A Lion After My Own Heart (5 page)

"Maybe." Eric sounds unconvinced. "At the very least we have to prep you for future questions. Bland, stock answers that will diffuse any further curiosity."

"Sure." Suddenly I'm tired. Exhausted. Am I doing the right thing, running for mayor? I have a slender chance. One in ten. But a chance. And the difference I could make if I win the election - what it would prove. About me. About who I am. I have to try. Not just for myself, but for Boston. To bring a real change.

"OK, then. You going to get some sleep? We've got a seven-thirty tomorrow morning with the Ministry of Faith and Light. A little meet-and-greet. I'll be at your place at seven. Sound good?"

"Sure." Though I know I won't sleep tonight. "See you then. Thanks, Eric."

"No problem, boss. Get some rest."

The line goes dead.

Am I doing the right thing? Can I pull it off? Can I escape my past? Can I define who I really am?

I don't know. I think of Myra Cole in her bronze-colored dress the night before. Of her dangerous curves. A man could really let himself go with a woman like that. Somehow I just know she'd be able to take all of me. And ask for more. I wouldn't have to hold back with her. I wouldn't have to be careful.

I sigh. What am I thinking? Myra Cole is gone. With a little luck, I won't hear from her again. With a little luck, she'll write a bland little profile on me, nothing new, and I'll move on with my life and my career.

But that thought saddens me. For the first time in my life, I want misfortune to plague my steps, and bring Myra Cole back into my life.

Chapter 5

It's going to take a little over three hours to drive to Honeycomb Falls, so I head out crazy early. A cab takes me to the car rental place, where I rent a bright yellow convertible VW Bug. It's too cold to lower the top driving west on the Mass Pike, but the weather forecast predicts a gorgeous golden day, and with how cute Honeycomb Falls looks, I'm determined to make the most of it.

I stop several times at gas stations along the turnpike to refill on coffee, and I play my 'feel good' mix to keep my energy high and my mind alert. I've actually never been this far west before, and I'm mildly curious about what this side of the state looks like. Peering out the window, I see endless stretches of dreary woods. I bet they look gorgeous when they're dressed in all their leafy finery, but in winter the branches are black and bare. I finally hit the 91, and head north to Honeycomb Falls, entering the Pioneer Valley and humming and car-dancing along to my music.

Forty minutes later I take the right exit, follow the narrow, winding country road west into the hills, and then finally spy the cute 'Welcome to Honeycomb Falls' sign. I turn off the road, navigate a winding street that passes several gorgeous houses hidden behind the trees, and then pull onto Bridge Street.

It's super cute! The photographs didn't do it justice. I pull over. The sun's out, and while it's still chilly, I am going to definitely drive down the main drag with my top down. I wrap a scarf over my curls, tie it under my chin, adjust my Jackie Onassis sunglasses, and then slowly drive forward. I've never seen so many little stores I want to explore. An antique dealer. An art gallery. Another art gallery. A brick police station. I spot a little place called The Gypsy Cafe and pull into a convenient parking space. A little more coffee and a cinnamon bun won't go amiss.

I get out and stretch.
Oof
. Driving for three hours isn't easy on the back. An elderly couple nod at me as they walk by, both dressed to the nines, and I can't help but grin back. Will I walk along like that one day, arm in arm with the love of my life, both of us gray and wrinkled and still madly in love? Oh, I hope so.

Turning, I push open the Gypsy Cafe's door and step into a lovely little bakery/coffee shop. Piles of baked goods stand atop the glass counters before me and to the left, while tables are arranged by the windows. The rich smell of coffee is divine, and I can almost imagine the floating white tendrils of aroma like in those Pepé Le Pew cartoons, where the character sudden gets caught and floats along, following the smell to its source.

I get in line and just let my eyes wander. This place has clearly been open for a long time. A large corkboard by the door is covered in colorful flyers. The chalkboards on the wall behind the counter are covered with colorful depictions of the menu. Framed photographs are everywhere, and to my surprise I see that a number of them feature burlesque dancers from decades gone by. One woman appears in most of them, successively older in each shot. The person in front of me steps away, and I step up to see the woman in the photographs smile at me. She must be in her late sixties now, but it's clearly the woman in the photographs.

