pesky drawer didn’t give you any trouble. It sticks sometimes.”
“Cash register? No, I—just needed a coffee. There was nobody here. I left money on the counter.”
“Jerome isn’t your personal hunting ground. You might want to learn some manners before someone mistakes you for a thief and treats you accordingly.”
Heat rushed to Lucy’s face. “Yeah? Well, you might want to be a little more responsive when a customer is waiting. In the real world, baristas don’t get tips when they ignore people. Maybe you shouldn’t be taking bathroom breaks when you’re supposed to be working.”
“Maybe you should learn to read.” His head tilted toward the words printed in large gold lettering on the outside of the glass panel on the door. “We open at noon.”
Lucy tried to maintain some dignity, the stupid muffin crumbling in her hand as she set down the coffee cup. “Why the hell is the door unlocked if you’re not open?”
Barista G.I. Joe studied her for a moment, his expression giving away nothing. “We generally trust our neighbors around here. This is the first time I’ve ever been robbed.”
“Robbed?” Lucy picked up the five-dollar bill and waved it at him. “I paid you. But you know what? Forget it. Keep the coffee and the muffin. And the damn change. Maybe you can buy yourself a functioning lock.”
She tossed the muffin and the money on the counter and stalked to the door, willing down the prickly heat in her skin threatening to top off her humiliation with a furious blush. She made it all the way to the door—and then pushed instead of pulled.
His soft laughter as she adjusted her grip on the handle followed her out.
Lucy wasn’t easily flustered. Years of practice being the “good” daughter under Edgar’s strict rules and dealing with supernatural rogues, paranormal entities and therianthropes—or shape-shifters, in layman’s terms—of every description had made her preternaturally calm under pressure. Everything was to be kept inside. A Smok wasn’t supposed to react with emotion but with a cool head to defuse the most unpredictable situations. And she certainly didn’t get embarrassed. What was it to her if some petty wannabe-vigilante barista chose to call her a thief just because he couldn’t be bothered to man the counter at his day job?
Normally, she’d have already forgotten the encounter. Maybe it was the lack of sleep—and caffeine—affecting her, but her blood was boiling, and she couldn’t shake it off. She wanted to go back and punch the guy in the mouth.
Lucy gritted her teeth and entered the landscape-dominating Civic Center building on Clark Street that housed the town hall, an odd mix of classical architecture and Mission Revival that defied the small-town-Victorian aesthetic.
With a few minutes to spare, she stepped into the bathroom to make sure she was presentable. Charcoal-gray pin-striped suit immaculate, white shirt crisp, nothing out of place. After tucking a few stray hairs into the loose braid that hung down her back, she touched up her Blood Moon lip stain—the dark, dramatic hue was the one concession she made to traditional femininity; the over-the-top color went beyond sexual appeal, making an aggressive statement that made her feel in control—and headed upstairs to her meeting.
The door to the meeting room opened outward—like a respectable door. Lucy pulled it open and stopped on the threshold in disbelief. Among the three council members sitting at the table was Barista G.I. Joe.
His dark brows drew together into a disbelieving scowl that matched the one she was no doubt displaying as he met her eyes. “You have got to be kidding.”
The elderly woman who’d risen from the seat next to him at Lucy’s entrance glanced from him to Lucy and back. “Do you two know each other?”
“No, we don’t,” said Lucy before he could answer. “We just had a misunderstanding about coffee.”
“I see.” The woman reached a hand across the table. “I’m Nora Peterson.”
Lucy stepped forward with a nod and shook Nora’s hand, trying to ignore the unfriendly glare emanating from beside her. “Lucy Smok.”
Nora indicated the chair opposite her. “Please have a seat.”
As Lucy sat, she reevaluated her initial assessment of G.I Joe’s age. Prematurely graying hair had made him seem older at first glance. He was definitely on the nearer side of forty.
She smiled politely at Nora and the other council member, avoiding the glowering eyes. Even though they were compelling. And an intense deep cinnamon, just a shade darker than amber. Not that she noticed.
“I didn’t realize the town council would be here. Generally, people like to keep these matters hushed up.”
Nora tilted her head. “The choice of meeting place may have been unintentionally misleading. We’re not exactly the town council. We’re more like...the paracouncil.” She gave Lucy a slight smile. “We’re a volunteer group. But we’ve taken it upon ourselves to manage incidents that fall outside the normal operations of the town. With the council’s blessing. Unofficially.”
Lucy took out her phone to take notes. “So they do know about these paranormal occurrences.”
“Everyone knows.” The man on Nora’s other side shrugged. “Jerome is a small town. It’s hard not to know things. We just don’t talk about them. Except for the ghosts, of course.” He smiled. “They’re sort of our livelihood.”
Lucy nodded, uncertain whether he was being facetious. “I see. Thank you, Mr...”
Nora clucked her tongue. “So sorry, Ms. Smok. This is Wes Mason.”
Wes reached over the table to shake Lucy’s hand, his dark skin weathered and rough. “How do you do?”
“And Oliver Connery.” Nora indicated Barista G.I. Joe.
Lucy turned to him with a bland, polite expression. “Mr. Connery.”
He rose to shake her hand, maintaining a similar expression in return. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Smok.” The handshake was firm but not too firm.
Lucy sat back in her chair. “So you said there’s been werewolf activity?”
“We assume it’s a werewolf,” said Nora. “We haven’t personally gotten a good look at it.”
“You’re sure it’s not coyotes or stray dogs? And you’re certain it’s only one?”
“I think we all know the difference between a dog and a werewolf.” Oliver Connery wasn’t quite as unflappable as he’d pretended. The other two members of the council glanced at him, as if the defensive tone was out of character. He seemed to realize it and dialed it back. “We’ve spotted tracks matching the profile of wolves that disappear into human footprints. Normally, this wouldn’t be cause for alarm. Most shape-shifters just want to be left alone, and we believe in a live-and-let-live philosophy.”
“That’s not consistent with my experience, Mr. Connery.” Lucy calmly met his eyes. Now she was in her element. “Rogue shape-shifters are never benign. Every one I’ve dealt with has caused chaos and destruction.”
“Your
