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Maybe it was that simple.
Three weeks later
The beach was an excellent place to work out because the sand was soft and conveniently powdery.
Curran threw me over his hip. If I had let go, I would’ve landed on my back, but I had a death grip on his neck, and as he flipped me, I went with it and threw a handful of sand into his face. It bought me half a second, which I used to kick his feet from under him and get a triangle choke in place. Unfortunately, choking a werelion was a lot harder than subduing a regular opponent. A non-shapeshifter person would’ve tapped out. Curran got up, lifting me in the air while I hung off his neck.
I was about to punch him in the head when he tapped my thigh. His eyes were fixed on the fortress behind us.
I released him. He caught me, helping me to the ground, and I turned to look at the fort.
After the Red Horn gang attacked our home, Curran and Conlan decided to erect a flagpole. It jutted from our fort’s tower, bearing a gray flag with stylized black stripes that looked either like tiger stripes or claw rips. When something happened, we raised a second flag below the first, an early warning system, green for shapeshifter, red for danger, and so on. When we left this morning, the gray flag flew alone. Now there was a blue flag under it.
Human visitors. Not from Conlan’s school either. The lone time they came to visit after school started, he flew a ghastly orange to announce the occasion.
“Are you expecting visitors?” Curran asked.
The renovation crew had finished five weeks ago, and we were all paid up. The grocery delivery wasn’t due for another two days.
“No.” I scrambled to grab my shoes.
We found our visitors in the courtyard. A young Black woman with a wealth of hair piled on top of her head in a loose bun and a well-dressed older Black man. Our son had let them in, guided them to our outside lunch table, served them iced tea and cookies, and then parked himself on the side to keep them company. I could tell by Curran’s face that a father-son conversation would be in Conlan’s near future.
“Don’t bristle,” I murmured as we crossed the yard.
“I’m not bristling,” he murmured back. “I’m perfectly welcoming.”
The man was probably in his sixties, with dark brown skin warmed by a reddish undertone, and silver hair, cut short and half hidden by a light-colored fedora. His curly beard was silver as well, but his mustache was still salt and pepper. He was slightly shorter than average, with a trim build, shown off by a double-breasted gray suit, which he paired with a pomegranate-red shirt. He looked at the world through a pair of glasses with reddish-copper frames, and his eyes were narrow and shrewd.
The woman next to him wore a yellow tank top and a high-waisted black skirt. A large tote bag rested by her feet. She turned toward me and smiled. Solina.
“Is that one of the mermaids you rescued?” Curran asked.
“Mhm.”
We reached the table, and both visitors stood up. Solina came around and hugged me. I gently hugged her back.
“You look well,” I told her.
“Thank you. This is my grand-uncle, Edward Calloway. Grand-uncle, this is Kate and Curran.”
Edward Calloway offered us his hand. “Please call me Ned.”
Curran and I shook his hand in turn, and we all sat back down at the table.
Interesting. I didn’t know Ned Calloway personally, but I knew of him. I first noticed the name because I kept seeing it on Paul’s materials invoices during the renovations. I finally asked him about it. According to our general contractor, Ned Calloway was a “smart man who’s done very well for himself.” He owned many enterprises in everything from lumber and furniture to textiles and dual-engine car manufacturing. A lot of businesses in and around Wilmington carried the Calloway name.
“Your iced tea is delicious,” Ned Calloway said. “What is it sweetened with?”
“Buckwheat honey,” Conlan said. Thanks to his werebear grandparents, my son was a honey connoisseur.
“I’ll have to remember that,” Ned said. “My grand-niece told me a lot about you. Thank you for saving this child. Our family is grateful.”
“It was a fortunate accident,” I said. “I was looking for a different child.”
“You found Solina anyway. I should’ve come to thank you sooner, but I was occupied by an emergency. I have a summer home in Carolina Beach. We’re practically neighbors.”
They didn’t come here just to thank us, but rushing this conversation would only slow it down to the speed of cold molasses, so I settled in.
“That’s good to hear,” Curran said. “We’ve only recently moved in, so we don’t know that many people. It’s always good to meet a neighbor.”
Ned smiled. “We are the welcoming sort. I’m sure you’ll be a part of our community in no time.”
