Fur

06 | Two Sheets of Paper

On one hand, the McNamaras don't have a werewolf stalking them. A human stalker is safer than the alternative. On the other, there are two dangerous persons lurking in Heisenbühl now.

Three, if one of the two didn't kill Sophie.

Kill Sophie. The revelation unsettles me more than I could ever admit. The possibility—no, probability—that one of the two strangers I've encountered in the last twenty-four hours is the one who did that to Sophie Schwarz.

"Excuse me?" A young male voice calls out from over the top of my head. "Is anyone in?"

My shoulders slump and I breathe another subtle sigh before soldiering up. When I pop up into view of the customer, I bring a tub of paper coffee cups that had been sitting on a shelf beneath the register with me to act as though I'd been down there looking for them.

"Yes, sir. Sorry for the w—"

I don't so much as place the tub of cups on the countertop as I do drop them.

I had been so locked within the inner worries of my own brain that I'd ignored everything around me.

I hadn't heard the soft, fairy-like chime of the bell when the door had been opened to signal a customer.

I hadn't heard his footsteps as he'd approached the counter.

And I hadn't paid attention to his scent until I stood up to face him and a gust of it punched me square in the face.

Werewolf.

"Wait. Sorry for the wait," I finish my sentence with substantial difficulty. The mechanisms upstairs have encountered a jam. "Ready to order?"

He must hear my fanatic heartbeat. I can hear his, as calm as a cat's lying in the evening sun.

Why is he here?

He orders a black coffee, to go. His eyes explore my face, suspicious. As far as he knows, I'm as human as the rest of Heisenbühl. So why, then, is a human reacting like this?

I have to excuse my nerves, somehow. Some way.

I tell him the price. As he reaches into his pocket to retrieve his wallet, a dark black curl of hair falls over his brow. He's probably my age, if not a year or two older, dressed in a smart charcoal mackintosh with a navy sweater beneath. His facial features are firm and symmetrical, his skin clearer than the sky outside.

An idea strikes, and I partially wish it hadn't. A simple girlish crush would explain my hammering heart...

"I haven't seen you here before," I comment, lilting my voice just enough that I loathe it. "Are you new in town?"

He doesn't notice my tone at first, and if he does, he keeps his formal. "Yes. Well, no. I'm here on business. I'm from Reinberg, actually. About an hour north."

I lean just a minuscule amount forward, not feigning my interest because I'd genuinely like to know. "How long have you been in the area?" Long enough to murder an innocent girl and dump her body over a bridge like a sack of rotten potatoes?

"Just one day now." Long enough, indeed. "Yourself?"

I smile and meet his bluish eyes. "Three years."

He gives me his money. When I take it, I make sure our fingers brush. At the subtle contact I quickly look away as though to hide my synthetic grin. I feel his gaze on the side of my face, and somehow, sense him smiling back.

He's picked up on the hints. He's drawn the conclusion. The poor little barista girl has a crush on me, how flattering! At least that's what I hope he thinks.