"Good morning," she says. She's tall, with iron gray hair clasped up in a bun, wearing an apron, with eyes I can immediately tell have seen more than I can even imagine. She's what you might call a 'silver fox', elegant and beautiful, and it's hard to imagine her in some of the outfits shown in the photographs.

"Hello! I'm new in town. Just here for the day. Can I have a big coffee and your most nutritious bun?"

"Sure," says the woman, turning to the coffee urn. "What brings you to town? Most folks come in the spring to see the bridge of flowers."

"The bridge of flowers?" I get a rather fanciful image in my mind. "No, I'm in town to do a little research. To be honest, I'm a reporter with the
Boston Globe
."

The woman turns and hands me my coffee, and then walks around the counter to the right, where she draws out a whirled sticky bun covered in nuts. "A reporter? What story are you covering?"

I draw out my wallet and hand my credit card to the lady. "Well, it's an old story. Nothing scandalous, I don't think."

"Research, then?" The woman swipes my card and hands it back to me.

"Yes. I'm writing a profile on an Alexander Adams." I watch her face carefully. She doesn't betray a thing. "Does that ring a bell?"

"Maybe." She's not unfriendly, but I can tell she's not going to spill the beans that easily.

I draw out my phone and show her a photograph of Alexander. I watch her face even more carefully, and am rewarded with a slight widening of her eyes. She recognizes him, and is slightly surprised to see him at the same time.

"He's running for mayor of Boston. A dark horse candidate. I just want to learn a little more about his past to inform our electorate about whom they might be voting for."

"I see," says the woman. She crosses her arms over her chest and studies me openly. "What did you say your name was?"

"Myra Cole," I say with a smile, then put my phone away and extend my hand.

"Helen," she says, shaking my hand with a firm grip. "I'm the owner. What's your angle on the story?"

"No angle," I say, sipping my coffee. "Mmm, that's good. I just want to get to the truth. I -" I glance guiltily behind me to where a line of customers has formed. "Oh, I'm sorry."

Helen considers me and then nods. "Why don't you come back in fifteen minutes? I'll step out from behind the counter and we can talk."

"OK, that would be great. Thank you!"

I step aside, smiling apologetically at the old man who frowns at me, and after a moment decide to explore a little more outside. The cold air is bracing, but the sun warms my face, and a bite from the bun gives me a little thrill. Why don't I get out of Boston more often? Oh, yeah. I work like a crazy thing. That's why. Still, today feels almost like a vacation, and I'm determined to enjoy myself. I won't let thoughts of my train wreck of a dinner last night ruin my mood. Ruining my night was quite enough, thank you very much.

I walk down Bridge Street, peering around curiously, trying to imagine Alex walking around here as a kid. Did he stop at this drug store to hang out by the soda fountain? Did he stop into this old toy store? It's hard to imagine him as a kid. He just seems too capable and mature to have ever been a little kid.

I draw closer to the river and pause as I see that there are actually
two
bridges. One is a broad metal trestle bridge with wooden boards the traffic rumbles over, and off to the side is a foot bridge covered in dead plants and bushes. No, not dead, just pruned back for the winter. That must be the bridge of flowers. The river rushes past below, ice cold and dark green. That'd be the Conway River, I tell myself, recalling the map. To one side is a tourist board with white writing on a green background, and I step up to read it.

"
Honeycomb Falls is so-called for the Honeycomb Waterfalls which cascade over potholes created by retreating glaciers thousands of years ago. Boulders trapped under the glaciers ground out depressions, and these holes give the rocky bed the appearance of a honeycomb.
"

I sip more coffee and look further down to my left. There's a large brick building down by the side of the river, right next to the waterfall. The Conway Studios, I read. Across the river I can make out a large, two-story building with a big sign across the porch reading 'Mindy's General Store'. I smile. This place just feels so... wholesome. Old-fashioned. Whoever thought such places still existed? Not a McDonald's or Starbucks in sight. No chains at all.

