Free The Turning Season by Sharon Shinn Page B

Celeste and the good-looking stranger are among them, already holding hands. She passes so close to me I could touch her on the cheek, but either she doesn’t see me or she pretends she doesn’t. They slip around the corner of the building where the smell of trash might be stronger but the shadows are deeper. I’m thinking maybe I can convince Ryan to give me a ride to my car so I can go home now; it’s looking like Celeste might appreciate having me out of the way come closing time.
    â€œI guess I should go back in,” I say to Joe. “My friends might be wondering where I am.”
    He nods. “If you wanted, you could give me your address,” he says, his voice so offhand he’s clearly making an effort to keep it that way. “In case I have time to bring Jezebel out to see you.”
    â€œSure,” I say, smiling to show I’d welcome a visit from him—and his dog. “Take 159 to W, go right on W, and stay on that about eight miles. There’s an abandoned red barn on the left side of the road and a stone wall on the right side. I’m right past the stone wall.”
    He’s not writing it down but he’s nodding at each landmark like he’s committing it to memory. “Oh, hey, I think I’ve been down that way a few times to go hunting,” he says.
    I can’t stop my expression of horror. “Hunting? You shoot things? You won’t kill a person but you’ll take a gun and kill an
animal
?”
    He looks both chagrined and a little defensive. “Bowhunting. Not guns. And I don’t hunt anything I can’t eat. And if we don’t thin the deer population, it gets out of control—”
    â€œSince we’ve killed off so many of their natural predators,” I rattle off. “I know. But
still
.”
    He heaves a sigh. “So I guess you don’t eat meat. Maybe you’re a vegan.”
    Now I’m the one who looks defensive. “I eat meat. Sometimes.”
    â€œAnd you don’t think that’s hypocritical? That you’ll eat meat if someone
else
has done the killing?”
    â€œIt’s kind of like you and the cop thing,” I answer. “I know someone has to do it, but I don’t want it to be me.”
    â€œWell, don’t hold it against me,” he says.
    I don’t know you well enough to care
is one option for a reply. But I don’t say it and, anyway, it’s not quite true. I mean, I don’t know him, but I like him well enough to think it would be nice to care. “Give me a little time to get over the shock.”
    â€œYou probably do stuff that I’d think was gross, too,” he says hopefully.
    Now I laugh. “Yeah, like neutering dogs and cats and looking up their butts with scopes.”
    â€œEw! Yuck! That is totally gross,” he responds. “But
I
don’t hold it against
you
.”
    â€œIt’s not the same thing! I’m saving lives and you’re taking them.”
    â€œI’d be saving lives if everyone was starving and the only food they had was the meat I brought home.”
    This makes me laugh. “I get the feeling you’re the kind of guy who can argue all day about something,” I say. “Am I right?”
    â€œKind of. I told you. Brothers. You can’t ever give in, man. You can’t ever admit you’re wrong.”
    I want to say
Sounds exhausting
, but before I can get the words out, there’s a terrific clatter from the back alley. Metal trash cans rattle and clang together, and then comes the high, unnerving sound of a man’s voice raised in sharp pain. I jerk around to stare in that direction, as do all the people loosely gathered in front of the club. Joe’s on his feet, his hand going to his belt.
He carries a gun?
I think a little numbly, but no, it turns out he’s holding something that looks like a two-way radio. The expression on his amiable face is suddenly alert and