Chapter Seven Ingrid
That presumptuous jerk kissed me.
I should be furious. Should have slapped his face.
But you know what? If I’m being stupid, it’s another lesson I get to learn.
For an hour, I can pretend that this hot young hockey player is into me, and that he’s worth a date or two. In reality, I know that he’s not what I’m looking for. He’s got family issues, baggage. He’s not a stable, steady career guy, and that’s what I want at this point in my life, right?
Someone who doesn’t mess with the peace and stability I’ve finally achieved after years of being uprooted all the time, of failing to fit in the molds I wanted to belong in.
But a little kiss and a little snack won’t change anything.
“My treat,” King says as soon as we sit at one of the tables in Tiramisu.
It’s an Italian-American cliche, and the owners, Ronnie and Joanne Argento, are proud of it. They come out and greet us like their long-lost cousins, tell us about their specials, and hurry over with bread right out of the oven (or straight from heaven, I can’t tell after the first whiff of it).
“You kids are here on a good day! It’s the second month-aversary of our grand opening!
” Joanne beams and hands us menus. “No one thought this would fly, two retirees with no restaurant experience—well, I was a waitress, and Ronnie loves to cook—would make it past a month, but here we are! Our little hobby is thriving. Did you know there was no real Italian place around here for miles? And I’m not talking about the pizza place. ”
“I noticed that,” I said politely, scanning the menu for cannoli.
“And you! Oh, my goodness, my daughter and Graham—that’s my son-in-law—they were at the game last night. You poor thing. Manicotti, on the house.”
King protests, “Oh, no, that’s—”
“No, no. He’s one of the Kanes,” Joanne drops her voice and leans over to lock eyes with King. “He’s one of your kind—well, you know. In the ‘community.’ We do for family.”
“Jo! Table seven!”
Joanne bustles off and leaves me staring at King with prickles running up and down my spine. “Kane? Graham Kane? He and his brother run the garden center, right?”
“Yep.” King stares at the menu much harder than he needs to.
“What’d she mean, one of your kind? Is there something I don't know about in this town?”
“Wh-what wouldn’t you know?” King snags a piece of bread and shoves it in his mouth.
“I don’t know.” I close my menu and look at him with my arms crossed over my chest. “You’ve lived here all of your life—off and on. I’ve been here just a few years. Maybe I’ve missed something?”
“Uh. Well. She means he’s Scottish. There’s a huge Scottish-American community in Pine Ridge. The Fenclans, the Kanes, Douglas Wickstaff, the Davidsons, Nigel Salvin—oh, I guess technically he’s a Geordie, but—”
I scoot my chair back. “I might be able to put up with arrogance—for a little bit. I might even forgive the fact that you snuck a kiss. I won’t put up with lying.
Lying men are going to interrupt my peace.
” I swallow hard and don’t let myself spiral, my inner thoughts always trying to ask the questions I don’t want answers to.
Was Dad lying? Had he known Stacey before the divorce?
Was Mom lying? “I don’t like liars, and believe me, the military and healthcare work make you super efficient at spotting bullshit. ”
King grabs my hand.
“Stop.” There is flint in my voice.
“No. Look. Look at your hand and mine. Hard. Focus. Kev says you’re sensitive to the energy around here. Focus.”
Well. That’s new. I stop fighting to yank my hand away and let it relax in his palm. He spreads out his fingers so my hand rests in his.
His hands are huge. They could fit one and a half of my hands in one palm. And they’re so smooth. Almost leathery, that soft, supple leather with the fine grain that feels like a combination of hide and butter.
But the longer I stare, the more my eyes pick up on other things besides the difference in size and texture.
Flecks of green. I said he was green around the gills.
He has no gills.
But he sure has green. The longer I stare, the more green his skin becomes, while mine stays peach and cream.
Joanne comes back, two oval ceramic crocks of manicotti swimming in chunky red “gravy” and melted cheese with brown bubbles and flecks of parsley in her hands. She puts them down over our interlocked palms with a knowing smile.
Safety training kicks in. “Ma’am, I think I’ve been drugged,” I say calmly, pulling my hand back and looking down at the table.
King makes a noise like a stepped-on Pekinese. “We didn’t eat! I didn’t even give you anything!” He sounds genuinely wounded.
But when I look up, he’s still green, and he has tusks. Small, perfect “horns” of bone coming out above his lower lip.
He still has raven hair and cheekbones that could cut glass, but I’m...
To my surprise, Joanne doesn’t rush for the phone, belittle my fears, or defend King. She just sits and clucks her tongue. “Oh, dear. Oh, I thought she knew, honey.” She looks at King and puts her hand over her mouth. “Sweetie, you’ll get used to it. I couldn’t see it at first, either.”
