Page 13 of Grin and Bear It

“Hush, Orrin,” the other man replied, casting a meaningful glance at Thora. “Ancient history now.”

She pretended not to notice, filing away the exchange for future consideration. Every community had its secrets, its tensions. Finding those pressure points often helped in locating targets who might exploit them.

As she neared a booth displaying intricate jewelry—pieces that subtly shifted form when viewed from different angles—she became aware of eyes upon her. Not the casual glances of curious locals, but the focused intensity of recognition.

Thora pivoted smoothly, hand instinctively drifting toward the concealed knife at her hip. Ten feet away stood an elderly woman, motionless amid the flowing crowd. The woman’s silvery hair, pulled into a severe bun, contrasted sharply with amber eyes that matched Thora’s own. The tiger shifter’s posture—straight-backed despite her apparent age—spoke of dignity and contained power.

For several heartbeats, they simply stared at one another. Then, with deliberate steps, the older woman approached. Her movements possessed the fluid grace common to all feline shifters, though tempered by age.

She stopped an arm’s length away, her gaze methodically scanning Thora’s features as though memorizing them—or perhaps comparing them to a remembered image. A complex blend of emotions crossed her lined face: recognition, wonder, and something that might have been grief.

“You have Karina’s eyes,” the woman whispered, her voice catching on the name.

Thora’s spine stiffened. “Excuse me?”

The older tiger shifter reached up as if to touch Thora’s face, then seemed to think better of it. Her hand fell back to her side.

“The shape, the color... exactly like hers.” A smile flickered briefly across her weathered face. “I’m Louisa. Forgive an old woman’s presumption.” Without further explanation, she turned and disappeared into the crowd with surprising agility.

“Karina?” Thora murmured, the unfamiliar name echoing strangely in her mind. Something about the woman’s tone—reverent, pained, familiar—left her unsettled.

She mentally filed away the encounter for later investigation. The physical characteristics of shifter bloodlines often repeated across generations, creating false recognition. Yet the specificity of the comparison—and the emotion behind it—suggested something more personal than a casual observation.

FIFTEEN

Moving on, Thora returned her focus to the task at hand. The sooner she located Ajax Blackwater, the sooner she could leave this disconcertingly friendly town and its mysteries behind.

At the far edge of the square, she paused beside a cart laden with dried herbs, crystals, and small cloth bundles. Unlike the other vendors who called out about their wares, the elderly woman tending this display worked in meditative silence, her weathered hands moving with practiced precision as she bundled sage and tied it with twine.

Something about her stillness amidst the market’s bustle caught Thora’s attention. The woman wore layers of earthy fabrics—browns, deep greens, and midnight blues—that seemed to shift subtly with her movements. Her silver-white hair fell in a long braid down her back, adorned with small wooden beads and feathers.

As if sensing scrutiny, the woman looked up. Deep gray eyes, clear and penetrating despite her apparent age, met Thora’s amber ones.

A chill raced down Thora’s spine—not of fear, but recognition of power. This was no ordinary herb seller. The woman’sgaze seemed to pierce Thora’s carefully constructed defenses, examining not who she was, but who she might become.

The witch—for she could be nothing else—offered a gentle smile that somehow conveyed both welcome and warning. Then she returned to her work, humming softly to herself, fingers never faltering in their methodical rhythm.

Thora moved away, disconcerted. She’d encountered plenty of magical practitioners in her career, but none had affected her quite like this—as if the woman had recognized something in her that Thora herself couldn’t yet see.

Shaking off the uneasy feeling, she continued her survey of the square. Three circuits yielded no sign of her target. She was considering exploring the side streets when a commotion near the central platform caught her attention.

A deep voice—commanding, brooking no argument—rose above the general din. “The lighting rig goes on the south side. We need space for the dance circle on the north.”

Thora shifted position to get a better view of the speaker.

Near the platform, a tall figure directed workers with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to authority. Broad-shouldered and imposing, he stood head and shoulders above most of the crew. Dark hair, neatly trimmed, framed a face with strong features—angular jaw, high cheekbones, and a slight scar above one eyebrow that only enhanced his intimidating presence.

His tailored suit—charcoal gray and clearly expensive—contrasted with the casual attire of those around him, marking him as someone of importance. Despite the formal clothing, his movements betrayed a primal grace that suggested power carefully contained.

As if sensing her scrutiny, he turned slightly, revealing his profile. A scowl creased his brow as he examined a blueprint spread across a makeshift table.

Thora’s pulse quickened. Large build, dark hair, commanding presence, visible dissatisfaction—he matched both the vague physical description and blurry photograph Clemmins had provided. Moreover, others deferred to him with a mixture of respect and wariness that suggested significant social power.

She circled behind a display of enchanted wind chimes, observing her quarry more carefully. His movements betrayed no obvious weaknesses—fluid and controlled, aware of his surroundings even while focused on the task at hand. This wasn’t someone who would be easily surprised.

More telling than his appearance was the way others responded to him. They anticipated his commands, rushed to fulfill his requests, maintained a careful distance as if uncertain whether to approach. Power radiated from him, not just physical but social. This was someone who expected obedience—and received it.

As she watched, he straightened to his full height—easily over six feet—and rolled his shoulders, momentarily releasing the tension of sustained authority. The movement sent an unexpected ripple of awareness through Thora’s body. Her inner sabertooth, typically dormant during daylight hours, stirred with sudden interest.

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