Page 8 of Forget Me Not
The gentle whisper of the wind through the trees once again lulled her into a daze as she rested against the headstone, absentmindedly running her nose along the inscription. Syve exhaled deeply, then stood, shaking off the snow that had stuck to her before slowly beginning the trek back to the cemetery gates. The snow was deeper tonight, slowing her steps.
A shift in the wind tickled the hairs along her spine and she paused, tilting her head when a familiar scent wafted past her. Wax smoke, like a freshly snuffed candle. It did notbelong.
A niggling feeling in the back of her mind urged her to look away from the main gate, and back toward the farthest corner of the graveyard. Her eyes instantly locked onto the mausoleum, its half open door, and the large gray wolf standing unnaturally still in the doorway, bright eyes unblinking.
After what felt like hours—but couldn’t have been more than seconds—Syve turned back to the gate.
If this were reality, she might have been terrified. But it was only a dream. And there was nothing an overgrown dog could do to her mind that could possibly hurt it any more than it already was.
Bastien
“Fuck!”Bascursed,droppinghis knife in favor of the towel slung over his shoulder and clasping it around his finger, hands tight against his chest. It had been years since he’d last slipped with a knife. “Dammit,” he hissed. That was at least three pounds of steak that would need to be tossed due to contamination. Hal would be pissed.
That was the fourth time in as many hours Bas had screwed up a simple task because he couldn’t stop daydreaming about big, hazel eyes. He had been going to the mausoleum just about every night the last few weeks, reading by candlelight until she would show up, then he would watch her from the mausoleum windows until she left again.
That was until, compelled by a bout of recklessness the night before, he shifted and attempted to slip out of the tomb to get a little closer. Turned out, he must be as sneaky as a train, because he hadn’t even made it completely out of the door before her head snapped in his direction. Bastien wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but for her to disregard him and walk away? That was a surprise.
The cowbell above the door rang out, clearing the fog that consumed his mind.
“Sebastian! How ya been, Man?” Cheap cologne permeated the shop as Gunther sauntered in, his wet boots squeaking on the concrete floor despite his pathetic attempt to kick the snow free on the entry rug.
“Bastien. It’s just Bastien,” he corrected, tossing the bloody towel into the wash basket and reaching for the first aid kit.
“Right, Bas, listen.” Bas inhaled deeply, more insulted by the use of his nickname than the mispronunciation. Gunther continued, “What’s your protocol on roadkill? Can you guys process it down?”
“In order to process anything, we either need the carcass copy of a legally issued hunting license or we would need to make a copy of your salvage permit—you do have a salvage permit, right?” Bastien probed, one eyebrow raised in doubt.
“Of course I have a permit,” Gunther huffed. “And, for the record, I was askinghypothetically. For a friend.” He stalked over to a display case, slapping a hand on the glass.Bastien flinched at the greasy handprint that would surely be left on his freshly polished glass.
“Anyway,” Gunther said, drawing out the last syllable while he continued to scan the available cuts, “go ahead and wrap up a pair of these New Yorks for me.” He tapped the glass above the steaks. “I’ve got a date.”
Bastien fought the urge to roll his eyes until he could see his brain as he slipped on a pair of gloves. The thought that anyone would want to share a meal with this guy was absurd, let alone as adate.While wrapping the meat, his thoughts drifted back to the mournful doe and the conversation he’d had with his mother the night before, when he returned home after being seen.
Shivering, Bas eased open the back door. The old hinges ignored his attempt at silence, squealing loudly and causing him to grimace.
“Mijo?” The question came from the kitchen which he now saw was dimly lit, likely by his mother’s favorite reading lamp. She was the only person he had ever heard of who preferred to read at the kitchen counter instead of a plush sofa in the living room, always saying something about how the kitchen was the heart of the house.
“Yeah, Mama, it’s just me,” Bas answered while digging around in the coat closet. Soriah had suggested they keep spare clothes there after he and Desiderio had barreled into the house, buck naked in the middle of her book club’s monthly meetup. With a sad smile at the memory, he stepped intoa pair of sweats and threw a towel over his head. He was still roughly drying his dark hair as he walked into the kitchen, where Soriah sat, just as he expected, at the island with her little lamp, glasses perched on the end of her nose and a worn-out paper back laying open in front of her.
“It’s late, why are you up?” Bas asked when her eyes, full of concern, met his.
“You’d think by now you’d know that you can’t leave this house without me knowing.” She raised an eyebrow with a smirk. “Was it the nightmares again?” The question was almost a whisper and most definitely rhetorical.
Bas only ever got out of bed in the middle of the night if he was afraid to go back to sleep, he had been that way since he was a little boy. Bastien shrugged, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, as he pulled out the stool next to his mother and sank onto it with a sigh.
Soriah pursed her lips and rubbed her son’s back. “Tea?”
He nodded again, and she rose from her seat, walking around the island to the kettle.
“Want to talk?”
“Actually, yeah.” Bastien proceeded to tell her about the doe and how he suspected there may be more to her than meets the eye. “I know there are some of us out there like Papa and Del, herbivore shifters, I just never put much thought into it before, I guess. Have you ever heard of a family of deer?”
“Sí,” Soriah replied. “Your Abuelo used to tell me stories when I was a little girl about all of the different families he had heard of—one was deer.”
“Twenty-seven, thirty-two,” Bas said, sliding the carefully packaged steaks across the counter.
“Thanks, man,” Gunther replied, impatiently ripping his card from the reader before snatching the meat off the counter. “Same time next week?” he joked, stalking back to the door, not bothering to wait for a response before stepping out into the cold.
