Chapter 2
TRASH CAT
gus loves donuts.
gus does not love sneaky raccoons.
— gus
By noon on Friday, I’m already considering arson.
I’m so sorry, Honey, I don’t know what happened… I tried my best, but the bakery just went, poof, up in flames… but at least I managed to save Gus.
I should get brownie points for that, I decide. Even if my dark fantasies insist that a spark and a little kindling would get me out of what I agreed to, I wouldn’t let Honey’s pet opossum burn despite the fact that Gus is making it very, very clear that I don’t hold a candle to the usual baker.
You think Moonburrow cares that Honey is gone?
The nosiest of shifters lined up early this morning to watch Roxy Kane crash and burn.
Failing that, they’d at least stomach whatever wares I produced in Honey’s ovens to see how they’d compare.
Since all I had to do was portion out the thawed dough, bake it according to the dummies-style guide that Honey left me, and plop the cooled trays into the display case, I couldn’t really mess that part up.
I didn’t, either, and that’s the problem.
For today, Honey left instructions on how to prepare a fruit turnover with already sliced and chopped fruit, a savory danish, a cinnamon donut, and some flaky rolls.
Once the supply was sold out, I was free to lock the doors, feed Gus lunch, clean up, and head out until I needed to come back for Gus’s dinner.
In exchange for a couple of hundred bucks a day plus a favor from Honey and Max that I can call in after the newly-mated couple returns to town in two weeks, I’m basically at Gus’s beck and call—and the little menace knows it.
Once I fed Gus his breakfast of boiled chicken, a hard-boiled egg (shell included), and four grapes, I got to work in the kitchen.
So maybe I opened a half an hour late. And maybe the first batch of fruit turnovers was a little overdone, and the rolls were doughier than they should be at first, but once I got the hang of it, I was pretty impressed with how I was pulling it off.
Gus? He’s spent the last couple of hours sitting on top of the lopsided flour bag, a tiny king surveying his kingdom while I box and bag goodies fast enough to keep the pretty consistent line moving.
Sometimes he gets up, moving until he’s standing on top of the counter display, rearing back on his rear legs while his tiny pink paws look like they’re somewhere near his opossum hips.
His beady black eyes watch my every move, whiskers twitching with visibly judgment each time he thinks I’ve done something wrong.
Which, according to Gus, is constantly—and the reason why I have to resist the urge to search the drawers behind the counter for loose matches.
“I’m going as fast as I can,” I mutter under my breath as I slide a box of donuts across the counter toward Mrs. Ames.
“What was that? I didn’t hear you, dearie!”
I wince. I usually don’t mind Mrs. Ames.
She’s the elderly armadillo who owns the laundromat across the street from my junk shop.
I do all of my washing there so I’m used to her shouting.
As an armadillo, she’s always been hard of hearing, though her snout is so good, she can pinpoint every single brand of detergent any of her customers use mid-wash.
“I said that’ll be eight-fifty,” I tell her, lifting my voice.
She hands me a ten. “Keep the change as a tip, Roxy. No need to dip into the till then, yes? I know you raccoons and your sticky fingers. Jean’s granddaughter is trusting you.”
Burn, baby, burn… “I know, Mrs. Ames.”
It’s not her fault, I tell myself. She’s a good fifty years older than I am.
Supes from that era have some backward ideas.
Just like how she thinks all raccoons are bandits, I’m not surprised when she shouts, “Poor thing. Sheriff Lobo is a good pup, but a predator mating a prey… I only hope he’s not taking advantage of her. ”
Gus’s head swivels as he takes in the oblivious armadillo, smiling happily as she offends the Alpha and his new mate.
It’s nice to see him turn those beady eyes on someone other than me, though I brace my boots against the tile in case I need to launch myself and catch Gus before he can avenge Honey by going after Mrs. Ames.
“I assure you, Honey’s right where she wants to be,” I say, dropping the dollar-fifty in the tip cup on the counter and trying my best not to imagine what Honey and her mate are probably up to at this very moment.
The mountains are only an hour drive out of Moonburrow and, knowing all too well a predator’s sex drive, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t be more right.
“Have a nice day, Mrs. Ames.” Please don’t come back tomorrow. “Next!”
Mrs. Ames ambles off while a shy porcupine shifter takes her place.
It’s Nellie. I’ve seen her before during my frequent trawls through the witchy side of Moonburrow.
