That’s it.
I slam the ax into the nearest tree trunk, burying theblade deep enough that it sticks. I don’t bother pulling it out. I’m too angry to care about retrieving my tools like a civilized person.
I stomp toward my truck, yanking open the door and climbing inside. The engine roars to life, and I tear down the mountain road faster than I should, chasing those voices like they owe me money.
By the time I reach town, the singing has stopped.
I pull into the parking lot of Shadow Wolf Creek Elementary just in time to watch a yellow school bus pull away from the curb. The children are gone. Headed home to their families, their warm houses, their lives full of people who actually want them around.
Good. Fine. At least the noise stopped.
But I’m already here. And I have words that need saying.
I park the truck and get out, slamming the door hard enough to make the frame rattle. The school is a squat brick building with cheerful decorations in every window. Paper snowflakes. Construction paper wreaths. A banner that reads “Happy Holidays from Shadow Wolf Creek Elementary!” in letters that look like a child drew them.
I hate all of it.
The front doors bang open under my hands. The lobby is quiet now, empty except for a few stray backpacks and the lingering smell of cafeteria food and paste. The main office is right ahead, a glass-walled room with a counter and a sign that reads “Visitors Please Check In.”
A woman stands behind the glass doors, watching me approach. She doesn’t come out. Just stays there, arms crossed, studying me like she’s already made up her mind about what she sees.
She catches me off guard. Medium height, with rich brown skin and a cropped haircut that shows threads of grayat the hairline. A lanyard around her neck with an ID badge and about fifteen different keys. A cardigan with little embroidered snowflakes that should look ridiculous but somehow doesn’t.
Her gaze flicks to my scar. Lingers there. Something flickers across her face, but she doesn’t flinch.
I yank open the office door.
“Get those shifters to shut?—“
“You don’t tell my little shifters to do anything.” Her voice snaps across the room before I can finish. She steps forward, and my bear actually takes a step back inside me. “You march into my school with that attitude and think you can?—“
She stops. Takes a breath. When she speaks again, her voice is dangerously calm.
“I’m Merit. And you must be Tolin.”
I stare at her.
“How do you know my name?”
Her gaze flicks to my cheek again. To the scar that labels me like a brand.
I flex my jaw. Of course. The whole town has been gossiping. The grumpy bear shifter with the scar, the one who challenged his brother and lost, the one who lives alone on the mountain and runs off anyone who tries to help him.
“I’ve heard about you,” she says. “Everyone in this town has heard about you. The grumpy bear who lives alone and yells at anyone who comes near him. I thought the stories might be exaggerated.”
She pauses. Looks me up and down.
“They were not.”
Behind her, a door creaks open. I glance over her shoulder and see a face peeking out from one of theclassrooms. Then another. Teachers, drawn by the sound of Merit’s voice rising in the empty hallway.
Merit doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she doesn’t care.
“Those children,” she continues, her voice rising, “have been practicing for weeks. Wolf cubs, bear cubs, dragon hatchlings, human kids. All of them learning to work together, to blend their voices, to create something beautiful.”
She steps closer.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a classroom full of shifter children to do anything in harmony? Last week, one of the dragon kids sneezed and set the sheet music on fire. Yesterday, two of the wolf pups got into a dominance scuffle during ‘Silent Night’ and I had to break it up with a spray bottle.”
