Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

I stopped at Bree's shop as I passed through town. My best friend and a puma shifter, Bree Loomis owned a travel company called the Olympic Forest Expeditions Company. She led hiking adventures in the Olympics, focusing on guided tours through the spring, summer, and autumn months. She even offered a winter selection, though she vetted the ability of the customers for those tours because the hikes could be grueling.

As I pushed through the door, a bell jingled. Bree looked up from her desk. At five-nine, she was four inches taller than I was. I was curvier, though, and while I had muscle, she was jacked. She could bench press two hundred pounds. Given she was a puma shifter, that wasn't all that unusual, but it beat out anything I could hope for. Her hair hung mid-back, blond and golden. She had sleeked it back in a ponytail, and she was wearing cargo pants, a flannel shirt hanging open over a light tank top, and a smidgen of makeup—mostly mascara and lip gloss.

"Elphyra! What are you doing here?" She came around her desk to give me a hug.

"I went to see Faron today. He's home now. Well, he's staying with his brother."

She studied my face. "How did it go? I can tell by your silence that it didn't work out the way you hoped it would."

I sat down on the chair opposite her side of the desk. "No, it didn't. Want to get a coffee?"

She glanced around. The shop was empty. "Sure, I can take half an hour. Nobody's coming in today, anyway, I think. With Thanksgiving next week, everybody's focused on the holiday."

"By the way, what are you doing for T-Day? We're holding Thanksgiving up at my mother's house. I don't want to go. But Aunt Ciara needs to be around people who won't make the day all about themselves. My mother isn't exactly the comforting kind. Owen's only been dead for a few weeks. The holiday's going to be hard on my aunt." I prayed Bree wouldn't be busy.

"I take it this is an invitation?"

I nodded, giving her cute-kitty eyes.

Laughing, she said, "Sure, I'll tag along. I hadn't made any plans, and my parents are going on a cruise, and I don't feel like joining them. I don't like mariachi music." She arched her eyebrows. "I keep thinking each year it will get easier, but so far, it hasn't."

"Some wounds take forever to heal, and some only scar over." I stared at the desk. "I really liked Jeffrey."

"He looked out for me. He was my big brother, and I felt safe when he was around. It's been…what…ten…eleven years? I was in my second year of community college and he was in his third year at the University of Washington. He came home for Thanksgiving. My mother asked him to go out for ice cream and he decided he was going to walk." She bit her lip, and I could hear the quiver in her voice.

I'd heard the story at least a dozen times, and each time, she paused at the same spot. "Don't—not if it makes you sad."

I didn't want her sliding into memories that were hard to shake, but then I stopped. We were nearing the anniversary of his death. She needed to express her emotions, and her parents weren't able to support her feelings of loss because they were mired in their own. In a way, I felt they'd let Bree down. When they lost Jeffrey, they sort of forgot about her and, while they loved her, both of them became distant. They sought comfort in each other, but seldom included her in their sorrow.

"He never came home. We got the call about an hour later." She let out a shaky breath and shuffled her papers into a stack. "Gods, I hate drunk drivers. They don't give a fuck what they do to anybody else. I don't care if they kill themselves driving headlong into a tree, but they take so many innocent people with them. That bucket of pus who killed him got away with three years. He's out and walking free now. At least he lost everything because of the blood money he had to pay my parents. It's never a replacement, but it paid for my college and it paid off their home. I just hope that everyday, he relives that night and that his heart plummets when he remembers he killed somebody because he couldn't wait for his fucking whiskey until he got home. I hope the memories of seeing my brother's lifeless body, mangled in the car, are burned into his mind."

It was time to pull her out of the spiral. I stood, shouldering my purse. "Come on. Let's go get coffee."

As she came around the back of her desk, I wrapped my arm around her waist and walked her to the door. She locked the door and we headed into the gloom of the day.

We tucked ourselves into a booth at Eloise's Diner. It was a classic, like Denny's used to be, or Coco's, for those who remembered back to before I was born. Eloise didn't aspire for a retro look, nor was she hip or jive, but she'd made the diner cozy and comfortable, with a soft color palette, and plenty of stick-to-your ribs food. Eloise was the owner, but I was more familiar with Taisy, one of the waitresses.

Taisy was a bear shifter, working her way through night school. She had two young children and a beat-up old trailer, but she was a hard worker, a good student, and a devoted mother. It suddenly struck me that she and Kyle might get along. They had a similar vibe. I made a mental note to bring him here for coffee, introduce them, and see if anything happened.

"What can I get you?" she asked in the way all waitresses have who like their customers but who also know that if they're nice, the tips would be better.