I walk back to the Gypsy, wondering what life must be like here. Slower, for sure. The more people smile at me, the more I realize how cold and impersonal random people on the streets of Boston are. But the town is so tiny! Everybody here must know everybody else. Would that be a good thing? To know your neighbors? I'm not sure. Maybe?

I step back into the Gypsy, and Helen nods at me and comes out from behind the counter. She wipes her hands on her apron and we sit at a small round table in the corner.

"So. Ms. Cole. You want to know about Alex Adams?"

"So you do know him," I say. "I had dinner with him last night. An interview. He refused to talk about this place. Having walked around, I can't imagine why. This town is so wonderful. Why would he be so private about coming from here?"

Helen watches me almost suspiciously. "You haven't mentioned the most important thing about Alex."

"The most important thing?" I try not to sound confused.

"That his father is Aurion."

"Aurion." I blink. "Should I know about him? Alex said his dad was still alive, but that they weren't close." There's more going on here than I can imagine. Much more.

Helen's smile is cold. "Yes, you could say that. Aurion is the leader of the local cairn."

"The local cairn." I repeat her words without understanding them. Helen nods, waiting. "The local cairn. Like the local shifter cairn?" Helen nods again. I stare at her in surprise. "Aurion is a shifter?" Again Helen nods, crossing her arms over her chest. "And Alex? He's a shifter too?"

"Yes." Helen's voice is soft, suddenly. Compassionate. "The poor kid. His father is a werelion, and a crueler, more brutal man I've never met. Alex rebelled against him his whole life, and as soon as he could he got out of here. He's never been back, as far as I know."

"Alexander Adams is a werelion." I sit back, shell-shocked. "But." I blink. "That can't be. Shifters aren't allowed to hold public office!"

Chapter 6

Helen shrugs, making no comment. She studies me with almost clinical detachment, and I just sit there like somebody hit me in the back of the head, so sophisticated with my mouth hanging open. My mind is like those lottery spinners full of little numbered balls, whirling and chaotic. What the heck? Alexander is a werelion? Part of me wants to wiggle and thinks,
Well, that explains that regal air, the killer bod, and how I can just tell he'd be amazing in bed.

The reporter in me is going a million miles an hour in the other direction. This is a real story. This has gone from a potential piece of fluff that nobody but political aficionados will read to front page news. A shifter running secretly for mayor? Relations with the shifters these days are pretty stable and quiet: they keep to their cairns and rural areas, while humans generally ignore them or jump in the sack with them. But not too many years ago there was a lot of stress and panic. Shifters are generally wicked smart, incredibly charismatic, and for awhile paranoid idiots were worried about them taking over the world. Hence the laws that were passed preventing them from taking office.

So what is Alexander up to? Why is he breaking the law? Is he trying to take over Boston for some shifter conspiracy? No, that doesn't feel right. There's more to this story than I can see just yet. But this story - when I publish it - will sink his political career. He might get arrested. Relations with shifters will sour as people flare up in panic attacks again.

Helen just watches me, as cool as a Siamese cat. I'm a pretty sharp gal, but it's taking me a little time to work out all the angles. This story could make my career. This story will definitely ruin Alexander's. I think of his face, his troubled eyes, that hidden melancholy, and I feel a twist in my heart. Could I do that? Destroy him? I don't want to. But how can I let him break the law?

"Thank you, Helen," I say, voice barely shaking. I take a gulp of my coffee. "I need more information. I need to talk to his dad."

Helen raises an eyebrow. "Aurion? You want to meet... Aurion?"

From the way she says it, I might as well have told her I want to cut my fingers off. "Is that... not a good idea?"

Helen shakes her head, a pitying smile on her face. "He's not very social. Nor does he like humans. But I can tell you'll find a way, won't you?"

I shrug apologetically. "Yeah. You know us reporters. We need to get every angle on a story." I sigh. "Especially one as potentially huge as this one. I need to speak to him. Ask him why he thinks Alexander is breaking the law."

Helen interlaces her fingers. "He doesn't leave the cairn in the hills. You can't get there without an invitation or a shifter guide. Trying to go it solo will get you picked up by a patrol and dumped without ceremony back here in town."

"Oh," I say. I know next to nothing about how all this works. I make a little face. "Do you know any shifters who might act as my guide?"