Puck: 1-9 - S. G. Ricketts (cat reading book TXT) 📗

and thinking while the engine warmed up. I blew on my gloved hands and hugged myself. Joe said James-Puck left destruction in his wake, but Martha and Ben just seemed over. I frowned, trying to piece it together. Maybe his dad had just seen the more violent break-ups? After all, if it was Puck’s job, there’d be more than a few dozen cases, right? I gripped the steering wheel and nodded. That was it. His job was merely breaking couples apart. (And setting them up with new partners, my mind added. Shakespeare really wasn’t so far off.) He was like a bartender, dealing out relational liquor but not responsible for how it was used. I nodded again and put the car in drive. Just a bartender for the souls. A very twisted, very hott bartender. Who liked… coffee?

The drive home was almost uneventful. Browning snow drifts melded into a cleaner, softer white as I left the center of town. The flat farmlands surrounding seemed to hush the world. I let it clear my head. Something about a brilliantly blue sky, sparkling snow, and scraggly trees refused to leave room for worry. I pulled over near the MacNamara’s farm and dug through the trash and crap on my passenger seat, finally emerging with my camera. I took a deep breath. There was nothing like the first sticking snow. Snow had a smell all its own. It was the cleanest, coldest smell, that same smell three chews into wintermint gum, but without the mint. It cleared the sinuses and froze the tips of nose and ears. All the weight of a normally-heated world melted away when faced with the chill of snow. I took a breath again. Lovely.

The MacNamara’s grew orchards of peach trees, their rows of barren trees stretching for acres. My eyes weren’t focused on the peach trees though. They had an ancient oak tree just on the side of the highway that I’d had my eye on for a while. I’d been waiting for the first snowfall to come out and get a picture. Now was the perfect time, too. The sun hovered just over the horizon, its rays filtering through the gnarled branches and casting the tree in shadow. I smiled. Finally. Its boughs were heavy with fresh snow, a perfect contrast to the dark, and the sun lit it up like diamonds. I snapped a few pictures, examined them, and shifted again. I took another one and looked at it. And paused.

There was something in the picture. Something… Someone? Startled, I zoomed in. There it was something near the roots. A boot, maybe? Or a hand? I looked at the base of the tree but couldn’t see anything. Carefully, I walked over. I grimaced to myself. Useless trying to be quiet, Rebekkah. My books sounded like a herd of elephants breaking snow. Still, I walked as softly as I could.

“You aren’t very sneaky, Rebekkah.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin. “What?” I spun around.

James leaned against the hood of my car, his collar flipped up against the wind. “You ruined a perfectly good hiding spot. May I at least see the picture?” He held out a leather-gloved hand expectantly.

I clutched the camera to my chest. “I… What… Why… Snow…” One perfectly-sculpted eyebrow rose in amusement. I clamped my mouth shut. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Dangerous bartender. Grown woman. I tightened my grip on the camera. If he came at me, I could beat him off with it. My inside voice withered at the thought of all the amazing pictures I’d taken, but I shushed it. I pointedly looked at his scarf rather than his eyes. He was waiting for an answer. I licked my lips, trying to gather my thoughts. “Why were you hiding out here in the snow? Wouldn’t a house have been better?” I said.

He chuckled darkly. I glanced up and met his eyes. Bad idea, Rebekkah. His eyes were almost clear, deep as ice against the backdrop of the snow. “I tend to carry bad fortune with me wherever I go. I prefer not to inflict that on people if I can help it.”

Joe’s version of Puck grew even smaller. What psycho-killer had a compassion complex? “Well… we had one of our best days at Roasters, so maybe your bad luck streak ended. I still don’t know how I ruined your hiding place.”

He chuckled again. I felt myself shiver. It was such a nice sound, and from such a nice man. Nice-looking, that inner voice corrected. I mentally rolled my eyes. No wonder no guy wanted to come near me. I exuded crazy. He watched me with cool eyes, fingers playing with the edge of his scarf. “I think your good fortune today was due more in part to the snowstorm last night, not my presence.”

“Oh… Right. That could definitely be it…” A flush crept up my cheeks. Embarrassed, I crunched over to him and held out the camera, review still up of his picture. “Here it is. If it makes it any better, it was the best shot of the bunch,” I added helpfully.

He took it carefully, blue eyes narrowed as he looked at it. Finally, he sighed and handed it back. “It is a good picture. Keep it. Just this once, though,” he warned.

I grinned with joy. “Really? Oh awesome! I’ve been trying to get that angle all year, and I was so worried you would make me delete it.” I brushed away the tickling hair that escaped my ponytail. “Some people get so stingy about pictures, even though they’re awesome pictures. And this one…” I looked down at the little view screen. “It’s perfect! I mean, the angle, the light, the contrast between dark and light, the mystery of the sleeper.”

He moved slightly so he could look over my shoulder. I resisted the urge to shiver. “Is it really that good? It looks like a tree with snow to me.”

“It’s awesome, ok? Totally worth an art gallery.” I glared up at him. “You just don’t appreciate art.”