Her mate is a male witch named Conrad, and I’ve always wondered how they figured that out.
Witches don’t get fated mates—not like us shifters do, or even vampires—and Nellie is so quiet and withdrawn, I can’t imagine her ever recognizing her mate and making a move on him.
I mean, she must have. Conrad is a good head taller than the petite Nellie, with a build that rivals Riordan Lobo, and he walks around Moonburrow in his black clothes, proud to show off the silver bite on his throat. It’s his mate marking, similar to the bite that Honey has on her neck.
Curious, I look over Nellie. From her chin-length brown hair to her nut brown skin and her slender shape, I don’t see any notable silver scars on her.
In order to claim a shifter—and be claimed—there has to be a mark.
Hers must be on a more private spot, and I get that.
Most raccoons hide their marks unless their mate is a predator.
When your mate is a predator, there will always be visible proof that he or she claimed you. It’s not necessary. Anyone with supe abilities just knows when someone is mated, just like how shifters can often recognize their fated mates with one sniff.
Something so ordinary… like, oh, the scent of deep, dark woods mingled with bergamot… suddenly becomes the most important thing you’ve ever smelled—
“Hey there,” I say, closing off that train of thought then and there. “What can I get you?”
I dare a peek at the display case as Nellie purses her lips, making up her mind.
There’s about another dozen donuts left, half a tray of turnovers, two danishes, and four rolls.
Once they’re done, I can wipe this customer service grin off of my face and decompress with a little music and the two donuts I kept in the back just for me.
While I wait for Nellie, Gus hops down from the top of the display case.
He doesn’t stop there. He hops down onto the counter, flops onto the floor, then does this weird, lumbering shuffle toward the kitchen door.
You’d think it would take ‘people’ strength to swing it.
Nope. With a bump of his backside, Gus disappears behind the door.
Should I leave the opossum to it? I’m not sure it’s a good idea to leave him to wander around on his own. For better or worse, I gave Honey my promise that I’d look after the rat.
And that’s when Nellie clears her throat.
Apart from the porcupine, there are only two other customers—one of the wolves in the pack who never made enough of an impression on me to learn his name and Kayla, a witch who owns a brewery…
a tea brewery on the same street as Witches ‘n’ Things—waiting to make a pastry purchase.
I figure Gus can handle himself for a few seconds, and meet Nellie’s nervous expression.
“Yeah?”
“Um. Before I pick, can I just make sure that these are… you know. Normal?”
Normal? “Depends on what you mean by normal.”
“It’s just… I’m not gonna start confessing my deepest, darkest secrets if I eat one, will I?”
On the one hand, I can’t imagine Nellie having any sort of deep, dark secrets. But since she seems so worried… my curious nature has me making a mental note to scurry around town and see what I can find out.
It’s not an idle threat, either. Poor Honey.
It’s well known in Moonburrow how she whipped up a batch of ‘confessing’ cupcakes that ended up with Frannie the fox shifter losing nearly all her fur.
Since then, she’s refused to sell any charmed goods from the recipes in her grandmother’s collection, but no one will let her forget it.
Especially not me.
“You’re good,” I promise. “The only magic is in how good they taste.”
The wolf snickers. “At least she’s not still poisoning people.”
My hackles go up. Sorry. Just like how I used to get defensive when some of the pack back home would give Crystal shit for, well, being Crystal, I’m the only in Moonburrow allowed to tease Honey like that.
I glare at the wolf for a second, letting my raccoon take in his appearance—brown hair, brown eyes, narrow face—and his scent—a hint of whiskey and something oily. Then, turning back to Nellie, I ask for her order.
We both may be prey shifters, but there’s a hierarchy here. She has quills and I have fingers, but when we’re Roxy and Nellie instead of a raccoon and a porcupine, I definitely have an edge.
She hurriedly asks for the four rolls, plus a donut in a bag to-go.
I handle her order easily. Once she’s bolting for the door, I face Kayla. Technically, the wolf shifter is next. Technically, he can go fuck himself.
“Kayla. There a spell circle at the community center tonight?”
Sometimes there’s a prey circle meeting where some of the more…
twitchy shifters meet to discuss how it is living in a town ruled by predators.
Other times, the witches have control of the meeting space, swapping spells and charms and herb cuttings.
And then, of course, the predators play their sports where the dense rubber flooring means it’ll be easy to cover up any bloodshed.