ONE
Shifting Shadows
Gliding through the fog over the forest, I enjoyed the cool air sliding through my feathers. Up here, I was powerful, more my true self, than when I walked on two legs. In the air, there was no confusion or doubt. There was instinct and confidence. Down there was awkward pauses and uncertainty.
Flying low over the treetops, I saw the glow of my home, Night Owl New and Used Books, in the distance. At the top of a lonely hill, it stood like a candle in the dark. Wings stretched, head down, I arrowed through the early morning, looking forward to sleep.
Night Owl Books was for others, like myself, who were nocturnal. Insomniacs needed to read too. I opened from eight at night until six in the morning. Usually. Sometimes, like this morning, I closed early. I’d finished a gorgeous book at three this morning, so I closed the shop, wanting to fly, my mind still firmly ensconced in the story.
The bookstore hours were, at best, a suggestion, so it didn’t matter. I only had a few customers a week, and that was fine with me. I much preferred solitude with an endless supply of books to visitors.
Flying through my bedroom window, I plopped onto my bed. A fire raced through me as I shifted from Eurasian eagle-owl to human. I wasn’t positive, but I thought I’d seen a pair of legs on my back porch as I flew by.
I checked my phone and found a text.
Nick: Orla, I’m out back. If you have time, I’d like to talk to you. If now isn’t good, I can come back later.
He knew I’d be going to sleep soon. Later would be quite a bit later. Sighing, I stepped into the bathroom and checked my reflection. My feet were dirty and I had some blood and small bits of fur around my mouth. I hadn’t been looking for a meal, but I also hadn’t been about to turn down a rabbit presenting itself to me.
I stepped into the shower to clean off before going downstairs. It also allowed me to put off seeing Nick for a few more minutes. After our dinner together, I wasn’t sure if I was ever going to see him again. To say it went poorly would be an understatement.
Unfortunately, as I had no beauty routine, I was done quickly. I put on my flannel pajama bottoms and a t-shirt and then braided my long hair as I went downstairs to the first floor.
I lived in a renovated Victorian home. The first and second floors had been combined to create a high-ceilinged bookstore, filled with tall bookcases that were in turn crammed with my books. Did I allow customers to buy my books? Sometimes. If it was a book I intended to read soon, I’d lie and say I didn’t own it.
If it was one I’d already read, they could buy it. That was why this was a new and used bookstore. Mind you, I took excellent care of my books. You couldn’t tell most had been read, but I still discounted them for future readers. Future readers perhaps overstated the number of customers walking through my front door.
Being honest, what I had here was my own extensive library that I occasionally shared with others. I was forcing myself to be more social, which was, at best, uncomfortable. My parents had both died—quite badly—and as far as I could tell, I was the last of the Eurasian eagle-owl shifters, at least in this part of the world. When I hermited for too long, I heard my mother’s voice in my head telling me to Get out and live a little. Turning my library into a bookstore was my attempt to allow others in—for short periods of time and in a setting where discussing books was normal, even expected.
I walked around the bookcases toward the back door like I was approaching a firing squad. I’d read about this practice called ghosting. To me, this seemed like the perfect solution. Nick needed to ghost me. A discussion seemed pointless. He didn’t need to let me down easily. He could just walk away quietly and never talk to me again.
Instead, I was walking out the back door, dreading—wait. Refreshments. I needed to offer refreshments. I may not have been social, but I’d read enough books across multiple genres to know that when one had a visitor, one offered refreshments.
Spinning on my heel and relishing the reprieve, I went into my first-floor kitchen area to grab some baked goods. I paused at the back door, straightened my shoulders, and prepared for one of those difficult talks I’d read so much about.
Nick was in his police uniform and sitting on my porch, his legs stretched out, his back against the side of my house.
“Hello.”
He turned his head and looked up at me. He had the kindest warm brown eyes. “I love your porch. It’s so calm and peaceful here. I have a little time before I’m on shift, so I thought I’d wait and see if I caught you.”
I popped the cover off the container of baked goods and held it out for him.
“Wow. These look amazing. I didn’t realize you baked.” He took a muffin and bit into it. His eyes fluttered closed and he rumbled deep and slow. If bears purred, that would be the sound he made. Nick was a black bear shifter.
I went to my swinging chair and sat, my legs folded beneath me, the plastic container in my lap. “I don’t,” I said, choosing a cookie. “Arwyn said if I helped her find her sorcerer cousin, she’d give me free baked goods for life.” I took a bite and savored the brown sugar and vanilla. “Do you think that was just an expression of gratitude or did she really mean she’d give me free food for life?” I hated that people didn’t speak plainly.
He ate the rest of the muffin in one bite. “Arthur told me she was an amazing baker.” The early morning light made his brown skin glow. He was so beautiful, tall and broad-shouldered, with a short beard that couldn’t hide his dimples. I had a hard time not staring.
“I’m sure she meant it,” he added. “Arthur says he gets food whenever he sees her.”
Nick’s cousin Arthur was a police detective who was also the leader of a supernatural squad of crime fighters. They couldn’t rely on human authorities to capture and punish supernatural criminals, so that was our job. I’d only helped them once. It had been both exciting and terrifying. I was looking forward to helping again someday.
Arwyn, the baker, was a member of the Corey coven of wicches and a local artist. She occasionally consulted on cases, as she was a psychic or a sensitive or something. I wasn’t entirely clear on the terminology.
“I’ve been stopping by once a week to fill this up,” I told him. “Does that seem reasonable or too often?”
He shrugged a beefy shoulder. “You don’t eat as much as I do. That would be a very costly promise if she’d made it to me.” He watched me a moment. “I think if you took seven things for the seven days until your next visit, that would be fair.”
