Curiosity had been tugging at me. The past few days, the gossip mill churned with whispers of a new family moving into the old Faust homestead. I decided to take it upon myself to see what I could find out regarding the latest addition to our sleepy little town.
There was one main drag in Falston, the stereotypicalMain Street that all small midwestern towns seemed to have in common. It was lined with stores that hadn’t changed in damn near fifty years—a tailor, Margie’s Bakery, an old-time pharmacy that not only filled scripts but provided home remedies, and other boringly ordinary mom-and-pop shops.
Coasting through the air, I swooped past old man Grier’s head just to hear him curse and wave his cane about half-blindly. The resulting rant involving wartime memories and insurgents was well worth my near collision with the dairy delivery truck. Fucker was definitely going over the speed limit.
I hung a sharp left at the end of Main Street and navigated past several historical landmarks, including a bronze statue commemorating the town’s inaugural fall festival. It was a little over seven feet tall, depicting a bundle of cornstalks with fall blossoms wrapped around its center and various sized pumpkins and other gourds at its base.
Painful memories flickered across my mind, ones that I didn’t dare allow to spiral into full-on manifestations. No, they didn’t deserve that power over me. Not more than they already held.
Shortly after bypassing the carved hunk of bronze, I landed on top of a weathered split-rail fence of the farmland that used to belong to the town’s founders, the Faust family. Without any living heirs to stake a claim to the land, it was placed for private auction. The realty sign remained, but a large red sticker wasslapped haphazardly across it, declaring boldly, “SOLD.”
A telltale sign of recent activity was evidenced by the disturbed gravel in the driveway, two depressions in the dirt created by a heavy vehicle making multiple trips to and from the house at the end of it.
Intrigued, I launched into flight again towards the vintage farmhouse, a quarter mile deep into the ten-acre property. There was an aged beauty to the two-story home with dual stone chimneys on either side. Dusty blue shutters added a pop of color to the house, which had siding painted the same color as tufts of freshly picked cotton.
The wrap-around porch was showing signs of wear with peeling white paint, but otherwise, the structure remained sound. It provided perfect cover from the elements for the two rocking chairs positioned in the corner facing the expanse of land where crops used to flourish but had remained barren for years.
If you stared long enough, you could almost imagine old Grammy Faust rocking in one of the chairs with a cup of her steamed milk and honey cradled between her wrinkled palms. Tiny and frail as she had been, she used to be able to call out across the fields like a general directing troops.
Off to the side of the typically empty driveway, alongside a line of apple trees still filled with ripe fruit, several vehicles cloaked in their shade.
Nearest to the house was a moving truck, then next tothat were several personal vehicles. All of which had out-of-state plates.
Bingo.
Unable to help myself, I needed a closer look. Just who were these strangers, and why in the gods’ names would they come to Falston of all places? Nobody willingly just up and moved here.
Eventually, I found myself perched right outside an open window that peered into the kitchen. The scent of mildly burnt toast and bacon grease wafted through the air.
“Girls! Breakfast is getting cold!” A middle-aged woman stood in front of the stove, yelling towards the swinging kitchen door. She looked a bit too ‘city’ to belong in a place like this. She wasn’t even wearing a godsdamned apron over her clothes. That silk blouse of hers was one crackle of pig fat away from a stain that would haunt the fabric forever.
Instead of the girls she had summoned, in strutted a man approaching his silver fox era. He wore an overpriced Stetson that screamed ‘fresh off the shelf,’ freshly ironed jeans, a belt buckle large enough to make Texas jealous, and a tucked-in plaid shirt with a color scheme that bordered on criminal.
The man, presumably her husband, greeted the woman with a peck to her cheek before pouring himself a steaming cup of coffee fresh from the pot. One sip of the brew, and the moment the lady of the house turned herback, he grimaced and dumped the contents down the drain.
“Look at that, I’m already running late to meet with the mayor. Heard there is an open seat on the Town Council. I’ll be back before dinner!” Comically, he almost burst into a sprint to leave the kitchen before she could respond.
On his way out, he stopped short of colliding with a young girl with long brown hair down to her waist and chocolate eyes. She barely looked out of high school and radiated with equally immature energy.
“Mornin’, Dad!” she greeted cheerfully.
His hands steadied her by the shoulders before he leaned in and whispered none-too-quietly, “The coffee tastes like sadness and regret, I recommend avoiding it at all costs.”
Internally, I chuckled as the woman aggressively rolled her eyes, obviously having overheard the warning.
The girl gave a solemn nod before passing him and plucking a piece of toast off a plate resting in the center of the kitchen table. Not another word was spoken between father and daughter before the man made his escape.
“Sweetheart, there’s a fresh pot of coffee if you?—”
“Oh! Uh, thanks, Mom. But Harlow and I have a sisterly coffee date this morning. Trying the local cafe, supporting small business while bonding. All that good stuff.” There was a slight tremor to her voice, betraying the lie she spoke.
As if on cue, the kitchen door swung open again as ayoung woman entered. Mid-twenties, if I had to go on appearances alone. But I knew better than most that appearances could be deceiving.
However, once I caught sight of her eyes, I knew I was done for.
Fuck, at that moment, some poor sap could have shot me with a hunting rifle and I wouldn’t have given a damn—not that bullets would have killed me. Being a supernatural shapeshifter had its perks, and living through mundane injuries was one of them.
My chest instinctively puffed out, I anxiously shifted on my little clawed feet, and couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. Jet black hair woven into a loose braid and the greenest eyes I had ever seen outside of a freshly shined emerald. And the way she moved? Graceful, elegant, seductive, and effortless. Something about her made my crow instincts vibrate in both alarm and possessiveness.
