Speaking as he walked, he said, “You’re different, but not as different as I am.” He sat, keeping himself turned so he could watch me.
His comment grabbed my undivided attention and I began fidgeting with the strap of my dark brown messenger bag, debating. He could have the answers I needed, an explanation for the lights in my head, or why men acted differently around me. While the lights puzzled me, the pull I had on men bothered me. I couldn’t pin it on anything about me physically.
I had straight, shoulder length ash blonde hair, a medium complexion, and hazel eyes like a million other girls. My nose fit my face well enough, neither too wide nor too long, and my mouth wasn’t so generous it’d give a guy dirty thoughts. No, it had nothing to do with my looks. Something else pulled them and I wanted to understand what.
There was also the possibility that he knew nothing of my gifts, perhaps knowing something completely different from what I already knew. The temptation of learning something, anything, kept me there. But I couldn’t afford to give anything away.
Determined not to lose an opportunity, I asked, “What do you mean I’m different?” I had to be sure we were talking about the same thing before I could say or ask anything more.
He sat in deep shadows making it hard to see his silhouette, but I could see the glint of his eyes, when he answered, “You smell different. You’re not exactly human, but you’re not a werewolf either.”
“Werewolf,” I whispered, stunned. Having him say it aloud made my suspicions less real, not more. How could werewolves be possible? Duh, how could I be possible? Keep it together. At least, I now knew I wasn’t a werewolf like him.
I stood exactly where I’d been, feeling like the entire world had just changed while the crickets continued their night song.
Sam chuckled and said, “For clarification… no, I don’t need a full moon… no, I don’t eat raw meat, although I do enjoy medium-rare steak on occasion… and, no, silver bullets won’t kill me any better than regular ones will.” He shifted, moving over on the bench, making plenty of space, and patted the empty expanse invitingly. “You, dear, are not a werewolf,” he repeated.
I blinked at the absurdity of his invitation to sit with him. Though the messenger bag weighed heavily on my shoulder, I planned to stay standing, thankyouverymuch.
Instead of acknowledging his invitation, I asked, “What do you want from me?” I still didn’t understand why he’d shown me at all.
Keeping his gaze locked with mine, he said, “You may not be a werewolf, but you are still special. How old are you?”
At five feet five inches, with a slight build and few curves to speak of, I looked young. The freckles sprinkling my nose didn’t help me look any older either.
“Sixteen,” I answered absently. “How exactly am I special?” I shifted the bag to the other shoulder.
“I was drawn to you. You have a certain scent that calls to my kind. I couldn’t name the smell for you other than to say it’s interesting, unlike anything else you’ve ever smelled.”
That was the second time he’d mentioned the way I smelled. What if I’d been born with more pheromones than the average person? I’d learn about them in biology. Pheromones attracted the opposite sex. It would explain the pull I had on men and why it’d grown stronger as I matured. It didn’t explain the lights though.
“Is that why guys don’t leave me alone?”
He sat forward too quickly for my comfort, and I eyed him warily. “What do you mean? What guys?” he asked. When he moved like that, he looked a lot younger than his grey hair and weathered skin indicated.
Although he kept his tone light, I remained cautious. “Guys under sixty and boys over ten.”
He settled back with a laugh, but didn’t try to coax me to sit again. “Well, you’re young and pretty so I’m sure it’s not unusual for men to be attracted to you, dear.”