Page 6 of Touch

Amid the charred odor of stress and the floral whiff of melancholy drifting from the homes, she catches the rugged essence of cedarwood and eucalyptus. Hunting after those notes, Love discovers a climbable gate, a winding road beyond, and a vast home at the drive’s end. The residence comprises warm-toned wood and black trim, with dormer windows jutting from the second floor, a wrap-around porch, and river rocks forming the protruding fireplace chute.

Streamlined, modern yet rustic, and not an inch of peeling paint defacing the exterior, nor any cracks in the hardscape. Andrew does well, maintaining this place.

Covert observation is best. As the pine green door wrenches open, Love dives behind a coniferous tree towering over the snow-carpeted lawn. Andrew strides outside, tying a scarf around his neck and clenching his jaw in frustration as he descends the porch steps.

Behind him, a male in his late fifties sticks his leathery face out the front door. He could be a relative, but that cannot be right, for this one doesn’t possess Andrew’s gray irises or impressive shoulders. No, this wraith has alcohol-glazed eyes and a neck as long as a fencepost.

She recognizes the sour taste of rancor. And that’s before he even opens his maw.

“When I ask a fucking question, I should get a fucking answer,” the man barks.

Pausing on the sidewalk, Andrew’s nostrils flare with forced patience as he turns toward the wraith. “Go back inside before you freeze.”

“Stop dodging the subject. I said, what happened to that fancy coat of yours?”

“Gave it away.”

“Wise ass. There’s a fine line between charity and idiocy.”

Charity? Indignant, Love grips the lapels of Andrew’s coat and surveys his replacement. It’s a leather jacket, hardly the most practical option in the tundra. He’d sacrificed his comfort for her, unaware that she doesn’t need it. Cold and heat are enigmas to deities.

“I can handle the weather,” Andrew dismisses. “Go inside.”

“Are you calling me weak?” the wraith snarls. “I’m not weak.”

Love observes the residue of bitterness on his fingers, which grasp the door handle. He could be a violent creature, but considering their differences in height and bulk—Andrew’smuscles alone vouching for this fact—it’s unlikely such a gaunt figure would succeed in an attack.

Perhaps this wraith was the source of Andrew’s vexation when she’d first seen him training in the woods, as if he’d needed to release the steam percolating inside him. Love curls her mouth as she fantasizes about ways to repay the wraith. However, abusing power is a despicable act, which The Fate Court doesn’t take lightly.

The wraith slinks back indoors, the front door slamming behind him. Andrew tilts his head toward the sky, clenches his eyes shut for a moment, then twists and stalks away.

Love follows as he strides down an adjoining walkway leading west. Disregarding the speed and warmth of a car, he travels on foot, slipping through a smaller gate that deposits him onto a public trail bordered in evergreens. From there, the mortal heads into the village.

After a while, Andrew stops. The movement is attentive, as if struck by something.

Love takes cover in the arms of a bush. Instead of turning to see if he’s being pursued, he cocks his head toward the woods, where trees spear the sky.

Could he be thinking of her? Love cannot guess, for there’s a sudden, inexplicable fogginess to his emotions. She’s unable to grasp what he’s feeling, his senses flickering on and off.

An unusual barrier. Or perhaps not.

Andrew keeps going, crossing into the square where people glance his way with varying degrees of intrigue, admiration, and attraction. In some fashion, he’s made a name for himself. Love frowns at the mortals’ reactions, but continues trailing Andrew as he navigates down the walkway of a bookstore located off the main thoroughfare.

The swinging sign by the entrance reads,Ever Stories, Rare and Used.

Love considers flipping theOpensign toClosedfor amusement purposes. In her last domain, she had entertained herself by removing parking tickets from automobile windshields. In another region, she’d pranced after her targets, monitoring their courtship in a grocery store while placing random items into people’s shopping carts. Humans are theatrical creatures when they’re inconvenienced.

At the front door, Andrew kicks snow off his boots. Beneath a wall sconce brimming with gas flames, he straightens the knocker, which has gone crooked.

He’s invested in this place. Therefore, Love leaves the sign alone.

After the human disappears into a yoke of light oozing from the entrance, Love waits a beat, then slips past the threshold. She’s never set foot in here. The establishment is compact, with wood paneling and decorative props including an old typewriter and a table displaying antique poetry collections. An iron stove heats the foyer, which connects to other rooms shelved with books.

To the right, a woman sits at a counter, poised like a matriarch in her palace. She looks to be in her mid-sixties, with a pencil balanced behind her ear and a turtleneck dress complimenting her figure.

Perched on a barstool, the matriarch scans the pages of a novel. Love sneaks behind her, about to read along, but without warning the lady stiffens and spins in her chair. Her eyes probe the space between them, bemused and searching. Love inhales sharply. The incident lasts a mere second, but it’s enough to leave her shaken after the female glides back around, rubbing the back of her neck.

Certain humans display a sixth sense about deities, especially when Love struts through their bodies or hovers nearby. This usually diverts her. However today, it’s unfortunate timing, for Love is too guarded to enjoy it.

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