A Wolf After My Own Heart by MaryJanice Davidson (good books for high schoolers .TXT) 📕

a low rumble behind her and turned. Oh. Right. The werebear. She didn’t really care if his forepaw hurt, which was good because she had zero interest in getting closer. Berne was massive, there was no other word that fit so well. He would have looked like a common brown bear save for his size; on all fours, he was over two yards long and must have weighed well over one thousand pounds.

Even if his size hadn’t set him apart, his dark brown fur had a violet tint, just like Berne’s human hair. Aww, cute! I think. She’d never heard of a bear with fur that color; maybe they were native to Scotland? What if it wasn’t a natural color? If a Shifter dyed their hair purple, was their fur purple, too? So many questions.

“I’m done gaping now, fellas, thanks for indulging me. Do your—go do your thing. Sniff or scavenge or whatever.” She looked around the mess one last time. “I’m gonna go stand over there where it’s slightly less muddy, which is still pretty muddy, and keep out of your way.” And look out, apparently. But for what? If a van full of state troopers suddenly roared up to the crash site, what was she supposed to do about it?

Too late to worry about that now. She watched as they prowled the crash site, noses down, and it took a minute for her to realize they were working the field in a grid. Oz in particular seemed determine to sniff and paw at everything; she couldn’t imagine the number and depth of scents he was taking in.

They’re not wild; they’re not dumb animals. They’re self-aware apex predators who have avoided detection for millennia. Which is very, very important to keep in mind, pretty much every hour of every day.

It was nuts, but she had no sense of personal danger. She figured Macropi’s gang had had ample opportunity to eat her if that had been the goal. And maybe she was kidding herself, but they all seemed to like her. Or, in Auberon and Berne’s case, tolerate her. Either way, endangered or not, who else in the world was spending their day the way she was?

She could have watched for hours, but it turned out that wasn’t an option. And ironically, given that she was the lookout, Oz and Berne spotted (smelled?) the trouble before she did. It took her a few seconds to realize she hadn’t been ditched, and a few more to realize she had company.

Worst. Lookout. Ever.

Chapter 30

The hell of it was, things had kinda been picking up. She was able to replace the truck’s muffler on her own (no burns this time). Winter had been fought to a draw and was panting in the corner, thinking about a final rush. It was too early for mosquitos. And too late for blizzards. And she’d finally talked her wife into selling the north field, which had been nothing but an unprofitable mud pit for over a decade.

Then: an unbelievable ruckus from—where else?—the north field. Goddamned plane came down like an arrow fired from God: BOOM!

Except it was more like BOOM!

Wendy, who had bought the farmhouse from her folks when they moved to Arizona (“Fuck shoveling” was how her dad broke the news), heard it like it was happening in the next room, not a mile from the house. She’d rushed off

(now what the holy old hell is this?)

found the mess, found the

(aw jeez poor thing urrgghh here comes my lunch)

body, called the cops and asked them to send an ambulance, which turned out to be waaaay too optimistic.

There’d been nothing but trouble since. Needless to say, potential buyers weren’t keen on the wreckage. Assurances that such a thing had never happened before—and what were the odds of a repeat performance?—were shrugged off. Worse, the cops had told her the whole thing would be sealed off for a bit, probably just long enough for spring buyers to peter out.

But then what? Wendy didn’t even know who to call. Was her field a crime scene, or just an accident site? Was there a business that specialized in plane crash cleanup in rural Iowa? (Though her wife would say “rural Iowa” was redundant. But Kelly could be a snob and a half. Thought getting a degree from the U of M meant she was a city gal.)

So all week, she’d taken the path around the back of the house that led to the edge of the field, staring at the morbid mess and wondering if she could just rent a bulldozer and raze it all, damn the law and the consequences, just raze it and then bury it deep and stick the FOR SALE sign back up.

Today, someone beat her to the field. As she approached, she was waved at by a young woman with a mop of butter-colored curls and eyes the color of the sky. Not today’s sky. A random sky in June when the forecast was for pure sunshine. She was wearing jeans, a red sweatshirt (“It’s a beautiful day to leave me alone”), muddy sneakers, and glasses.

“Well, hi there!”

“Uh. Hello. Is that a plane behind you?”

“It’s two planes behind me.”

Wendy shook her head. “No, I meant the one that isn’t all smashed up.”

“Yes. The plane behind me is also a plane. Can I help you?”

“I think that’s supposed to be my line.” She came a bit closer, more curious than nervous. “This is private property. Mine, I mean.”

“Oh! I’m sorry. As soon as my pilot gets back we’ll take off. Heh.”

“Where’s your pilot?”

“His amoebic dysentery came back, so.” At Wendy’s wince, she added, “Don’t worry, he promised not to diarrhea downwind this time. I’m sure we’re perfectly safe. Well. I am. Have you had all your shots? No judgement, especially if you’re an anti-vaxxer.”

“Anti-vaxxers are gonna kill us all,” she said automatically, because Kelly had had plenty to say about that as well. “So you’re not from the county? Were you maybe interested in the