Page 27 of Kings of Sherwood

I get the message. He’s still pissed that I didn’t tell him all these big bad secrets I’ve apparently been sitting on. I don’t know how to tell him any more clearly than I already did—that it’s basically tall tales and family legends. Not like I spit in a tube and got a full DNA test back that shows I’m 100% shifter and know everyone I’m related to.

“Hey,” I say. “You know, I never talked to my folks about it either. Except in general terms. It’s not like they gave me a comprehensive your-body-is-changing talk, exactly.”

Will stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I know that.”

“And I know you know,” I say, mildly enough. “I’m just reminding you. I’m not denying I had an easier time of it, but...I don’t know. Don’t act like I’m some fount of knowledge, okay? That’s why we brought on Tuck, right?”

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Let’s hope he turns something up.” He quirks an eyebrow at me. “You really didn’t feel anything just now?”

“I wasn’t paying attention,” I admit. I gesture in the air. “Lost in thought. Wool-gathering. So on and so forth.”

Now he rolls his eyes. “Don’t choose now to get all philosophical.”

“Relax,” I say, pushing to my elbows. “I listened in. Didn’t hear anything to worry about.”

Will works his jaw. “That, in and of itself, is something to worry about.”

God damn him and his Yankee neurosis. “It’s a wonder you haven’t stroked out at this point in your life,” I remark. “Being so uptight like that. You ever consider that’s why you’re prematurely gray?”

He tucks his hair behind his ear, almost pouty. “That’s genetic,” he mutters. “Besides, Scarlets thrive on stress. It’s the Alzheimer’s and crippling alcoholism that usually does us in.” He flicks a glance around my room. “You know, at some point we should really think about—”

“I’m not getting a maid,” I interrupt him. “Let someone trample around in here? Come on.”

Will huffs.

“It’s my room,” I say. “And I don’t mind. Neither does Maren. She’s too focused on messingupthe sheets to notice whether or not they got put on straight.”

“All right, all right,” he says. But he cracks a little smile at the same time I do. “I’ve got to give it a shot, that’s all.” He gives me a more serious look. “You feeling okay, though?”

I shrug. “Regular, I guess. How should I be feeling?”

“You tell me,” he says. “Your face is the one on wanted posters. Every Elmer Fudd in Sherwood’s gotta be polishing up his shotgun to see if he can bring you in.”

I roll a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Doesn’t sound like it so far.”

Before Scarlet can say anything else, there’s another knock. Well, not a knock, just the door flat-out opening.

This time, it’s LJ, all sweaty in his training gear—not that that’s much different from his regular attire—and drinking some kind of cloudy post-workout concoction.

He nods at me.

“Hear anything?”

I shrug. “From the boys in beige? Nothing interesting. Cats up trees, little old ladies can’t find their glasses—”

Scarlet groans and elbows me out of the way. “Here.”

“Hey!” I protest. He ignores me, like he always does.

“You’ve gotta try other channels,” he says. “Not just official law enforcement.” He fiddles with the dials, and I push all the way back, my palms in the air in surrender.

“I give up. Y’all clearly know better how to do my own business than I do.” I roll my eyes, drum my fingers on the arm of the chair. “Hey, how’d training go?”

LJ polishes off the rest of his drink. “Fine.”

I wait for more. There is none.

“Just fine?” I prompt.

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