Malcolm
When I see the lights flicker on in Cordelia’s home, I finally go inside my house and close the door. I should lock it, but I don’t bother. I live in Perfection for a reason, and that reason is that this town is ridiculously safe. The last time there was a break-in was…well, never. There’s never been a break-in in this town that I know of, so that’s saying something.
I head into the kitchen and pour a glass of whiskey. I don’t bother with ice. Instead, I move back into the living room, grab a book, and settle down on the couch to read. The words on the page begin to blur, though, because all I can think of is her.
And I don’t know why.
There’s something sad and sort of magical about Cordelia. There’s something about her that calls to my inner shifter. I wonder what kind of creature she is. She’s something feminine and beautiful: that much is obvious. Could she tell I’m a shifter, too? Does she know what I am?
I sip the whiskey and wonder if I’ll ever tell her. Most people around here know I’m not human, but they don’t really know what that means because I’m private about it. I’m not a wild tiger or a giant lion. I’m not a fast cougar or a sleek panther. I’m none of those things and I never will be, but I’ve come to accept who I am.
When I first learned to shift, I was embarrassed. Ashamed. Everyone made fun of me because they were tigers and lions and bears. They were cats. They were wild, and me?
My friends told me I’d be more suited for a farm.
And that hurt.
As I grew, though, I began to understand my strengths. As a bird, I can do more than they ever can. I can fucking fly. Lions can’t fly. They’re too big and bulky. And lions can’t be sneaky. If someone sees a damn bird wandering around, they aren’t going to wonder if it’s a shifter. If you see a lion in the middle of the park, though, you’re going to fucking freak out.
No, being a bird means it’s easy to eavesdrop and find out what’s going on in the world around me. It means it’s easy to attack people from angles they aren’t expecting if I need to. It means I can protect myself. It means I can escape.
It means I have an advantage.
Not everyone sees it that way, though.
There’s a reason I’m single, and it’s not because I’m a bird shifter. It’s because right now, I think I’m better off alone. I’ve been in relationships with humans and relationships with shifters and anytime I’ve revealed my true self, it’s been met with disgust and disappointment. I don’t need to deal with that anymore. I don’t need to be with someone who’s going to think that I’m letting them down at every turn.
Cordelia wouldn’t be disappointed.
“We don’t know that,” I say aloud.
We don’t.
Maybe she’d find out and she’d laugh like all the rest of them. Maybe she’d be sad and let down. Maybe she’d run away. Maybe she’d try to hurt me. I don’t know.
What I do know is that I have a lovely book and a wonderful glass of whiskey, and tonight, those two things are all I need.
It won’t be enough forever, my shifter whispers to me.
“It’s enough for now.”
*
I’m busy with work for the next few days. Being a librarian isn’t the most romantic job in the world, but it’s fun as hell. I love burying myself in books, losing myself in them. Books never make fun of you. They never hurt you. They never do anything but offer you a chance to escape somewhere and sometimes, that’s all I need.
The branch I work at is remodeling the second floor, so all of the books are being moved, sorted, moved again, and resorted. It’s a time-consuming project, but I think that when it’s done, the space is going to look incredible.
Marcy, my boss, is an angel. She’s been at the library for nearly thirty years and she knows more about books than anyone I’ve ever met. This remodel is something she’s been hoping for and pushing for. She told me when I was first hired two years ago that she wanted to see the space changed, redone to make room for a more modern crown. Now it’s finally happening. We’re putting in new computers, work tables, and seating, along with bringing in more new releases and modern novels for today’s reader.
The project is worthwhile and important, but it’s also exhausting. After hours of moving, sorting, and cataloguing books, I get home and I’m ready to crash. No more watching the sunsets for me. After I eat dinner, I veg out with a novel, and then I pass out: usually on the couch.
I haven’t forgotten about my new neighbor, though. I see her at night sometimes in passing. She always looks at me, but never waves or smiles. Sometimes I see her leaving her house, but not often. For the most part, it seems, she stays indoors, and I wonder what she’s doing in there. It would be easy to think she’s remodeling her home. Just as I’m busy remodeling the library, she could be moving things around and fixing up her new house, but I don’t think that’s the case.
Cordelia seems like a woman who has the weight of the world on her shoulders. She seems like the type of girl who has dealt with something terrible and who needs space to sort through it. I think she’s looking for peace.
I hope she finds it.
