10. Fable
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Fable
Two weeks out from the crash, on a slow afternoon with the light going amber, the bookstore is empty, and I’m about to conduct a completely unscientific experiment on a supernatural creature who may or may not be lurking outside my back door.
This is not unusual behavior for me. My entire life is a series of impulsive decisions strung together with caffeine and denial.
But this particular impulsive decision feels different, more deliberate, more intentional, more like something I’ve been building toward ever since I read his FAQ answers for the seventeenth time and traced my fingers over the words you called me pretty while you were bleeding, and no one has looked at me like that in a very long time.
I’m standing behind the register, autumn light slanting through the front windows in golden stripes, dust motes spinning lazy circles in the air.
The shop smells like old paper and the pumpkin spice candle I lit this morning, and everything is quiet except for the occasional creak of the building settling and the distant sound of Mrs. Delgado’s wind chimes from the bakery next door.
Quiet enough that if someone with supernatural hearing was, say, stationed outside my back door in very dedicated stalker fashion, they might be able to hear me whisper.
This is ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous. He’s probably not even out there.
Except I know he’s out there. I’ve known for days now, ever since the FAQ exchange.
Every night, that same presence in the shadows behind my building, watchful and steady.
Every morning, small signs that someone’s been there, a displaced rock, footprints in the dew, once a perfect pinecone placed on my back step, an offering from a very strange woodland creature.
He thinks I don’t notice.
I notice everything.
ADHD brain: can’t remember to buy milk or respond to emails, can absolutely catalog every microscopic change in the environment because what if it’s IMPORTANT.
“Okay,” I breathe, barely audible even to myself. “Test one. If you can hear me, clear your throat.”
Silence.
I wait. Nothing happens. The building settles. The wind chimes tinkle faintly in the distance.
Maybe he’s not there. Maybe you imagined all of it. Maybe you’re just a crazy woman talking to herself in an empty bookstore, which honestly wouldn’t be that unusual…
A cough. Muffled, distant, but unmistakably deliberate.
Oh my god.
My heart rate spikes. I press my hand to my chest like I can physically contain the sudden thundering.
“Test two,” I whisper, even quieter this time. “Tap the wall once.”
Tap.
“Holy shit.”
I clap my hand over my mouth, because that was definitely louder than a whisper, and if he can hear me talking to myself about this, I’m going to die of embarrassment before I even get to the real experiment.
Focus. Science requires rigor. Even unhinged supernatural science.
“Test three.” I drop my voice as low as it can go while still technically being sound. “If you can hear me, knock twice on the back door.”
Silence.
My heart is pounding. This is stupid. This is so stupid. He’s not going to…
Knock. Knock.
Two sharp raps against the back door, clear as bells, precise as a response.
I burst out laughing.
I can’t help it, it bubbles up out of me, surprised and delighted, and I’m grinning like an idiot at my empty bookstore because a three-hundred-year-old lycan just passed my hearing test, diligent student that he is.
He heard me. From outside. Through a closed door. While I was basically mouthing the words.
Something has shifted in the past week, the fear softening into fascination, the wariness melting into what feels dangerously like trust. I read his FAQ answers until I had them memorized.
I traced my fingers over his handwriting, over the little wolf doodle he drew instead of answering question six, over the words that made my chest ache in ways I don’t know how to name.
I’m in trouble.
I’m in so much trouble.
And I’m grinning about it.
Because here’s the thing nobody warns you about: once you’ve seen a man shirtless in your stockroom, twice, your brain keeps the footage.
It replays it at inconvenient times. Mid-inventory.
Mid-shelving. Right now, apparently, standing at my own register at four in the afternoon, thinking about the trail of dark hair below his navel with enough focus that I have to press my thighs together under the counter and take one slow, careful breath.
You are at WORK. You own this establishment. Have some professional dignity.
My professional dignity left around day five. I don’t miss it.
I’m turning toward the back door, ready to open it, ready to see him, ready to have whatever conversation comes next, when the bell over the front entrance chimes.
Customer.
Right. I have a job. I own a business. I can’t just spend all afternoon conducting hearing experiments on supernatural creatures who lurk outside my building like romantically obsessed gargoyles.
I paste on my customer service smile, the one that says welcome to Fable Tales, please buy something so I can make rent, and turn toward the door.
