Her automatic pilot counted out change for the milk and paper. "Have a nice day."
Their hands touched. Smooth. Warm. Electric. Like the touch of Brian's hand when they'd walked away from the fire. That had been nice.
"We need to talk," he said. "You shouldn't be afraid of us. When do you get off work?"
His voice had Fiona's soft Irish lilt but in a slightly deeper register. Soft Irish whisky, it really was, golden and smoky and magic on the tongue, with a gentle liquid fire soaking straight into the throat and never even reaching the stomach. Brian's voice was gin, cheap gin. It would get you drunk enough, but you wouldn't enjoy the process half as much.
"It's past time for my break. Wait while I get the night manager out here to cover the register. We can talk outside."
She pushed the call button, one short dash that meant no trouble. One time she'd jammed the damn thing, gave the long buzz that said, "Call the cops." White cars and blue lights like you wouldn't believe. She'd smoothed it over with free cups of coffee and some outdated donuts that only would have fed the dumpster in the morning.
Fred came out, glanced over the monitors, and punched his code into the register. He didn't even try to crowd her tits or brush his hand across her ass behind the counter. She felt calm and safe, as if Sean was guarding her against such threats. She grabbed her jacket, swinging it carefully so Fred wouldn't notice the lumpy weight of the Smith in the right pocket.
Sean took her arm, like a gentleman leading his lady onto the ballroom floor. It was a soft touch, a warm touch, a friendly touch--not something threatening. Faint unease raised memories of how Brian's glamour had felt the other night, how that slow gentle warmth had grown into frightening passion.
Why be afraid of passion? Most people seek it out.
Besides, Sean's a sterile hybrid. He's no threat.
The cold wind bit through that glow as soon as they stepped outside, an Alberta Clipper straight down from the Arctic Circle. She wiggled into her jacket and turned her back to the polar ice-cap. Maine faced another month of winter before she could even begin to think about sun and birds and green, growing things.
And Mud Season. And then bugs. Someday she was going to move to a place where the weather was designed with people in mind.
"Fiona asked me to talk to you."
Maureen jerked her thoughts back from their vague wandering. Brian had told her this man was dangerous.
Sean didn't look dangerous. He stood in the frozen slush, wind tangling his hair, looking like an ad for some designer line of clothing: a Spanish Don, somebody like Ricardo Montalban about to climb into a big Chrysler with butter-soft leather upholstery and a walnut dash. Even the garish orange glow of the streetlights suited his sleek dark beauty.
"So talk." Maureen forced a hostile tone, fighting against the voice of the serpent. "What does Fiona want with me? Want me to poison her brother, perhaps? He's too big for me to beat him up."
Sean laughed, with a deprecating wave of his free hand. "Nothing so crude. She just wants you to remember that you have a home waiting for you with your people. A warm, green home in the Summer Country."
He gestured at the ice, the cold glitter of the winter stars, the tawdry beer signs flapping across the Quick Shop front. Maureen read the sweep of his arm. The store was flat-ass ugly: Marlboro's ragged vinyl banner, the stack of gallon bottles of windshield-washer fluid sadly depleted by the recent siege of slush, the dumpster overflowing wet cardboard into the piles of filthy snow left by the plow-truck. His arm swept on, to include the whole tattered, icy, dirty, dangerous, nasty scene of city winter.
Summer Country. The image was seductive, like the travel-agency ads for Cancun or St. Thomas, the cabin-fever getaway specials they trotted out right after a big storm. Somewhere around Groundhog Day, when the mercury in the thermometer congealed down near thirty below, half the State of Maine flew south. The other half wished they could.
"Why'd you guys attack Brian."
Sean shook his head. "What makes you think it was us? Believe me, Fiona doesn't want him damaged."
For an instant, the golden warmth slipped, and Maureen caught a flicker of rage across Sean's face. She felt the sudden chill of danger and peeled her arm out of his hand.
"Not damaged? Just weakened? Weakened to the point where she can control him?"
He moved closer to her, bringing the warm glow back into the night. Sean might be dangerous, but not to her. Maureen focused on his eyes, the beautiful depth of his eyes in the light spilling out from the store windows. Anyone, man or woman, could fall into those eyes and drown.
"Brian is a ruthless man, Maureen. He has many enemies. Remember what he did to Liam. Brian has killed many Old Ones with many friends. Any one of those could be hunting him for revenge. Fiona wanted me to warn you. You are in great danger, living with Brian."
"And I would be safer in the Summer Country?"
Sean brushed a finger gently across her cheek, leaving a taste of delicious fire behind. "Safety is relative, my dear. Laws protect you in the world of men. We do not have laws in the Summer Country. We have customs."
The palm of his hand was impossibly soft and warm and gentle, caressing her neck. "You are a beautiful woman, Maureen, a powerful woman. When you come to the Summer Country, your beauty and the power of your blood will defend you. Men will fear you and adore you, laying their hearts at your feet. They will protect you, each from the other. There is strength in jealousy. This is our custom, strength