"I'll take a mocha, double shot, and a side of fries," I said. "Grams won't know if I don't tell her." I grinned at Bree, who laughed.

"Mocha sounds good, but I think I'll have mozzarella sticks."

"Want to order calamari and we can share everything?" I asked, suddenly hungry.

Bree agreed, so we ordered our food and waited till Taisy brought our coffees before I spilled the tea, so to speak.

"So, I saw Faron today. He's out of the hospital now," I said. "He's staying at Kyle's."

"Were there fireworks?" Bree asked, but she hesitated as I slumped. "What? Did I say something wrong? Is he okay?"

"He will be, we think. But…he's lost a lot of his short-term memory and he… Bree," I said, letting my confusion and hurt out, " he doesn't remember me . I mean, he does , but he thinks we're just acquaintances. He doesn't remember that we…"

"Canoodled?" Bree strove for a smile, but then she sighed. "I'm sorry. Did you tell him?"

"That's the thing. I can't tell him. The doctors say any stress might cause problems. I had to smile and play along and act like…like nothing . Like I was visiting a sick friend. He thinks Kyle and I might be involved." Defeated, I stirred the whipped cream into my mocha, then took a long sip.

"Ouch. I'm so sorry. What did Kyle say?"

"He wants Faron to heal up. He practically begged me to keep my mouth shut. I mean, I would have anyway, until he said it was okay. I know that the doctors think it's dangerous to upset him. So I wouldn't have said anything. But this hurts." I lifted my head, holding her gaze. "I love him, Bree. I love him. I love Bran. I love both of them, and I haven't a clue what to do about any of it. I don't know if I can choose."

Bree let out a sigh. "I'm sorry to be blunt, but the choice about Faron might not be yours to make, if he doesn't remember you. Did they say how long it would be before he gets his memory back?"

We stopped while Taisy brought our order. After she left, I shook my head and picked up one of the breaded calamari. "No. Even worse, they're not sure it will return. Or when , if it does. There are so many factors involved. Evan hit him so hard that we're lucky we didn't lose him. I'm so grateful he's alive, but I hate this. He's the King of the Olympic Wolf Pack. He can't rule from a place of uncertainty. He's not a man who hesitates…and now, he has to."

"Geez…" Bree stared into her cup. "I feel responsible. You were helping me ?—"

"Stop. You're not to blame. We wanted to help you, and it was a good thing we did, considering how fucked up Evan Taylor was. I wish we'd never met him in school."

"At least my stalker didn't come over from France like Bran's. People are so fucked up, aren't they?" Bree looked so depressed that I brushed aside my own worries. I had to do something to pull her out of it.

"Okay, we're both moping. Want to come over and have a girls' night? Movies, ice cream, whatever else we can find to eat? You haven't seen Gem and Silver for a couple weeks. They're growing like weeds." I bit into a fry, then the calamari again. "I suggest we dive into the retro vault. Real retro. Like, Marilyn Monroe retro?"

Bree laughed. "I like that idea. Mind if I bring Atlas and Oscar? They can stay outside."

"You can't leave them out in the rain. They can sleep in the living room. I'll put the cats in the bedroom." I stretched, then went back to the calamari.

"Oscar's a husky, he loves the cool weather. And Atlas has a waterproof vest. He'll be fine. You have a covered patio, now."

Bran had enclosed the patio so that it was sheltered from the elements. It had a concrete floor and it wasn't heated, but we could put down a couple blankets for the dogs and they'd stay snug against the weather.

"True. Okay, sounds good. So you're in?"

"I'm in, and leave me some of that calamari."

We moved on to other subjects, avoiding the holidays, Faron, and anything else that stressed us out.

By the time I stopped at the store, it was early afternoon. Grams was going to have to accept a girls' night's dinner—spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread, ice cream, and one of my favorites—frosted animal crackers. I also added some cat food, a box of milk bones for Oscar and Atlas, tea for Grams, apples and bananas, and lunch meat for sandwiches.

As I came around the corner, heading to the cashier, I ran into May, Bran's mother. They were my neighbors, and we hung out a lot. Grams was teaching me the deep magic of the earth, and May was helping me fill in the blanks on the basics of kitchen witchery. I had learned how to coax worms out of the soil, how to use crystals to start a fire, how to move small things like pencils by manipulating the magnetic force that surrounded everything in the world. Everything in the universe, actually. And May had helped me hone my skills with herbs and sachets and she even promised me a mandrake root to work with when I was ready for it.

"May! Hey, how are you?" I leaned in for a hug.

