Page 3 of A Wolf in the Garden

The underside of the mushroom is pure white too, the gills closed tight, and I breathe a sigh of relief at that, since I seem to have caught this before it’s released all its spores into the air. I’ve never seen one like this before, but I can hazard a guess that it’s probably poisonous. The last thing I want is a toadstool infestation in my garden.

It’s probably all through this garden bed already, damn it.Mushrooms are only the tip of the iceberg, and I cringe at the thought of all the thread-like mycelium that’s probably hiding under the surface. I snap a photo of it on my phone before running to grab a pair of disposable gloves and a paper bag to place it in.

I dig it out with a trowel that I’ll chuck in a bucket of anti-fungal treatment later, carefully depositing the lot into the bag. My gloved fingers brush the mushroom cap, and I jolt as a flash of green light shimmers across the whole thing, moving outwards from my fingers like ripples in a pond.

Shit.Shit, shit, shit.That’s… that’smagic. My heart hammers in my chest as I stare at the damned thing.

Two years ago I would have questioned if I was hallucinating and going insane, but post-Unravelling…

I touch the mushroom once more, and the waves of green light ripple over it again.

“Oh no,” I whisper, frozen. It’s a magic mushroom, and not the fun kind. It’s the something creepy is going on here, and you’re part-supernatural-something that you don’t know, and now it’s all coming to bite you in the asstype of thing. I can barely breathe; the secret I’ve been hiding feels even more oppressive than usual.

The sound of shells crunching under feet makes me jump, and I get up, hastily brushing the dirt off my dress and plastering on a smile as the first visitors walk through. I throw the whole bag, trowel and all, in the rubbish bin because I don’t want that magic spreading in my garden. Between that and the conversations with guests, I forget all about the supposedly hot, rich werewolf that’s meant to be visiting.

* * *

It’s the end of the day when Cameron Morrison finds me sitting under one of the rose archways, his grin stretching wide around the two tusks that jut from his lower jaw, his green skin blending in nicely with the shrubbery behind him. My feet are aching, I’m exhausted, and my voice is hoarse from talking more in one weekend than I have the entire month prior, but when he opens his arms wide and says, “Ellie!” in his strong Scottish accent, I push myself up off the grass and lean into his hug, feeling like a child next to his giant orc body. He’s in his late-50s, though orcs live longer and age incredibly well, and the only indication that he’s older are the smile lines around his eyes and mouth, and his thick salt-and-pepper hair that he wears loose around his shoulders. Divorced with two kids who still live back in Scotland, he was born and raised in this human realm, and says he still has just as much trouble adjusting to his body minus the glamour as everyone who meets him.

Cam and I met on a ferry ride home from Auckland City last year; it was a rough sailing and I gave him the shopping bag I’d hastily emptied for him to puke in. At some point during the forty minute sail I mentioned what I did, and he became my first independent client, hiring me to transform his tired backyard on an otherwise remarkable property with panoramic sea views. He’s the one that really encouraged me to leave the landscape design firm I used to work for and branch out on my own, and since then he’s been one of my biggest supporters. I don’t have any family here on Motuwai Island and neither does he, so we’ve become each other’s fill-in family, I suppose.

He’s the person I feel most guilty about deceiving, in terms of hiding my non-human status. It’s just hard; when I meet new people, I’m not ready to tell them. When I do feel like I can trust them, I’ve kept the secret for too long, and fear their anger and hurt. I’m too scared someone I care about is going to turn around and say ‘No, that was too big of a lie,’ and I’ll end up rejected and alone all over again. I should probably see a therapist about all my issues, but I’ve never been in a position to afford it until now.

“Just the girl I was hoping to see!” he rumbles. “I’ve been showing the new owner of Lost Moon around and he’s got big plans for a full refurbishment of the place. He wants to turn it into one of those fancy wineries for the tourists and weddings and the like, and make it all inclusive for all peoples. He wants a huge garden done which is why I said to him we had to look at the festival, and I knew yours was the best and that you could maybe design his garden because you’re so talented, so I said to him ‘I’m saving the best for last, wait ’til you meet our award-winning designer,’ and he’s just down there waiting to meet you.”

I grin, processing all the words from his rambling sentences as I step back and peer up at him. At eight feet tall, he towers over me, completely blocking out the sunlight. “A little birdy told me something about this,” I say.

“Oh did you hear all that already? Did old Betty spill her guts again? Or was it Ana? Or Sammy Barnett?”

Laughing, I shake my head. “I’m not telling you who.”

“Well I’ll tell you this,” he crouches, until his face is at my level. “He’s a fine young man, about your age —”

“Not this again,” I mutter under my breath.

“— and he’s single, and the young ladies have been after him all weekend,” he continues.

“They have not.”

“Aye they have, like sharks when there’s blood, just circling the waters. He’s a big lad. Handsome fellow. Come on.” We round a planter box full of edible flowers and step onto the main path. “There he is now, see, with the ladies of course.”

The ladies in question are Ana and Betty, staring up at a man who has his back to us. My breath catches in my throat, seeing those broad shoulders, that olive skin and dark hair.

I know the tilt of that head, the way his body moves when he nods at the women, listening intently to whatever they are saying. He turns ever so slightly, and I get a good look at his profile; even from this distance, I recognise those strong cheekbones, that straight nose and square jaw. In my old life in Northland, almost a decade ago, I’d known that face, kissed that face, loved that face.

I still see that face in my dreams, from time to time.

Cam continues to babble beside me, but I’m no longer really listening, my mind racing as all the clues about this mystery man fall into place. A wealthy American, someone who knows New Zealand well, a fuckingvineyard.

Van.

He’d been three years into his bachelor’s degree in viticulture and enology —winemaking— when I last saw him nine years ago.

Evander Livingston, oldest child of billionaire couple Weston and Bronte Livingston, is standing in my garden. He’s the boy I grew up with every summer, the guy I spent most of my teenage years pining after, and the man I fell so deeply in love with when I was eighteen. He broke my heart that same year, though given the tragic circumstances, I could never blame him for it. Loving and losing Van, and the grief that I had over the death of his youngest sister, broke me so fully that I left my hometown at the end of that summer. To me, Bluewater Bay holds far too many memories of summers spent at the Livingstons’ holiday mansion, and although many of them are good, I can’t reflect on them without the hurt of the bad times twisting its way in and souring the lot. These days, I only go back occasionally to visit my mum.

“— just one thing, Ellie, so you don’t get a shock when you meet him,” Cam whispers, bending so close to my ear I can smell the coffee on his breath. “The man’s a wolf, golden eyes and all. I know there’s not many of them around here yet and I didn’t want you to get a surprise. Not that you have ever shown any prejudice against us non-human folk, but still, I thought it best to warn you.”

My brain isn’t functioning properly but I nod along. “Okay.”

---