold buzzer, and I’m about to press on it when a strawberry-blonde head of hair emerges from below the counter.
It’s her.
“How may I–oh, no.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“Listen, sir, I will not pay you for any damages, given–”
“ Sir ? I’m twenty-nine.”
“You don’t look twenty-nine,” the girl says with a placating smile, as if I should simply accept that I apparently look like an old man. “In any case, you’re the one who has a very hard, uh, chest, so I couldn’t have possibly hurt you, and–”
Right. My chest. “I’m not here to ask you for damage compensation.”
“You’re not?” she asks, cheeks burning bright. Her fluster is dangerously cute.
“No,” I continue, feeling for the company’s business card in my jacket’s pocket. “I’m here on behalf of–”
“The register is empty!” she cries, raising her hands in surrender.
My brows furrow, until I realize she thinks I’m going to rob her.
“How would a gun fit inside a blazer?” I ask, genuinely puzzled.
“Technology is moving real fast, sir,” she breathes, eyeing my hand.
“Again, I’m–alright, you know what? Never mind. Is the owner here? So I can no longer trouble you. ”
She slowly lowers her hands, and only then do I notice she’s wearing a pair of gloves that are definitely too hot for this weather. I’m no expert and assume they must be for gardening, though they look an awful lot like regular, winter-appropriate gloves.
“Myrta–the owner–just called to say she will not be here sooner than ten,” she replies, moving her arms to her back, as if she’d sensed I noticed the odd accessory. Maybe she doesn’t like her hands.
But two hours? What the hell am I going to do for two hours?
“You can wait here if you’d like,” she says, cocking her head to the side, hair swishing with the motion. I cast my gaze to the right, where a ripped corduroy cushion sits on top of a precarious-looking chair.
“I’ll pass, thank you,” I say, and I could swear her chest deflates with relief.
“I suppose I will see you later, sir–ehm, sunny day , that we are having,” she quickly pivots after I give her an eloquent look.
The save threatens to rob me of a smile.
“Rosie across the street makes excellent breakfast food, by the way,” she adds then.
I’m about to thank her again, though when I look at her, truly look at her… well, fuck me.
It’s not that I hadn’t noticed she had a pretty face, but pretty is simply not an exhaustive word. Now that she’s not panicking or scrambling away for me I can take in her wide hazel eyes, the most charming upturned nose, parted bow-shaped lips, and a mane of wavy hair. Her dress hugs her figure perfectly, the scalloped sleeves strikingly similar to the flower composition I spied at the entrance. She reminds me of spring .
I blink twice, clearing my throat as I drag my gaze away from her tentative smile. I’m not going to get distracted–I’ll be in and out of this town in a few weeks, if all goes smoothly.
I knock on the counter before starting toward the door. When my hand curls around the handle to pull it open, something possesses me to turn. Her eyes are still on me when I say, “So are you, by the way. Beautiful.”