The smile freezes on my face.
The man walking in is maybe thirty, with a nice coat and an expensive haircut and eyes that slide over me like I’m something for sale.
His smile shows too many teeth, doesn’t quite reach those flat eyes, and something about him prickles at the back of my neck, that animal instinct that says wrong, wrong, something’s wrong here.
But I’m a professional. Professionals don’t refuse service to people just because they have weird vibes.
Even though you should. Even though every true crime podcast you’ve ever listened to is screaming at you right now.
“Hi,” I say, keeping my voice bright. “Can I help you find something?”
“Just browsing.” He doesn’t look at the books. He looks at me. His gaze travels slowly down my body and back up again, lingering in places that make my skin crawl. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
“Thanks.” I keep the smile fixed. “Let me know if you need any recommendations.”
He moves into the store, trailing his fingers along spines in a way that seems more possessive than curious. He’s between me and the front door now. I don’t think he did that by accident.
Stay calm. He’s just browsing. Weird vibes don’t mean anything. You’re overreacting.
“Quiet this time of day,” he observes, glancing around the empty shop. “You always this dead in the afternoons?”
“It picks up around five when people get off work.”
“So right now it’s just you?”
Don’t answer that. That’s exactly the kind of question you’re not supposed to answer.
“My boyfriend’s in the back,” I lie smoothly. “He’ll be out in a minute.”
“Really.” The man’s smile widens. It still doesn’t reach his eyes. “Because I’ve been watching for a while, and I haven’t seen anyone come in or out.”
The prickle at the back of my neck becomes a full-body alarm.
Watching. He said he’s been WATCHING. This is bad. This is very bad.
“He uses the side entrance,” I say, still smiling, still keeping my voice steady. “Is there something specific I can help you find? Because if not, I should probably get back to inventory…”
He moves fast.
Faster than I expected, faster than I can react, and suddenly he’s in my space, hand closing around my wrist hard enough to make me gasp.
“I think you’re lying,” he says, and his voice is different now, lower, colder, the false friendliness stripped away. “I think you’re all alone in here, and I think you’ve been all alone for days. And I think we should get to know each other better.”
“Let go of me.”
“Make me.”
My heart is hammering against my ribs. My wrist throbs where his fingers dig in.
I should scream, should kick him, run, do something, but my body has locked up, frozen in that ancient prey response that says don’t move, don’t attract attention, maybe if you stay very still the predator will lose interest.
“I’m going to call the police,” I manage, and my voice barely shakes. “If you don’t let go right now, I’m going to…”
“With what phone? It’s behind the counter, charging. All the way over there.” He grins, and there’s something genuinely unhinged in his expression now. “I told you, sweetheart. I’ve been watching. I know your little routines.”
Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god…
The back door explodes off its hinges.
It doesn’t open. It doesn’t even burst. It explodes, the wood giving way with all the resistance of paper, the frame cracking, and suddenly my stockroom is filled with something massive and dark and utterly terrifying.
The lycan fills the doorway like he was built for it, taller than a Great Dane, broader, muscles bunching beneath dark fur that seems to absorb the light.
His hackles are raised high enough to double his size.
His lips are peeled back from teeth that gleam white and very, very sharp.
And the sound coming from his throat isn’t a growl.
It’s a promise.
The man drops my wrist, scalded.
“Jesus CHRIST…” He’s scrambling backward, knocking over a display of new releases, his face drained of color. “What the fuck is that? What the FUCK…”
Orion advances.
He doesn’t make another sound. Doesn’t need to. The silence is worse than the growl, a predator so confident in his ability to destroy that he doesn’t bother with threats. Each step is deliberate, controlled, backing the man toward the front door with the patient inevitability of death itself.
“That’s a… that’s a freaky huge DOG…” The man’s voice is climbing toward hysteria. “What the fuck is wrong with you, lady? What kind of person keeps a…”
Orion snaps his jaws.
The sound cracks through the quiet shop, gunshot-loud, and the man breaks.
He doesn’t scream this time. He goes white, makes a small strangled sound, and backs away with his hands raised, tripping over a display table, scrambling upright, and then he’s gone, out the front door at a dead sprint, no words at all, just the frantic slap of his shoes fading down Main Street and the bell swinging wildly in his wake.