Page 7 of The Lone Wolf Café
She thinks I’m a human.All the tension in my lungs loosened. It was a hell of a lot better to be caught in a witch village as a human than as a werewolf.
“Um…” I stuttered. I wasn’t sure if I should apologize, or explain myself, or if saying anything at all would only worsen the situation.
She stepped toward me, her black boots thudding on the aged hardwood floor, and snatched the pastry bag out of my hands. I opened my mouth to protest, but quickly snapped it shut as she pulled out a scone. She held it up to the light, inspecting it likeevidence at a crime scene, before sticking it in her mouth and taking a large bite.
I let out a small squeak of protest.Gee, thanks for stealing my food.Besides what I could hunt in my wolf form, those scones were the only sustenance I had.
She chewed slowly, her face twisting with contemplation.
“These are delicious,” she proclaimed. It didn’t sound like a compliment. It sounded like confusion, as if she’d expected them to be terrible. “Where did you get these?”
“I… uh… I made them.”
The witch stopped chewing and swallowed. With her dark eyes still locked on me, she took another bite and placed the pastry bag on the end table next to the lounge chair.
Great.I huffed.Help yourself. I guess that pastry is yours now.
“What are you?” the witch asked with a mouthful of scone as she walked to the front counter. “Some sort of runaway?”
“Uh…” I frowned.Stop stammering like an idiot.“Sort of.”
There was nothing wrong with her thinking I was a runaway, as long as she assumed I was ahumanone. It would make me a harmless passerby; someone who accidentally stumbled upon a witch village and would be on her merry way as soon as this uncomfortable conversation was over.
“What else can you bake?” the witch asked.
I recoiled. This conversation had taken a turn from terrifying to bewildering.This witch was furious thirty seconds ago, now she wants to talk about baking?
But a tiny bubble of pride formed in my stomach. Because Iwasan excellent baker. Possibly the best one on Hollenboro. Since my mother died, I took on a maternal role at a young age, which included working in the kitchen to feed my sisters. When my father discovered my love for baking, he encouraged me to put my talents to use helping our family. Since we didn’t havea bakery on the island, I began delivering fresh pastries to the neighbors in exchange for produce, tools, and other goods to keep us afloat.
Baking was my passion. Trying new recipes, delicately shaping the dough, then watching my creation rise in the oven brought me the most joy in life.
“Uh… all sorts of things. Cookies, tarts, cinnamon rolls, cakes… just about anything. I make especially good whoopie pies. Why do you ask?”
The witch didn’t reply. Instead, she walked to the kitchenette, pulled out two ceramic tea cups decorated with little forest animals, and lifted the steaming teapot off the hot plate. She held the teapot steady with both hands, pouring hot black tea with the precision of a skilled apothecary. She placed both cups on a small wooden tray and carefully carried it over to the end table, setting it down next to the pastry bag.
When she sat down, I was stunned as she gestured for me to do the same and offered me a cup. I forced my face to remain neutral, but my insides were churning. I didnotlike tea.
I knew it was a peace offering, as strange and unwarranted as it was. And I needed this witch to like me so I could eventually leave the café and flee this town in one piece.
I lifted the beverage to my mouth, letting the hot steam coat my upper lip and nostrils, and forced myself to take a tiny sip.
Ugh.I grimaced. It was Earl Grey, the same tea my father drank. The sharp, distinct taste of bergamot was unmistakable. Unfortunately, I loathed Earl Grey the most.
I forced a smile and set my teacup on the counter, where it would hopefully remain for the rest of the conversation. One sip of the stuff was plenty.
“Look, human…” The witch took a long, slow sip of her tea, complete with slurping noises, and set her teacup down on the end table next to mine. “I don’t need to know details on whoyou are or where you came from. But I know one thing about runaways – they need money. I’m assuming that also applies to you.”
I gulped, my throat suddenly feeling dry despite the tea. I barely knew what money was. Back in Hollenboro, we bartered by trading one good or service for another. Some plump garden vegetables in exchange for fixing a leaky roof. Fresh haddock or lobster swapped for warm winter clothing. I didn’tneedmoney.
But apparently, in this world, I did. And if I was going to survive on more than just what I could hunt, I needed to find some.
“How… how do you get this money?” I asked sheepishly, immediately fearing the question was a stupid one.
The witch cocked her head, hiding her dark lips behind another long sip of tea. “You’re strange. Even for a human.”
“I… I’m from one of the islands off the coast.”
A valid explanation. Plenty of humans lived on Maine’s remote islands. I had no idea if they had money there, but it seemed plausible they didn’t, just like us werewolves.