My breath catches, and my words come out as a small squeak. “You see... what?”
“Well... He’s an Orc.” Her voice drops again, and she leans to King.
“It is ‘Orc,’ isn’t it? Because, no offense, I still get Orcs and Trolls mixed up.
I thought the nice Mr. Rockland at the fire station was an Orc, but Graham set me straight.
He came in to do our fire safety inspection when we opened. ”
I swallow several times, reaching for my water glass. I’ve been to Egypt, touring Luxor at night, and I could feel something ancient and magical. I’ve been in New Orleans, seen shadows moving, and known something supernatural was lurking.
But those times, I also had the lovely opportunity to walk back to my brightly lit hotel room and tell myself I was letting the atmosphere influence me.
In this town, I feel energy all the time, but it’s usually good, like the rush you get in mid-November when you realize the holidays are fast approaching.
A kind of burst of happy anticipation, and then you smile a little bigger, and order an extra maple-glazed doughnut from The Pine Loft Coffee Shop and go about your day.
Right now, I am staying calm thanks only to years of training. “He’s green.”
“Mmhm. And the handsomest green I’ve ever seen.” She flutters her lashes once, then laughs and gets up. “I’ll leave you lovebirds alone.”
“Not lovebirds,” King mumbles. He looks like someone busted his other knee, pained and stunned.
We don’t talk for a minute. The manicotti didn’t lie to me, so it’s not fair to punish it. I dig my fork in and take a bite, moaning despite the chaos in my brain when the perfect combination of pasta, cheese, herbs, and sauce swarms my taste buds.
“Should... Should I call a ride?” King toys with his fork, but doesn’t eat.
“Maybe. I don’t know. But I’m eating because this smells divine and tastes even better—and the food isn’t the one who lied to me,” I say sternly.
“You realize I didn’t lie, right?” King’s voice takes on an edge.
“You never said, ‘Hey, are you human?’ It’s not my fault that most humans can’t see the other beings in the world.
It’s like their eyes shut out anything that’s slightly uncomfortable or abnormal.
Just washes it away. And I’m not the one who has a problem dating a human, or an Orc, or a—a rusalka!
Humans seem to be the ones who see different skin colors, or tusks, or sharper teeth, and decide to run away screaming. ”
Oooh. Shots fired. While I’m busy considering whether or not the entire human race is oblivious and bigoted when it comes to things outside of their comfort zone (and let’s be honest, I know the answer is at least “partially”), I have to put on a show of bravado. “I’m not running. Or screaming.”
Reluctantly, he takes a bite of manicotti, and bliss crosses his features. “Damn.”
“I know, right?”
We chew.
I think. “So, no one notices? Your games are even on local television, right?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, they are. Some people must notice, but it’s one out of hundreds. What are they going to say? Who is going to believe them?”
More chewing.
“What’s a rusalka?”
His fork clatters. “Who said anything about rusalkas?”
“You did! Two minutes ago!”
“Oh. I did?”
I give him my sternest stare. “What’s a rusalka?”
“A water demon,” he whispers, eyes closing for a second.
“But you need to understand that pretty much everyone in the Pine Ridge paranormal community is... I don’t know.
Competing for the title of Goody Two-Shoes of the Year.
Honestly, it’s one reason I want to leave.
I don’t... I don’t excel at being anything but a hockey player.
I’m not on the Night Watch unless I have to cover a shift.
I don’t get all giddy about eradicating the prejudices that come with the title of ‘monster.’ Monster is something other people call us, and that’s not my problem.
I’m just going to live my life the way I want. At least, I was.”
He said a lot of things I don’t understand, but I’m stuck back on rusalka. “Water demon? Like in the river?”
“Um, yeah, she does swim in the river a lot, but Marina also got a job as a lifeguard and swim instructor at P-Cubed last year, so she—”
“Marina! Marina? Kevin’s wife? I’ve been eating peanut butter pie made by a water demon?” I shriek.
“Only if you’re lucky.”
My mind is spinning. No, it’s tornado-ing. Too many thoughts are crashing around, and I can’t sort and sift through all of them as they rush by.
Are humans jerks? Am I a jerk if I don’t want to date someone who is a different race than I am?
I think that’s a yes, but... he’s not a human, he’s an Orc, and that’s a monster.
Wait, what kind of monsters live here in town? Orcs, trolls, demons—
Marina is a demon? Doesn’t demon mean bad? Marina is so sweet!
Kevin, you bastard, you never told me your wife was a...
Well, why would he?
Who would believe him?
Who’ll believe me?
I want to go home. And I don’t want to date this guy. He makes my life way too complicated.