The white-haired, spry woman returned my hug. She was about fifty years younger than my grandmother. May was thrilled over Bran and me being together, though I wasn't sure she felt too good about Faron. But she was kind and caring, with a spine made of steel, and she and my Grams had become good friends.

"I'm picking up a couple of steaks for dinner, along with some mushrooms. It seems like a night for meat and roasted vegetables. We're due for a windstorm. I can feel it in the distance." She was also good with predicting the weather. "How's Fancypants doing?"

"He's good. He's reached a new stage where he's turned into a couch potato. All he wants to do is watch TV all day."

"Dragnet's love information and knowledge. He's probably soaking up everything he can, though I'd be cautious what you let him watch. We don't want him picking up bad habits."

"True, though with his manners, it's hard to imagine. He's the politest thing…I still can't believe he chose me." Dragonettes bonded with their humans, and that I'd been called out into the woods in the middle of the night to discover his egg seemed like a million-to-one odds.

"Oh, it wasn't chance, my dear. It was fate. You and I both know it. Do you have plans with Bran tonight? I was hoping he could tackle some chores around the house?—"

"No worries. Bree's coming over for a girls' night. She's got the holiday blues, and I need someone to talk to about…stuff." I didn't want to tell May about Faron. Not yet. I had the feeling that, although she'd be sorry for me, she wouldn't be all that sorry in general. Faron was Bran's rival, in her eyes.

"Oh? Yes, that's right, her brother died around this time of year. All right, then, I'll ask Bran to fix the cabinet and then work on putting a new shelving system together." She kissed me on the cheek and turned down the next aisle.

I pushed the cart up to the checkout counter and, as the cashier rang up my purchases, I pulled out my credit card, my mind right back on Bran and Faron.

Grams eyed the groceries suspiciously.

"Before you start, Bree is coming over. We're having a girls' night. Her brother was killed by a drunk driver near Thanksgiving, so it's always a hard time of year for her. She's also coming to Port Townsend with us for the holiday."

"You want to subject her to your mother?" Grams spit out the words before she could stop herself. She rolled her eyes. "I'm sorry—sometimes my tongue gets away from me."

"That's all right. And yes, with Bree there, it will help keep my mother in check. She's clueless, but she's seldom outright rude. Anyway, we're having spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, with garlic bread, ice cream, and cookies." I straightened my shoulders, ready to argue the point. I needed an occasional break from a healthy diet.

"Well, it sounds good. Do you want me to cook, give you girls time to talk?" She said it so softly that I started to argue before I realized she wasn't fighting me on it.

"Listen, now and then we need a change of pace when it comes to—wait, you're okay with the menu? You've had me on a lockdown in terms of food." I didn't want to admit that I felt better, though I did.

"Yes, and with the holidays, we loosen up. There's no need to exclude everything you love, and the meatballs are high in protein, and the sauce, filled with vegetables. So no spice from you, Miss. Go play with the cats or make yourself useful and take out the trash." She began to unload the grocery bags, then stopped to add, "Oh, I found a house today. I put in an offer, contingent on the inspection."

I froze. "You found a house? Already?" Even though I knew she had to move, I didn't want her to. While I loved my privacy, having Grams around felt safe, and we got along.

"Yes, I did. And you'll be happy to know it's only a few blocks from here. Though I will miss Sir Fancypants," she said. Grams winked at him, and he giggled. With her Scottish accent, every time she said his name it reminded me of a Monty Python sketch.

"I'll miss you too, Grams," he said, flying over to land on her shoulder. "May I help?"

"I'm afraid you're not adept at wielding a knife, but you may keep me company if you like."

"I can help make the meatballs," he said.

"I think you're best off watching from the sidelines. You like raw meatloaf and that's not good for you." She gave him a wink, and he shrugged.

"Can't blame me for trying."

As I headed into the living room, I realized I was feeling at loose ends, and I knew it had to do with Faron and his reaction to me. I sat down on the sofa and picked up my tarot deck, then stopped. There was a box sitting on the foyer table.

"What's this package?" I called out as I crossed to the table.

"I'm not sure. It came while you were gone," Grams answered, peeking around the doorway. "I forgot about it, to be honest. It's addressed to you." She went back to making dinner.

I picked it up, frowning. The handwriting was familiar. Then I noticed the return address—it was from Aunt Ciara. I quickly returned to the sofa and set the box on the coffee table, then ripped off the wrapping. She had wrapped it in brown shopping bags, as one does.

Once I had the wrapping off, the box looked to be about eighteen inches long by ten inches wide by four inches high. The cardboard indicated the box had originally held some form of office supplies from Office Pro, a warehouse office supplies store. I sliced through the tape holding it closed. Inside, sitting on top, I saw a piece of paper with writing on it. Below that, I saw what looked to be a large journal. Curious, I picked up the letter.

