Hour of the Lion

“Does she,” Thorson said in a dry voice.

“At least-”

“Shut up.” His soul felt tattered with humiliation. What had he been thinking to attack a female? No matter the species, it was wrong.

He waited silently as Calum and the human strolled down from the tavern. As they approached, Thorson stood and waited. And watched, noting how Calum’s eyes darkened, his posture turning protective. Surely the Cosantir hadn’t formed an attachment to this…human.

Thorson turned his gaze on the female. Pretty enough, he supposed, but lacking-his eyes narrowed-actually, she wasn’t lacking. She had a werecat’s grace although not the wild scent of one who’d run the forests. He could see why she might, possibly, have attracted Calum. Still, any relationship with a human would be as doomed as an air sylph trying to mate a fire salamander.

“Calum,” he said, nodding to the Cosantir, then grudgingly tilted his head to the female. “Miss.”

She was silent, an unusual trait in a human. One to be appreciated.

“Victoria, this is Albert Baty. He owns the grocery store,” Calum said. “Joe Thorson owns Books.”

Her gaze was cool, her voice husky. “Great name for a bookstore.” No tedious, pleased to meet you, or how are you niceties from her.

“Have you suggestions for reciprocity?” Calum asked. Strictly business was the Cosantir, especially when something raised his ire. He wasn’t one a shifter wanted to rile up. Although he’d never wanted the God-given title, he’d led them with wisdom…and power that had become legendary.

Al stepped forward, his gut leading his chest by a good few inches. He needed to get into the forest more, run some of that flab off. “First, Miss Waverly, I’d like to say that I’m sorry. I was drunk…and stupid.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve dealt with stupid drunks before. Never seen one try to knife a person in the back.”

Al cringed like a whipped dog. Thorson barely repressed a snarl.

The grocer’s face turned red enough to match the broken veins in his nose. “I-I.”

The woman sighed. “Do me a favor. If you want to drink, leave the weapons at home.”

“Yes, miss. I will,” Al said.

By Herne, if Al had been in wolf form, his tail would be under his belly. Thorson really needed to rethink his friends, or, at least, avoid submissive werewolves.

Al continued, “My thought to balance the debt is free meat from the grocery for you as long as you live in Cold Creek.”

The human’s eyes widened. She glanced at Calum.

The Cosantir considered, then nodded. “A fair exchange. Let it be so.” He turned to Thorson, his pupils very close to totally black. Not a good sign. He obviously held Thorson to blame for the fight.

“My apologies also, Miss Waverly,” Thorson said stiffly. He wouldn’t-couldn’t-crawl like his dog of a friend. Not for a human, even a female one.

She tilted her head, studying him. “Why do you hate me?”

The question came like a slash to the jugular. Because you’re one of them who killed my boy. Human. Images of Lachlan flooded his memory. The day the boy arrived, his mother dead, his little face so white. Giggling under a pile of books dislodged when he’d tried to climb a bookcase. His wonder at his first trawsfur. His body lifeless on a steel table. Killed by humans. Thorson choked on hatred. His hands closed into fists, tingling with the beginning of trawsfur.

Calum pulled the human back a step and moved in front of her. His eyes, black as night, met Thorson’s, and power edged his voice. “No, Joe.”

The impending change fled; the anger did not. Lips closed over a snarl, Thorson turned his head away and struggled for control. He heard Calum speaking…“lost his grandson. Grieving…not himself.” And hearing, he regained his composure. No one apologized for him.

He turned back to the female. “I’m sorry.” Her face was whiter than the snow-capped peaks, her eyes shocked. Did grandchildren not die where she came from?

“I… Fucking A, you’re…” She swallowed and raised her voice and her chin both. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Thorson.”

“Thank you.” He inhaled, his chest sore from more than the fight. “Calum. I haven’t thought of a way to achieve balance. Since you know the fem-ah, lady, have you suggestions?”

“I have an idea that might serve,” Calum said smoothly. The faint smile on his face had the hackles on Thorson’s neck rising. Last time he’d seen that smile, Calum had crippled the recipient. “I would suggest you give Miss Waverly free rein in your bookstore.” Calum glanced at Al and added, “As long as she resides in Cold Creek.”

The Cosantir had lost his mind. How could free books compensate for Thorson’s attempt on her life? But by Herne, the female clasped her hands together, and the look on her face could only be described as bliss.

Calum raised an eyebrow at Thorson.

An unfamiliar human underfoot in his domain? The townsfolk he knew were bad enough. Thorson choked a little, and then spit out the traditional answer. “The balance is fair. Accepted.”

Engulfed in the aroma of books, leather, new paper, and a hint of dust, Vic was unable to keep the smile off her face. She’d begun to wonder if the place was ever open. Bookstore withdrawal-who would suspect such a thing existed? But she’d get her fix today. The store was even better than she’d hoped with a great selection of new and used books, including military sci-fi.

Joe Thorson had taken up position behind the small counter, watching her, his expression somewhere between amused and furious. Furious wasn’t good. This probably wasn’t the smartest thing she’d done, entering a pissed-off panther’s lair.

Then again, this lair had books.

And she didn’t blame him for attacking her, not after Calum’s explanation. The old man had to be Lachlan’s gramps, and if he’d learned how his grandson had died, it was no wonder he hated humans.

Turning her back on him, but keeping her ears open, she did a quick survey of the place. Like everything else in this town, the building was old. The counter was by the left wall. The door behind it probably led to a back room. Towering wooden bookshelves created a maze on the hardwood floor. The right wall held a table and ladder-back chairs before a fireplace. Useful, but not very friendly. She noted the two windows framing the fireplace as possible exits.

Wandering around the room, she discovered a shelf of recently released books. Yes! A new Guy Gavriel Kay went under her arm. She thumbed through a Bujold and kept it also. But there was a new Crusie, dammit. No. With a lingering sigh, she forced herself to walk to the counter.

He eyed her and her choices.

“I expected you to take more,” he said patronizingly. His voice was sandpaper rough, like someone had crushed his larynx in the past. White lacework scars covered his tanned forearms, so maybe the same person had tried to rip him apart. Considering his personality, quite understandable.

“I limit myself to two books at a time,” she said. No need to mention how delaying to pack books had almost gotten her blown up. “I’ll be back in a couple days for two more.”

“I see.” He held out a hand. “Let me put them into the system so my inventory remains correct.”

He scanned in the barcodes and pushed them across the counter to her.

“Thank you.” She gathered them up.

“Balance,” he said, his mouth flattening slightly.

Earlier, on the way to town, Calum had explained the balance-reciprocity stuff was a local custom. It sure gave new meaning to the phrase, ‘paybacks are hell’. But he’d offered only that in explanation and trying to get information out of him was like pumping a dry well. The man had even more control over his words and expressions than spymaster Wells did.

“See you soon,” she said to Thorson.

With a short nod of dismissal, he turned away and bent over the small desk tucked in a corner.

Nice meeting you too, she thought to his back and-oh, God. A picture of Lachlan