“For one, they’re lobbying to be public about who they are. They want to be honest about their identities, and the elders aren’t interested in it. They’re also angry about the resort; they want to revitalize the grounds, and the elders aren’t interested in that, either.”
“We don’t know that there’s any actual fighting per se,” Arne said, looking at Marian for confirmation. “But there’s definitely tension.”
“The more things change,” Connor said philosophically. “How does Georgia feel about all this? She’s an elder, after all.”
“Mom likes what’s familiar,” Marian said. “She’d deal with changes if she had to, but she’s mostly content.”
There was gentle rapprochement in her voice, as if Marian hadn’t agreed with her mother’s position.
We sat quietly for a moment, sipping our drinks and listening to the girls’ bubbly chatter from the other room.
If I was being honest, this was not at all what I’d expected to find on this trip. A happy family of shifters acting like any other happy family might and letting me—an obvious outsider—sit companionably in their home.
“There are more interesting rumors coming out of Grand Bay, you know,” Arne said.
“What rumors?” Connor asked.
“Some sort of bigfoot,” Arne said. “Supposedly.”
“The Beast of Owatonna,” Marian said. “Or that’s what they’re calling it.”
Connor arched a brow. “What’s the Beast of Owatonna?”
“Minnesota’s answer to Bigfoot,” Marian said with a grin. “A big and hairy creature that supposedly stalks prey in the North Woods.”
“Are we sure humans haven’t just seen shifters in their native forms?” I asked.
“That would be the simplest answer,” Arne said with a smile. “And logical. But the sightings came from clan members, not humans.”
“They find any evidence?” Connor asked. “Footprints, scat?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Arne said, glancing at Marian for confirmation.
“Nope,” she said.
“God only knows what happens in the North Woods. Probably young guns screwing around, maybe hoping they get caught by the humans. Either way, it’s the kind of thing that might attract attention, and the clan doesn’t want that.”
A squeal echoed from the room at the end of the hall, and little feet quick-stepped toward us. The older girl ran to her father. “I didn’t hit her,” she said quietly, and rested her head on her father’s arm.
“Mommy!” The younger girl stomped into the room, eyes streaming. “She hit me with her doll.”
“No, I didn’t! I didn’t!” The older girl paused. “She hit me first!”
“I did not!”
I had a flashback to similar scenes twenty years ago, when Connor and I were kids of about the same age and fighting over toys, running to our fathers to solve our disputes. I glanced at him, found him smiling knowingly back at me. I guess he’d been thinking the same thing.
“Girls,”Arne said, firmly enough to stop the rising hysteria. There were sniffles, but the yelling stopped. “We don’t hit each other, do we?”
In answer, the little girl burst into tears.
“And I think it’s nap time,” Marian said, pushing back her chair. “Girls, quiet time, now.”
That created another round of screaming as they stomped dramatically toward the back of the house.
“Excuse me,” Marian said, and followed them.
“Poor kids,” Arne said. “Adulting is hard, but you couldn’t pay me to be a kid again. All those hormones, still figuring out the world.” He shook his head. “Crazy thing is, give them fifteen minutes of quiet time, and they’ll be best friends again. Biology is a fickle mistress.”