Dear Elphyra:

I hope this finds you well. I'm so glad you're coming up for Thanksgiving. This will be a difficult one for me. Thank you for all you did to make Owen's wake memorable and for keeping your mother in check. I appreciate it, and please thank Grams for me. You have a wonderful great-grandmother there, and I would love to get to know her better. I wish Catharine appreciated her more.

I'm writing this to you in private. Please don't tell your mother. I was helping her clean through some of the things in your attic—well, her attic—the other day and I found this. I know how she feels about your father, and I know she'd probably destroy this, so I hid it away and now I'm sending it to you. This appears to have been your father's journal. I haven't read it, but I thought you might like to have it. You know so little about him. I wish I'd known more about my son. I'm sure your father would have wanted you to have this. I'll see you next week for Thanksgiving.

Your loving aunt, Ciara.

I stared at the letter for a moment, then set it aside and turned toward the box. The journal was a letter-size book, with a leather cover and a snap closure. I lifted it out of the box, setting the box aside, and brushed my hand across the cover. It had a slightly grainy texture. Three initials were stamped across the front: MTM. Malcolm Terrance MacPherson. His middle name was in deference to his father, my grandfather. Both men had died too young.

The journal was a hefty weight, and it must have contained at least two hundred pages. I unsnapped it and carefully opened the cover to see that the pages were sewn into the binding, by hand, it looked. The front page had one of those "This journal belongs to" epigraphs and he had written his name on the blank line.

I ran my fingers over it, trying to remember if I had ever seen my father's handwriting, other than on the marriage certificate that my mother kept framed on the wall. I felt like I was trying to get some sense of him through touching his handwriting, but nothing came through except a quiet sense of acceptance, and I didn't know if that was my own feeling or whether it was coming from the paper.

"Did you open it?" Grams asked, wiping her hands on a dishtowel as she entered the room. "The pasta's boiling, Fancypants is making sure the kittens don't get on the counter or stove, and the meatballs are baking. What's that?" She frowned, staring at the journal.

"Aunt Ciara sent this to me. It's my father's journal. She said she found it in the attic when she was helping my mother clear out some old things. She didn't tell Mom about it, but sent it to me instead."

Grams considered the news for a moment, then said, "Are you sure you want to read it? Sometimes not knowing leads to more peace of mind. I'm not suggesting that you just stuff it in the closet. But please, think matters through before opening the window into his world."

"That's what I was wondering about. I know so little about him that finding out anything new feels…like a goddess-send. But what if I find things I don't like? I don't have many feelings either way about him. I was five when he died. Neutrality is better than disgust."

"Well, what do you remember about him?" Grams asked.

I closed my eyes, thinking back. "The scent of a breezy cologne. He was strong enough to lift me into the air and whirl me around, and he used to laugh when he did that, and I would shriek because it was so much fun… What else? I remember him and my mother arguing, though I don't remember what it was about. I think maybe money? Anyway, when he was angry, he would shout but for some reason, I was never afraid. It's like I knew he'd never hurt us."

"Your father was a good man, at heart. That I say, not because he was my grandson, but because that's who he was. As to what happened with his death…it's never been clear." She sniffed the air. "I'd better get back and check on the noodles. When's Bree due over?"

"Soon," I murmured, still staring at the leatherbound journal.

Should I take a chance? Or should I let it rest? Put it away and not think about it? But I knew I'd never rest until I at least tried to learn more about my father. I gingerly touched the front page and turned it, opening it to the first entry, which was dated April 7, 1996. I had been five years old. This was the year my father died, and he had died July 8. So he had started the journal three months before his death.

I'm writing this in case anyone finds it after I'm gone. I know for certain that if I survive this year, it will be a miracle. I can't begin to explain the strange things that have been going on, but—when Catharine wasn't looking—I set about enchanting every piece of clothing Elf owns. I can't have this fall on her head. I'd rather suffer the worst of fates than have my foolhardiness affect my Elf. I wish I'd never found that secret room. I wish I hadn't been so greedy.

I'm grateful I never told Catharine, because I know her weaknesses, and she wouldn't have been able to fight against the temptations I face daily. I don't know how much longer I can hold them off, but I keep trying, if only for my wife and daughter's sakes. It's not easy, though. It's never going to be easy again.

The doorbell rang, startling me out of my thoughts. I stared at the journal, at my father's handwriting, and—wondering what the hell to think about it all—went to answer the door and let Bree in.