I INHERITED A WEREWOLF PROBLEM

The cursor blinked at the end of the last sentence like it didn't quite believe me either.

Done. One hundred and two thousand words of it, and the final period sat there looking almost smug about the whole thing. I read the last line three more times, partly to make sure it was as good as I remembered writing it ten minutes ago, and partly because I wasn't ready to stop being a person with a finished book yet. That status had a shelf life. Tomorrow I'd just be a person with a laptop and a deeply concerning caffeine habit again.

I shut the lid before I could talk myself into "just one more read-through," which was how I'd lost entire weekends before, and allowed myself approximately four seconds of feeling like a functional adult with her life together.

I glanced at the clock 6:41. Then I looked at the banana bread I made for the shopkeep and his wife earlier in the day. If I wanted to catch the shop before it closed and hand off a slice to the two people in this town who'd actually been kind to me instead of just politely bewildered, I had maybe fifteen minutes to make myself presentable and get down the hill. 

It felt important, suddenly, in the specific way things feel important when you've spent six straight hours alone with your own thoughts and a manuscript. I wanted to tell someone. Not the internet, not a group chat that would forget by morning, but an actual person, in an actual room, who'd make a fuss over me for thirty seconds before going back to ringing up someone's milk.

James and Daisy would do.

I wrapped the loaf while it was still faintly too warm, grabbed my coat, and didn't think twice about the time, the season, or the fact that the moon, when I caught sight of it through the kitchen window, huge and pale and rising fast over the tree line, looked a little more full than usual.

The bell jangled overhead as I stepped into the shop, and a bald, fifty-something man popped up from behind the counter like he'd been lying in wait.

"Well, look who it is. Twice in one week. I might start thinking you like it here."

"Careful, or I'll start believing you're happy to see me." I grinned, nudging the door shut behind me and letting the warmth of the wooden little shop chase off the chill I'd carried in with me.

"James, right?" I set the tin down on the counter with a satisfying clunk. "I brought you something. Consider it a thank-you for the directions the other day. I would still be wandering around lost without you."

"Bribes," a woman said, materializing at his side, ginger hair, purple lips, hemp everything, the human embodiment of someone who owned at least four crystals. She leaned in to peer at the tin like she'd been waiting all day for an excuse. "Oh, sweetheart, what did you make?"

"Banana bread. Finished my book today, so I got possessed by the urge to bake something instead of, you know, sleeping like a normal person." I peeled back the foil so she could see. "Figured the first friendly faces I found in this town deserved a slice."

"That's us, apparently." She was already breaking off a corner. "I'm Daisy. And I like you already."

"You finished it?" James's face did the thing faces do when someone's trying to sound casual and missing by a mile. "The book?"

"The book." I did a small, dignified bow. "One entire novel. Try to contain your excitement."

"You're the one who inherited old Mrs. Whitmore's cottage," he said, not quite a question. "Up past the tree line."

"That obvious?"

"Small town. News travels." Something flickered behind his eyes when he said it, there and gone so fast I nearly missed it. "How are you settling in?"

"Getting there. Still finding my way around."

"Congratulations on the book, anyway. You deserve a parade." He was already herding me back toward the door, one hand hovering near my shoulder like he might physically walk me out if I lingered. "Which you can have tomorrow. Tonight, I suggest you head straight home."

"He's telling the truth, darling." Daisy's voice had gone strange, not scared exactly, but careful, like she was picking each word up with tongs. "It's a full moon. Almost seven. You should get going."

"I love a full moon." I offered them both a look somewhere between amused and suspicious. "Also, in case it's slipped anyone's mind, I'm a twenty-three-year-old woman who can take care of herself."

"Sweetheart." Daisy's hand found James's arm. "Strange things happen in this town whenever there's a full moon."

Something cold walked down my spine that had nothing to do with the wind outside.

"Pay her no mind, buttercup." James laughed, too fast, too bright, and steered me the last few feet to the door. "Let me see you out."

"What strange things?"

"Just an old woman trying to spook you for fun." He attempted a reassuring smile. It came out closer to a wince. "Bye now."