Page 12 of Dream Weaver
“Look, I’m as happy about this as you are…”
Her grimace promised me her misery far outweighed mine.
“…but you may as well use me for something.”
She regarded me silently, then thrust her water bottle at me.
“Fine. Fill this.”
It was more permission than request, and not exactly the type of task I was hoping for. But, whatever. I snatched it up and stalked to the makeshift kitchen, making vows all the way.I would stick it out for today, then have a serious word with Rich back at the firehouse. Either he let me out of this ridiculous assignment or he would be down one crew member. Fire crews all over the West were shorthanded, and my experience could land me a job faster than Abby could say,Go away.
In the meantime, I would channel Uncle Rory’s patience and try to learn something. Like what kind of supernatural she was, for starters.
I spent the next three hours watching, waiting. Gradually decidingwitchfit.
Why? Because the flames of the forge licked at steel, but never, ever her hands, no matter how close they came.
Because a few well-placed blows coaxed solid steel into an entirely new shape — one it accepted unconditionally, like a dog eager to please its master.
Because her hammer moved with its own energy, bouncing back to deliver one punishing hit, then another.
Some kind of elemental magic was involved. I was sure of it.
Plus, she was moody as hell and definitely a renegade — two classic signs of a witch. Also, she hated people. And bears.
She hated me.
Maybe she doesn’t hate. Maybe she’s been let down too often,my grizzly murmured.
Possibly. But that wasn’t my fault. The sooner I got back to working with people who understood concepts likecooperation,communication, andcheerful, the better.
She did work her ass off, though. By lunchtime, the stumpy sledgehammer had been transformed into a pick shape, with one lumpy end that would eventually be made into an ax head.
“You get an hour for lunch,” Walt told me. “Use it.”
The supermarket was only a couple of blocks away, so I set off on foot, picturing myself ambling through the woods instead of a busy main road. I flexed my fingers, imagining my bearclaws snapping a salmon out of a river and my lips plucking juicy berries for dessert.
All that was a world away from the ham and cheese sandwich I picked up at the supermarket, but that was okay. I’d spent most of the off-season in bear form, tanking up on the peace of leafy forests and snowy mountains. Now, it was fire season, which I spent predominantly in human form — a rhythm I’d settled into ever since becoming a firefighter two days after graduating high school.
I returned to the metal shop a few minutes shy of an hour, plonked my unfinished carton of juice on a workbench, and went back to “work” — i.e., watching Abby.
“Do you have younger brothers?” I asked at some point.
She looked up, brow furrowed. “Why?”
“Just wondering. You’re very good at ignoring.”
She snorted and turned back to work, but I caught the way her eyes grazed over my chest first.
So, yay. I wasn’t in herlittle brothercategory. I didn’t have a lot of hangups, but being the youngest of the Lundsven clan was one of them.
The next two hours passed the same way as the morning. Abby hammered away all afternoon, not flagging one bit.
At three p.m., her watch alarm sounded. She hurried to her car, only whirling to bark an order.
“Don’t touch anything.”
I didn’t, except for petting Louie, who commiserated with me on the back step while Abby was gone.
