Page 3 of Paws & Order

Alaric smirks, flashing his canines.

"She likes you because you're predictable. Reliable. You're the werewolf version of a weighted blanket, which, incidentally, she probably needs after a day with Zadok."

"Flattering," I mutter, but part of me is absurdly pleased.

Not that it matters. She's a careerist, and anyway, she's human. People like that don't stay long in Blackthorn. They do their time and then move on to places where the most dangerous thing in town is forgetting to set the trash out for collection.

Alaric tears a strip off the almond croissant in his hand and inspects me.

"You know she's not going anywhere."

"Maybe not today," I say. "Maybe not for a few festivals. But she's got plans. She's put together a five-year development proposal for the town, you know that?"

"Sure. Maybe she wants to build something here."

I shake my head.

"Or she wants to leave with a legacy. It's what you do when you're planning an out."

This unsettles Alaric enough that he's quiet for a moment. He's older than me by maybe a century, but sometimes I think he just stopped maturing at twenty-five and decided to be content there.

"You could at least give it a shot," he finally says, nudging me. "Worst that happens, she lets you down nicely. Best, you get to buy her a drink and talk about nothing for an hour. Or, knowing you, you'll talk about zoning ordinances and dog leash laws."

I squint at Liza, who is now absorbed in some kind of negotiation with the parade float coordinator, and try to picture a universe in which we are uncomplicatedly together.

In my limited experience, those universes only exist in Hallmark movies and weathered paperbacks in the cozy section of the public library.

She's too bright for Blackthorn.

She's too bright for me.

But even knowing this, and knowing it thoroughly, I finish my coffee, rise, and adjust my badge so it points straight.

"I don't have anything to say to her," I say, but I'm already moving. My body's halfway across Main Street before my mouth even catches up.

Behind me, Alaric's laughter is loud and sharp and carries halfway down the block.

"Go get her, champ!"

On the square, festival prep is a controlled riot.

There's a pop-up stage for the shifter jazz collective, a cordoned-off area for the dog parade, and a dozen food booths whose only job is to keep the festival attendees in some kind of carb-fueled trance. Volunteers run everywhere, half of them costumed, half in matching "I <3 FOUNDERS' DAY" T-shirts. The bunting overhead still sags a bit, like it knows defeat is inevitable.

Liza is at the center of it all, clipboard in hand, ponytail slightly askew as she handles a steady barrage of complaints and last-minute changes.

Even when she's exasperated, her voice is even and clear—she talks like she's solving puzzles, not problems.

I catch up with her just as she's strong-arming a pair of students into moving a hundred folding chairs across the lawn.

"Need backup?" I ask.

She glances over, quick and cheerful, the way she always looks at me.

"Chief! Please tell me you have someone in holding who can assist with heavy lifting."

I shake my head.

"Let two kids do it. Builds character."