A week passes, and I’ve come to the understanding that Cordelia isn’t interested in getting chatty or in being friends. It’s fine. I understand, but I do feel a strange protectiveness about her. Harold does, too, but his is a sort of grandfatherly kind of caring. My desire to protect Cordelia isn’t nearly as innocent as his. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and there’s something about her that makes me want to make sure she’s safe. Protected. Cherished.
She’s our mate.
My inner-shifter has been on this kick lately about mates. Maybe it’s because we’re getting close to thirty and unmated. Maybe it’s something else. I’m not sure. I don’t even know if I believe in mates, but I do believe in connections. Cordelia and me? We definitely have a connection.
“I don’t like it,” Harold says one night. He’s on my porch again, sipping his iced tea and sitting on my swing.
“Why are you here, old man?” I ask, but not unkindly. “Don’t you have your own porch to sit on?”
“Watch yourself,” he warns me. “I might be twice your age, but I’m fast.”
“Is that right?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, but he just chuckles and leans back. He stares out at the sunset, and I press him. “What don’t you like?”
“I don’t like her being in that house all by herself. It’s not normal.”
“None of us are normal, Harold. I hate to be the one to tell you, but being a shifter isn’t exactly the default setting of people in the world. Being human is.”
“Well, she’s not human, either, is she? She’s a shifter, and she should be with her own kind.”
“Give her a break,” I tell him. I don’t like Harold being critical of Cordelia. She’s not bothering anyone. Yeah, she’s a bit anti-social, but who cares? Really, there’s nothing wrong with wanting a little bit of isolation, of needing that solitude.
Harold shoots me a sideways glance, and then he starts to chuckle.
“I’m not sure how I missed it,” he says, laughing. “Isn’t that just the best?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Why, she’s your mate, of course. I can see it in your eyes. Why are you over here instead of snuggled up in her bed?” He asks. “Or haven’t you realized it yet?”
“She’s not my mate,” I lie. We both know I’m in denial.
“Suit yourself,” Harold says.
He doesn’t push me. He just sips his tea. After awhile, he gets up and goes home, but I stay on the porch long after the sun has set, thinking about what he said.
Mates.
Could Harold be right? I try to think of the stories my parents used to tell me when I was little. All shifter children have heard them, but not all of us believe them. Harold is one of those people who believe the tales. Then again, he was married for many years to a bear shifter from beautiful Honeypot, Colorado. I know because he tells me the story of how they met every chance he gets.
When she died, a part of him died, too. That’s what he always tells me. Maybe I should listen to Harold. Maybe he knows what he’s talking about better than I think he does. Maybe his understanding of mates isn’t off. It’s possible that I’m the one who’s crazy and uninformed in this situation.
I don’t need love right now, though.
That’s the whole problem.
I don’t need someone distracting me, bothering me. I don’t need someone taking up my time. I could be spending that time at work, or drinking whiskey, or thinking about traveling to someplace new. I have plenty of things I could be doing.
But all I can think about is her.
Cordelia.
“Hey stranger,” her voice cuts into my thoughts. I look up and she’s standing at the foot of the porch, staring up at me.
“Cordelia,” I set my whiskey down and stand up, look at her. She’s wearing a black tank top and a red skirt. Her hair is down, and her makeup is done. It looks like she’s just getting home from a party: not hanging out inside of her house moving furniture. “What a surprise.”
What a stupid thing to say, my shifter whispers to me.
Sometimes I wish he would just shut up.
“I, um,” she looks around nervously, and then she holds up the flashlight she borrowed. “I came to return this.” She comes up the steps to the porch and hands it to me. “Thank you for loaning it to me.”
I take the flashlight from her, letting my fingers graze hers as I do. She looks up at me sharply, but she isn’t mad.
Curious, perhaps.
“Anytime.”
We stand there for a minute, both of us holding the flashlight, and then she seems to realize what’s happening. She releases her grip on the flashlight, but doesn’t move.
Something fills the air between us: curiosity, perhaps, or maybe excitement. Anticipation. She takes a step closer, and I hold my breath.
Kiss her.
Sometimes my inner-shifter is a bit impatient.
She wants us to kiss her.
I ignore him. Instead, I wait, and I let Cordelia come to me. One step at a time, she inches closer and closer until she’s so close we’re almost touching. Then she looks up at me, and she smiles, and I feel like my heart is pounding so loudly it’s going to explode.
“I appreciate it,” she says, and then I can’t wait any longer. I pull Cordelia into my arms and I kiss her like there’s no fucking tomorrow.