A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters - Martin Harry Greenberg [97]
I can appreciate the powerful sensuality he radiates even knowing I’d never touch him with the proverbial ten-foot pole. Dean claims the same. I have my doubts.
Of course, more than enough people are happy to overlook strident politics and a tendency to drink a little too much. Whether or not Ned returns any of the interest is one of our town’s big mysteries. A perpetual bachelor, Ned devotes himself to everything in town but finding a partner. Which I’ve noted doesn’t stop him from trading on that pure animal magnetism, and he gravitates toward people who respond the strongest. Such as now— he nods to me but walks directly into Dean’s personal space, his grin dampening to a warm, private smile.
I’ve watched the dynamic since I met him, and honestly believe it’s completely unconscious on Ned’s part.
Dean accepts Ned’s hand before realizing he still has the strange hair and trying to halt the motion. Too late. Ned clasps his hand, releases it, then looks at his own, wiggling his fingers. “What the hell—” Strands of the hair appear and he startles, flicking his hand harder.
Jumping up, I swipe at the hair. “Sorry! We were looking at fiber samples.”
Ned’s eyes gleam with more interest than fiber samples warrants. “Yeah? Can I see?”
Damn. No polite way to refuse. “Top secret. Don’t tell anyone. Proprietary material for String Theory Fiber Arts.”
“Hey, you know me! I wouldn’t tread on anyone’s small business! Vermont Makes It Special, after all!”
I groan as I hand him the hair. He does love quoting our state marketing motto. Vermont’s emphasis on artisan handcrafts and specialty producers brought me here, but Ned’s nonstop boosting gets tiresome. I shouldn’t knock it—he’s good for the town, the state, and business. Hell, I even agree with him on Vermont secession. If he’d just dial it back a little . . .
Ned stares at the hair with disturbing intensity. “Look at that,” he breathes as it disappears. “Hell of a find. Where’d you get it?”
“Business secrets.” I snatch it back.
He eyes me, then flashes his genial smile. “Just stopping in to trade news with the Bern- meister! Check on our monster-quest.”
Bernie pulls a pipe out of his pocket, inspecting it. “Keep telling you I’m not in the business anymore.”
“But you’re the man! Our Vermont Shaman! You’ve got a way with monsters. Something goes down, everybody comes to you—”
Dean looks puzzled. “Shaman?” he whispers. “Bernie’s Native American?”
“No, ‘shaman’ isn’t actually native, it comes out of Siberia—”
Dean’s nose crinkles. “Bernie’s Russian?”
I open my mouth then close it. “I’ll explain later.” Ned’s attention swings back to us. He gestures at my Harvester racked by the door.
“—prove my point. What brought you over here armed?”
Another reason I don’t like Ned. He notices too damn much. I contemplate telling him the weapon isn’t mine, but what’s the point with clips on my belt and VisiBlades strapped to my arms. He knows Bernie doesn’t rack anything by the door anymore. “Lost a sheep.”
“Ripped up? Eaten? No tracks?” His face takes on the fervency that reminds me just how much I don’t like certain qualities of his. “Something bad out there,” he says with entirely too much relish.
“We were just discussing what it might be,” Bernie allows.
Ned brightens. “Any ideas?”
“Not werewolves,” Dean says.
Ned laughs. “No?”
“Bernie says so.”
“Good enough for me.” Ned nods.
“I don’t think there’s anything for SPHR to be overly concerned—” I start.
“Torn-up sheep? Ankle-deep chicken carcasses? Dead dogs? We’re concerned! Who’s to say when it’ll start on humans?”
“You heard about Kroeger’s chickens.” Bernie fills his pipe.