Chapter 7 Arden
ARDEN
Arden was up on the ridge above the town, painting wildflowers.
She had decided that spending the day away from the town was the best thing.
She would be safe from discovery; even if the town’s new residents explored the woods and ran into her there, she could just tell them she was a passing hiker and quickly walk away.
Once the sun set, she thought she might try to sneak away under the cover of darkness.
Getting out of town with all her stuff, having to go right past all of them during the daylight hours, would be next to impossible.
She’d examined her door for a while that morning before she figured out how to lock it.
There was a string, and after experimenting, she figured out how to get it to raise and lower the latch from outside.
It wasn’t as secure as a real lock, probably intended more to keep animals out than people.
But it gave her some measure of security while she was gone.
She couldn’t bear the idea of spending the whole day huddled inside, fearful of discovery and listening to distant laughter, chatter, and hammering.
So she decided to make a nice day of it.
She dug out her portable watercolor set and colored pencils from her pack, tucking them into a small day pack that she could easily carry.
They were the only art tools she had with her, and she hadn’t even wanted to look at them for a long time.
The fact that she wanted to paint now, for the first time in ages, made her feel as if something vital inside herself was starting to heal.
Planning to spend all day outside, she took sunscreen, a bottle of water, and a little food.
She was worried to see how quickly her supplies were dwindling.
She didn’t want to resort to having to steal food from Baz’s group, but when she left, she had no idea where she was going to go.
She still had a little money, but not much.
Her plan to spend a few days in the abandoned town deciding what to do next was quickly running into reality: she didn’t have anywhere to go, and she didn’t have any skills other than painting.
It was possible she might be able to convince some local businesses to sell paintings for her, but first she needed something to sell.
That wasn’t what took her up to the ridge to paint, though. Not that it wasn’t a slight consideration. But mostly, she wanted to make art again. She wanted to get back in touch with that part of herself that used to want to reach out to the world, feeling her creativity flowing through her.
She had no particular destination when she left the cabin, except that she knew she couldn’t go into the town, where she could hear Baz’s group moving about and calling out to each other.
She took off her shoes and waded the creek above the pool.
On the other side, she found a path leading into the forest, and decided to see where it went.
After a steeper-than-expected climb, she emerged on a meadowy ridge with a gorgeous view of the town, the goat farm beyond it, and the highway.
It was a lovely place to set up her watercolors and sketchbook, and soon she was happily painting flowers, with the mountains misty and gorgeous behind them.
She sketched some bees with her pencils.
It was a lovely spot. Just a few days ago, she would have been idyllically happy to be here.
Now she couldn’t help thinking of Baz and his friends down there in the town, where she wanted to be.
She could hear distant music, like someone was blasting a radio. Arden sighed and laid her paintbrush down. She could only see the roofs of the houses, not the activities of individuals. She wondered what Baz was doing right now—
“Who are you?”
The voice was rough and harsh. Arden nearly fumbled her paints, and she did upset her plastic cup of paint water, dumping it in the grass. She looked behind her.
A man and a woman were standing at the edge of the trees.
The man wasn’t the same as last night’s visitor. But they were both dressed similarly in leather and furs. Both were middle aged, the woman’s long hair showing strands of gray. The man had a heavy beard.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean any harm,” Arden said. She hastily gathered her paints and the wrapper of the granola bar she’d had for lunch. “I’ll leave, just let me pick up my things.”
The two stepped forward. Where the man last night had seemed neutral, not friendly but not really hostile either, Arden sensed definite hostility from these two. The man was scowling, and the woman’s mouth was set in a hard line.
The woman sniffed the air and declared, “She is human.”
Shifters, Arden thought. Her heart raced in panic. Worse, she heard crashing in the bushes, as if someone else was coming—or something, a whole herd of somethings from the sound of things.
“I’m leaving,” she said, now even more desperately.
“You don’t have to do anything.”
This voice came from the far side of the meadow, and even before she looked, Arden instantly recognized Baz’s deep, even tones, even slightly out of breath. He stumbled out of the woods with twigs in his hair and a tousled, sweaty look, as if he’d just been running.
That crashing in the bushes had been him, Arden realized. He’d come straight up the hill.
The two forest shifters turned their hostility on Baz. “You’ve brought humans to this place,” the woman said accusingly.
“I didn’t bring anyone. She brought herself.” Baz strode across the meadow to take up a stance between Arden and the two shifters.
Arden was frozen in place, kneeling on the ground with her hands full of hastily gathered art supplies. She stared up at him. Baz’s T-shirt clung to his muscular back with damp patches, and it was plastered with bits of leaves and twigs. He really had just run up the hill, but—why?
“You choose to make this human your affair?” the bearded man said.
There was a hint of a growl in Baz’s voice. “She is my affair. You will not touch her. Leave.”
“There may be trouble over this,” the woman said.
“Then there will be trouble. Leave.”
The two stared at Baz for a moment longer. Both sets of eyes gleamed, as if Arden was glimpsing something silvery-gold within them, perhaps the animals that lived inside them. Then, as one, they turned very suddenly and faded back into the woods. They went without making a sound.
Baz heaved a sigh and ran the back of his hand over his forehead.
He turned to look down at Arden. For the first time, she was able to see his face more closely.
His eyes were a striking hazel, and there was a light dusting of beard stubble across his chin, catching the sun.
For a moment he just stared at her. Then he held a hand down to her, palm open and fingers slightly curled. An invitation.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“I ... I think so.”
He couldn’t possibly recognize who she really was, or he wouldn’t be so open and friendly. But there was no reason why he would, she supposed. Not here.
“I’m Baz—Sebastian, actually, but everyone calls me Baz. What’s your name?”
Here she balked again, her mind whirling through possible false names. But that was silly, and anyway, she would probably forget her alias immediately, or fail to respond to it, which would be far more suspicious than just giving her real name in the first place.
“Arden,” she said.
It was a rare name, but not that rare. They wouldn’t guess, she told herself.
And it was impossible to think that Baz could pose any harm to her, in any case.
She placed her hand in his big, callused, capable palm, and let him pull her to her feet.