But I want the money. More than I ever have before.
These past few days, I’ve been yanked this way and pulled that. My body does what it wants. My wolf. I want my life back. The one where I’m in charge.
I straighten my spine and turn on the radio. It only gets a few staticky stations, but I find one that plays Top 40, and I sing along. I love human music. More melody, less howling.
I’m in town before the commercial break.
Chapel Bell has three stop lights, six cross streets, and a town square in the grassy expanse between northbound and southbound Main Street. That’s where the farmer’s market shares space with a weathered bandstand. There are also permanent shops on the street facing the park. An ice cream shop with a life-sized cow statue out front. A vintage jewelry store.
It’s a nice town. Very peaceful. No sparring or wrestling.
I park and check my phone.
Here. At the honey table.
My belly swoops. This is it. This is going to be the biggest deal I’ve ever made. Who knows? Maybe the beginning of a mushroom empire. I force myself to steady my breathing.
I’m not new at this. I’m a business woman. I’ve got almost a thousand dollars in the trunk of an oak tree that says it.
And I am not thinking right now about what it says that my capital is stored in the hollow of a tree.
I’ve been selling for years. This is just another sale. Only a couple more zeroes on the price tag.
I make my way past the produce vendors and the other regulars. A few folks wave. I don’t socialize, but I’ve been coming long enough that I’m recognized. The baseball card guy has his table laid out, and the cheese woman is here.
There’s a man loitering by the honey table. I haven’t seen him before. Shroomforager3000 said to look for a man with a beard, and this guy definitely has a beard. It’s waxed and pointy like a goat’s. His mustache swoops.
He’s wearing a short-sleeve collared shirt under a brown velvety vest. He looks like a cross between a lumberjack and a yodeler.
He sees me, and his lips curl. I am a wolf, and his smile seems wolfish.
I don’t like him.
I don’t have to. I just have to sell him mushrooms.
He kind of canters over, hands in pockets.
“Una?”
I nod.
“I can’t believe you got me all the way out here.” He gestures around him. “I’ve never even heard of this town before.”
I don’t know what to say. Humans are into small talk between males and females, but I’m not used to it. It was different with the glassblower. He talked incessantly, and he didn’t need you to reply.
I nod again and try to look friendly.
“Shy, eh?” He waggles his eyebrows. There’s something wrong with them. They’re tweezed. And arched to make him look perpetually surprised.
“I have the mushrooms.”
He laughs. “Whoa, whoa. You say it like that, people are gonna think things.”
I glance around. No one is close enough to hear us.
“Let’s go over here. I can see what you got.” He leads the way to a wrought iron bench at the edge of the lawn. I set my backpack down and carefully unfold the quilt.
Morels are ugly. They look like dried brains. Still, I hold the jar up proudly. They’re all whole. No pieces.
For a second, ShroomForager3000’s face lights up, but then his lips turn down, his thin, dark brows spearing together. “Oh, man. These aren’t as big as they looked in the pics.”
Yes, they are. These are the exact same mushrooms.
“Maybe it’s seeing them in a jar.” For the pictures, I laid them out on a table.
He shakes his head. “No, these are definitely, uh, you know, on the small side.” He scrubs his neck. “Man, this sucks. My guys, they’re looking for a certain size you know? They want to stuff them with crab. Turkey mousse. That kind of thing.”
“You can stuff these.”
He sighs. “They’re just not what I’m looking for, you know?”
My heart plummets. I want this money so bad I can taste it. I’ve been spending it in my head for months. Plenty of buyers are interested, but they want to pay online and have the product shipped, and whatever app you use, you need a checking account, and to open a checking account, you need identification. Shifter females don’t have ID.
Kennedy and I have looked at it from every angle. We can’t figure out a work-around. And this is the only guy who’s been willing to drive down and pay cash.
I hug the jar to my chest.
ShroomForager3000 lays his hand on my shoulder. “But, hey. I mean, I drove all the way down here, right. I could take ‘em off your hands. For maybe—” He licks his unnaturally red lips. “A hundred bucks?”
Oh.
He’s playing me.
I tense.
He squeezes, like a massage. My wolf growls. His hand drops, and he looks at me, really looks, much closer than before.
“Holy shit. You’re one of them, aren’t you? A shifter. I wondered—since this town is kind of known for being close to a pack. Wow. You’re a wolf, right?”
“Does that matter?”
His eyes flicker, and he licks his lips again. “Not at all. I vote pro wolf, all the way. You guys deserve citizenship. Most definitely.”
I’m not up on the pro wolf stuff. That’s more Moon Lake’s bag. Still, I guess pro wolf is better than anti.
“You know, I have an idea. If you really need the money. I mean, I really can’t do more than a hundred on the morels, but I did bring the whole three hundred.”
He pauses, his gaze flickering around the market, like he’s looking for something. My wolf’s hackles are raised. She really doesn’t like this guy. Neither do I.
“My van is just over there.” He jerks his thumb to a white work van with rust along the bottom. “We could, uh, come to an arrangement, if you want the rest?”
“I’m not having sex with you for money.” I hug my mushrooms tighter.
“No, no. You misunderstand.” He lowers his voice and leans in. “Just pictures. A little video. You, uh, become the wolf. Shift back. Pose. I’ll crop out your head. It’ll take five minutes. Ten tops.”
My stomach heaves, and a sour taste fills my mouth. “I’m not doing that. Give me the three hundred.”
“Come on. It’s just—”
My wolf growls, loud, a perfectly clear threat. He holds one hand up and digs the other into his pocket.
And then I catch a scent on the wind, and my heart leaps once, high in my throat, and then takes off in a gallop.
It’s Killian.
He’s close.
I scan the booths, and there he is, a blur rushing towards us, and I can’t get a word out, I can’t move an inch before he shoves me to the side and bowls into ShroomForager3000, sending him sailing into the air. My jar is knocked from my hands, and it falls to the sidewalk, shattering.
Killian’s tan work boots land on the mushrooms, crushing them into pulp, as he bounds to loom over the human, fangs bared, claws unsheathed.
Screams pierce the air. There’s the scent of piss. ShroomForager3000 scrambles backwards like a crab.