I considered him. The fear was still there, simmering underneath the surface, but he was holding himself together. Trying to, at least. And sitting alone in this room, replaying the sounds from the forest over and over, wasn't going to help anyone.
“Actually,” I said, “I have a better idea.”
I pulled out my phone, scrolled to Michael's number. He'd been helping with the mill accounts all week, but tonight he was supposed to be home, probably surrounded by paperwork and whatever terrible television show Nate had convinced him to watch.
He picked up on the second ring.
“Daniel?” His voice was warm, a little confused. “Everything okay?”
“Everything's fine. But I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“You know how you keep saying I need to introduce Rafe to more humans? Help him remember what normal looks like?”
A pause. “I remember suggesting something like that, yes.”
“How do you feel about coming over? Bringing cards, maybe some of that pie Martha made. Showing our guest that not everything in Hollow Pines wants to eat him.”
Michael laughed, and something in my chest loosened at the sound. “You're asking me to come over for a pity party?”
“I'm asking you to come over and be your usual charming self. Rafe could use a reminder that the world contains things other than monsters and trauma.”
“Charming, huh?” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Give me twenty minutes. And tell your guest I'm bringing the good cards, not the ones with the weird Renaissance art.”
“Noted.”
I hung up and found Rafe watching me with an expression somewhere between confused and hopeful.
“What just happened?”
“Reinforcements.” I stood, moved toward the door. “Get changed into something comfortable. Michael's coming over, and if I know him, he's going to make you play poker until you forget you were ever scared.”
Michael arrivedand he came through the back door like he belonged here, which he increasingly did, carrying a pie tin in one hand and a battered deck of cards in the other. His hair was windblown, his jacket smelled like the cold outside, and when he saw me standing in the kitchen, his whole face softened into something that made my chest ache.
“You know,” he said, setting the pie on the counter, “when I imagined you calling me at nine PM, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Something involving fewer houseguests and more...” He gestured vaguely. “I don't know. Normal conversation that doesn't revolve around traumatized werewolves.”
“Rafe's not a werewolf. He's a wolf shifter. There's a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Werewolves are cursed humans who can't control their shifts. Wolf shifters are born this way and have complete control.” I paused. “Mostly complete control.”
“Fascinating.” Michael's voice was dry. “I'll add that to my growing list of supernatural distinctions I never needed to know.”
“You're welcome.”
He laughed, and the sound filled the kitchen in ways I hadn't realized it was empty. “Where's our guest?”
“Getting changed. He had a rough night. Something in the forest spooked him on patrol.”
“Something supernatural?”
“Probably. We didn't find anything, but the wards were holding, so whatever it was didn't get through.” I moved to the coffee maker, started prepping a fresh pot. “He's been shaky ever since. I thought some human company might help ground him.”
