Chapter Two

We lifted the last stone into place and stepped back. “You know, this technique is really satisfying.” I patted the rock and turned to my business partner and oldest friend. “But it isn’t really masonry.”

“No. Dry-stacked-stone-wall guys are called dykers, at least in the United Kingdom I believe. But I don’t anticipate that being our main line anytime soon.” Ozkuth glanced at the sky. “And just in time. Sun will be gone in a few minutes. Want to go stop and eat on our way home? I don’t feel like cooking tonight.”

“Sounds good.” We started for the truck with its shadowy gargoyle image behind our company name: Two Brothers Masonry. “The Pub? We have to pick up our payment anyway.”

Sometimes we joked that we were the stereotype. After all, when we shifted, we were essentially made of stone ourselves. Oh, we could move, but slowly and not like many other shifters. No frolicking in the forest or running in packs for us. Ozkuth climbed behind the wheel. “Sure.”

Our client, a restauranteur slash hobby farm owner, was only a few generations removed from his ancestry in the UK and embraced his heritage with passion. Thus, his choice to open the Pub and name it that. Also the reason we had just built a dry-stacked-stone wall for the first time.

“That was quite an interesting process,” I mused as we rolled down the gravel drive toward the road. “Would you do it again?”

“I liked it.” It had taken research and was only possible because of the large number of stones littering the fields in our area. While we often did make use of them, nobody had ever requested this ancient technique before. “It was a nice change, and I think some of our customers would appreciate the artistry.”

“I like to think all our work is artistic on some level,” I told him, images of our various past jobs rolling through my mind like a series of old-fashioned slides. “But I agree. This is something we can offer to customers as an alternative. People often love the traditional way of doing things.”

Another tradition was us being two single males who were unlikely to ever see that change. We’d been friends since we were young and when the time came to strike out on our own, we decided to team up, preferring friendship and companionship to stark loneliness.

My friend seemed to accept that we would never have a mate or young ones, and I admired his practicality in this as in all things. But somehow I could never let it go entirely. As we entered the Pub, which was a place where families could often be found during the day or early evening, a baby giggled, and the ache that never quite went away reared up again. Some gargoyles found their mates…obviously since we existed. Why couldn’t we be the ones who did?

“I’ll go up and order drinks if you’ll grab a table.” My friend’s voice cut into my self-absorption. Or maybe self-pity. If I couldn’t have a mate, why couldn’t I be like him and just take the best life had to offer without all this introspection?

“Sounds good.” It was busy, but I spotted an empty booth in a back corner, a little shadowed, which kind of matched my mood. Settling in, I tried not to pay attention to the family with the baby, but my gaze was drawn again and again. I had never seen them before, which could mean they were just passing through or maybe new in town. She sat in her wolf daddy’s lap, letting him feed her spoonfuls of something pureed they’d brought with them in a plastic container. In addition to lots of rocks, the area was populated by more shifters than otherwise, which was yet another reason we would be unlikely to meet our mate. Gargoyles mated with humans, if they could find any willing.

“Here we go.” Ozkuth placed two foaming glasses of the house seasonal ale in front of me. “What are you going to order?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I hadn’t even thought about it, but a glance at the menu board across the room showed several things I liked. “I think fish and chips. You?”

He considered. “Bangers and mash.” Our host was very much about authentic food, although he did have a few more American things on the menu. The server arrived and took our orders then my friend leaned back and stretched out his arms. “Good job on that wall, don’t you think?”

“I think so.” The booming voice of Jim, our client and the owner of the Pub, nearly rattled the dishes. How a bear shifter could be of UK descent, I wasn’t sure since I understood the last of the brown bears had gone extinct there a millennia ago. Any bear shifters there must really have to stay under the radar. “I must have just missed you at the farm. Really great work. Exactly what I had in mind.” He dropped an envelope on the table. “Worth every penny, and dinner is on the house.”

“Glad you’re pleased. Have time to join us for a drink?” Ozkuth scooted over, making room.

“Don’t mind if I do.” He waved the server over and ordered a mug of ale. “Now, I need some more walls. How soon can you fit me in?”

We discussed what he wanted, but it would be a few months before we could get to them. In stone country, masons were popular men. Especially since we were known to be willing to work with stone found on property when available. Although this was our first dry-stack, it was not our first locally sourced job.

By the time we left and headed for our home—also built of local stone by us—I was feeling a lot better about life in general. Several good friends had joined us for a drink or three, and I had to admit that even without a mate, I had a damn good life. Maybe time to be a little more appreciative of it. Dwelling on what would never be did nobody any good.

A positive outlook it was. I loved my work, my friends, our home, and the area where we built it. Not many could say that. Perhaps Fate deserved more gratitude for what we did have and less whining—even if it was inside my head—about what we did not.