He blinked, then shook his head in dismay. “I never thought anyone would say that to me. Some day, I’ll have to show you true art.”

“True art?” I gasped, feeling my irritation rise. “Hott or not, you did not just insult my photography.”

A slow smile spread over his face. “What was that?”

“What?” I snapped, returning my gaze to my perfect picture. “This is art!”

A gloved hand covered the screen and I glared up at him. The sun sat behind him, casting his face in shadow. “You said, ‘Hott or not.’” His smile twitched and those blue eyes danced.

“I did…not—” Horrified, I stared at him. “I meant… I meant…” I groped for some semblance of sanity. “I meant as a photo subject, you were hott.” I gritted my teeth, hoping he’d buy it.

He didn’t. He spread his fingers and looked at the picture again. “Hmmm, I suppose my boot is rather attractive, isn’t it,” he said dryly. That perfect eyebrow was up again. I clamped my mouth shut and merely nodded. He laughed. The wind gave a sudden gust, flapping his scarf and my hair in my eyes. Jasmine and the other sweet smell filled my head; I could almost feel Joe’s eyes on me, accusing. James tightened his scarf and stepped back, his hand sliding off the camera. “Well,” he said. “Keep it. It was nice seeing you again, Rebekkah.” He dipped into a deep bow, then turned to leave.

“Wait!” Joe could go rot, I decided. How could I let James just wander through the snow? He paused and turned around slowly. I cringed. “Why don’t you stay at my place tonight. I have extra rooms, and you won’t be sleeping in the cold. People might wonder why you’re outside, you know.”

His eyes seemed to get darker. “People wouldn’t have seen me. It was mere chance that you did.” I wasn’t sure how to take that. He ran his fingers across the stubble on his chin. “And, for your sake, I think that’s not a good idea.”

“Why?” I countered. “You said you were the mythical Puck. You destroy relationships, and I’m not in one. So, I’m safe, right?” I propped my hands on my hips, daring him to refuse my hospitality. The mere thought of having any man in my home, let alone he of the coffee-colored skin, made me feel light-headed.

He looked me up and down, then shook his head firmly. “I’m not just a destroyer, Child. I’m a meddler. I have nothing to do with you right now, so let’s leave it there. Coffee and a picture are safe enough. Staying in your home is not.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not asking you to move in. And honestly, there’s not a whole lot you could meddle with. Joe’s the last single guy in this whole town, and he’s gay.” James still looked unconvinced. I stalked the few feet between us and grabbed his arm. It was firm beneath his wool coat. I fought the urge to grab it with the other hand, too, and see just how muscled he was. The flush rose again. “Just shut up and let me take you home.”

He pulled his arm in and I lost my balance, falling against him. He stared down at me, a hint of something in his eyes. “Is that how you want it, Rebekkah? To take me home?” My mouth dropped open. There had to be steam coming out of my ears. He chuckled again, eyes once more the color of ice over water. “You’re cute, for a human. Fine, but just for one night. I have business to attend to.”

I nodded stiffly and dropped my hand. “It’s… It’s just down the road,” I managed. He smiled at me, clearly entertained. I tried not to look at him and got in the car.

We didn’t talk much on the way home, and I’d never felt so relieved to see the old farmhouse in my life. The pecan trees stretched scraggly fingers over the drive, but the house was clear through them. “Home sweet home,” I muttered. We slid into the garage and I unbuckled. “Just give me a minute to clean up. I’ll turn the heater on in here and come get you in just a bit.” He shrugged and leaned the chair back. Nodding to myself, I hurried inside.

Mittens met me at the door, hissing and spitting. “Seriously? Seriously, Mittens? Move!” He growled deep in his throat. “What is this, a stick up?” I teased. The cat was small even by cat standards, a shiny ebony all across his body except for his front paws. I reached down to pick him up, only to get claws across my hand. “Shit!” I pulled it into my chest, shocked. Mittens had never been this way in the seven years I’d had him. I sidled past him, careful to avoid putting out any more vulnerable body parts. I stuck my tongue out at him. “And Joe thinks you’re some kind of Dinnshenchas or something. Yea right.” Mittens froze, pupils dilating. I paused, one glove still half-way off my hand. “That’s not possible, right?” His ears twitched and he pressed himself against the floor. I sat heavily in a kitchen chair. “No, no way. No way in hell.” His tail twitched. “Oh come on! Seriously? I’ve been living with a friggin’ shape-shifter for all this time? Whatever you do, don’t-” The air pressure dropped, and a man was kneeling before me. “Change,” I finished lamely.

He didn’t raise his head. White-streaked black hair hung past his face, but his skin was pale as the snow outside. “My lady, forgive me.”

“My- My lady!” I stuttered. “You’re my cat!”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, my lady.”

I stared at him. He was dressed simply enough, with brown corduroy pants and a loose cotton shirt. “Why do you keep calling me ‘my lady?’ Is that how cats think about their owners? But you’re not really a cat, are you? And why won’t