“We are in dire need of volunteers,” Mayor Crane says. “We need people at the registration table, handing out water, andstationed along the route to make sure we don’t have anyone getting lost.”
She gestures to the uniformed man standing to the right of Ezra. “Sheriff Diaz and his team will be re-directing traffic, but since there are only four officers serving Mapletown, we’ll need about ten volunteers spread out along the race route to assist them. Please see me at the end of the meeting if you’d like to volunteer.”
The next part of the meeting is a public forum for residents to air their grievances. The gorgons who live next to the vampires complain about too much noise late at night. The elder werewolves want to see newer puzzles added to the rec center. A family of crow shifters wants the zoning codes changed so they can turn their old colonial into separate elevated nests.
More than one person complains about someone named Ziggy coming onto their property and stealing their shoes. This is apparently Mayor Crane’s familiar, a black cat who likes to take one shoe from each house. Mayor Crane laughs it off and instructs them to check at the base of the W-shaped trees in Mapletown Forest, since that’s where he likes to keep his stash.
“Just not on the eleventh of the month,” a resident adds.
The mayor’s face hardens. “Yes, that’s right. For anyone new to town, do not enter the forest on the eleventh of the month. This is true for every month.”
“What happens in the forest on the eleventh?” I whisper to Vyla.
She visibly shudders. “The tree god overseeing it forbids any mortal creature from entering. Those who’ve tried didn’t make it back.”
“Are you serious?” I ask, louder than intended.
Dominic shushes me.
Chase Palmer, aka the Cider King, wants to serve what he calls his “famous” apple cider potato stew at the finish line ofthe race, to which Mayor Crane says, “Once again, Mr. Palmer, you can park your food truck at the end of the race route, but we will not be handing out cups of hot stew to runners in need of hydration.”
Just like in most small towns, resident requests need to be submitted via the applicable form at town hall––typical red tape––but most of the people here seem relatively pleased with Mayor Crane’s leadership. They’re engaged and eager to help improve their community. It’s adorable, and it makes me want to stay here even more.
On my way out, I add my name and phone number to the volunteer form for the upcoming 5K.
Mayor Crane approaches as I’m about to leave, a pleased grin on her face. “Volunteering for us at the race, I see. Does that mean you’re sticking around?”
Oh, right. At the bar, I told her I was staying at a friend’s house and wasn’t sure how long I’d be in town. But seeing how warm the people of this town are, and how quickly I’m getting attached to Winston, I can’t imagine leaving. “That’s the plan,” I tell her. “I love it here.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and nods. “Very good. You’re welcome here for as long as you’d like.”
The mayor seems like a tough woman to please, so getting her seal of approval means a lot. I doubt that’s something she gives out often, especially to a human without any supernatural abilities.
I wake up the next morning with a headache, but despite the throbbing between my eyes, I’m determined to organize the kitchen cabinet with the mismatched piles of dishes. Lindsaydoesn’t want any of them, she said as much the last time we texted about things she wanted to donate, so I figured I’d go through them and set aside the ones I like for myself. For my future home, which, hopefully, is somewhere in Mapletown. And hopefully, Lindsay will keep this house in some capacity so I can visit Winston.
No matter how this shakes out between me and him, hopefully we can be friends. Friends who make out and have lots and lots of sex, preferably.
The kitchen cabinet reaches the ceiling and holds six shelves, all of which are completely full. After I pull down the bowls and plates from the lower two shelves, going through them and washing the ones I’d like to keep, I find I’m too short to reach the higher ones. There isn’t a stepladder in the broom closet, so with the grace of a gorilla attempting a pirouette, I haul myself onto the countertop and roll onto my knees. There isn’t much surface area on this part of the counter, so I carefully push up to standing while holding on to the cabinet door.
Completing this task in fuzzy socks was a terrible idea, but I’m only realizing that now, as my foot slides a few inches toward the edge. I catch myself, take a deep breath, and huddle as close to the shelf as I can while I look through the mugs.
There are so many in here, I wonder if every resident of Caraway Manor left their mugs behind when they moved. How else could one acquire a collection this big? There must be close to fifty in here. Some look to be clear souvenirs from vacations, a bunch of them chipped or cracked, but the rest are ceramic with dainty handles, soft pastel colors, and matching saucers. Those, I’m excited to examine more closely.
My gaze lands on a yellow and gold teacup with matching saucer. The design on the side is a baby elephant walking toward its mother, its trunk outstretched, reaching for her. I’ve always had an interest in elephants, and the scene of the mother andbaby makes me think of Mom. This one is definitely going in the keeper pile. As I’m reaching for the cup and saucer, several brown legs emerge from behind it, and before I can see the rest of it, I start screaming.
A spider.
No, that doesn’t quite cover it.
A massive fucking spider with a bloated brown body and eight thick brown legs that look as sharp as needles is not only crawling out from behind my new favorite mug, but is quickly moving toward me.
I don’t think before hurling myself backward, away from the creepy crawler. Sadly, I should have, since now my arms are flailing, my feet kicking in the air, and the sharp corner of the kitchen island likely seconds away from connecting with my spine.
Pinching my eyes closed, I brace for death, or paralysis, or some kind of catastrophic and highly preventable injury, but…my body never hits the ground. Instead, a strong hand cradles my neck as another supports my lower back. Winston is holding me like he’s just dipped me in the middle of a dance floor.
“Natalie.” Winston utters my name like it’s a prayer, and maybe that’s exactly what it was. He must have heard me screaming and entered the room just as I started to fall. His gaze is filled with terror as he looks me over from head to toe. “What happened?”
Mortified, I cover my face with my hands. “I’m sorry. I was going through the mugs and this spider, this fucking huge spider the size of a muffin, just comes out of nowhere and–”
