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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2021 by MaryJanice Davidson

  Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Stephanie Gafron/Sourcebooks

  Cover art by Aleta Rafton

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from Bears Behaving Badly

  Chapter 1

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For Elinor

  Chapter 1

  She was just getting the hang of the ambulance when she hit the wolf.

  The thing was bulky and difficult to control (the ambulance, not the wolf), and whenever she got it back from its semiannual mechanically induced coma, it took her a few minutes to get the hang of driving it again.

  She stood on the brakes

  (oh shit oh shit oh shit)

  and braced for the double-thump of the tires running over the animal, which didn’t come.

  Lila Kai collapsed back into her seat, her heart pounding so hard she could taste metal. She pulled over to the side of the street. A street, not a country road on the way from nowhere to somewhere. This was Lilydale, not Hastings. And even Hastings didn’t have wolves in their streets. Just deer. So what the hell?

  She put the ambulance in Park, kept the engine running, and hopped down. She checked the headlights—nothing. The side of the road—nothing. She even took a tentative couple of steps into the brown brush lining the ditch

  (don’t think about the zillions of horror movies that start like this)

  —nothing. No wolf, limping or otherwise. Or…coyote, maybe?

  Which made sense, now that she thought about it. Because whatever it was, it hadn’t been just huge, it had been fast, too. It had come out of nowhere and to nowhere it returned, all in the space of half a second. Maybe she just clipped it.

  Is that a metaphor for something? Life? Death? Taxes? Transitions? Romance?

  Mmmm…probably not the latter. There was just no way to twist clipping a random wolf into an allegory about her nonexistent dating life. The fact that she’d given even half a second of thought to that was proof that she needed to lay off the Cosmos (the drink and the magazine).

  She went back to her decommissioned ambulance, rebuckled her seat belt, put it in Drive, checked her rearview, ignored the urge to ponder more metaphors-that-weren’t, then pulled out, and headed back toward her rental house. The adrenaline rush had been unwelcome as always, but—

  “God damn it!”

  Two kids had darted out from nowhere

  (what the hell is up with this street?)

  and were flagging her down, waving their little arms around so fast they looked like little bony windmills in a gale.

  This time, at least, she didn’t have to stand on the brakes, and once she had stopped, she rolled down her window. “What’s going on, li’l weirdos?”

  Both children were gesturing frantically. “C’mere, you have to help, she’s hurt!”

  And more than a few horror movies start like this, too.

  Again with park, unbuckling, opening door, climbing out. The boy and girl who had jumped in front of her looked like they were about eight, dressed in the de rigeur kid gear of jeans and sweatshirts and battered sneakers. They had the corn-fed reddish-blond looks of many Minnesotans. “Who’s hurt?”

  “I dunno, she just is, we found her, come on. Bring your ambulance gear!”

  “It’s not an ambulance.”

  “’Course it’s an ambulance!”

  “No, I mean it’s decommissioned, so it’s not really an amb—”

  Tiring of her explanation, the girl seized Lila’s hand and started hauling her up the street. Lila looked behind her, half expecting to see the wolf creeping up on them and felt a little let down to see the way was clear. Which was insane. Strange enough to see such a creature under any circumstances, never mind smack in the middle of town. But she wanted to see it again; how was that for nuts?

  I probably need a nap.

  The girl hauled on her hand again and hooked left

  “Jeez, kid. Do you work out?”

  and then led her down a short alley, to where a small huddled form was curled into a blanket.

  “See?” the girl asked, clamping down hard on Lila’s fingers in her excitement.

  “Yeah, see?” the boy, presumably her brother,
added. “She’s right there!”

  “Isn’t this a school night?” But she bent over the small figure, blinked as her brain tried to process the image, gently touched it on the shoulder, then pinched her own leg

  (Nope. Not dreaming.)

  and looked up at the kids. “All right, first, that’s not a kid, it’s a bear cub for some reason. Second, I’m not a vet. Most important, I’m not an EMT, either.”

  Instead of answering, the girl whacked the boy on the arm and hissed something that sounded like, “Unstable!”

  “My high school guidance counselor would agree.” Lila bent back over the curled up mass of black, fluffy, whimpering fur that cowered away from her and glared with dark eyes. “I’m not sure what it is you think I can do.” She looked back up only to see the children’s expressions had transformed; they were actually edging away from her. “Why are you doing that? You guys lured me here. If anyone should be uneasy, it’s me. Shouldn’t you have picked my pocket by now?” She looked around the utterly deserted alley. For the first time, she realized she couldn’t hear anything: no bugs, no birds, nothing. And not much light from the lone streetlight. Downright creepy.

  She checked the mouth of the alley for the wolf and was again disappointed to see nothing.

  “You’re right, sorry,” the boy said.

  “Yeah, sorrywebotheredyougoodbyenow.”

  Lila sighed. She was in it the minute she’d stepped down from the vehicle that wasn’t an ambulance. “God damn it. Okay, so, just because I can’t help doesn’t mean someone else can’t.” She stood, only to see the children take several steps back. “Maybe call animal control?” She had to, she realized. You couldn’t just leave a random bear cub in a random alley after random kids flagged down a random adult.

  But in the time it took her to fish out her phone and begin looking up Lilydale Animal Control—or would that be Saint Paul?—the children had (cue the dramatic music) vanished. Like the wolf, her patience, and her faith in the good people at Apartment Guide.

  “Nice quiet neighborhood,” she muttered to the Realtor who wasn’t there. “Lots of families. It’s in the middle of a national park. Bargain.”

  She’d been a Lilydale resident for fewer than eighteen hours and had no idea who to call. And after a day of unpacking, she was standing in an alley at 8:00 p.m. After hitting a wolf. The one thing she did know: she—they—couldn’t stay there indefinitely.

  “You’d tell me if you were a metaphor, right, teeny tiny bear cub?”

  She scooped it up, surprised by how light it was, given that it was the size of a small golden retriever

  (it must be mostly fur, the way birds are mostly feathers)

  then checked for the wolf one more time, and headed back to her nonbulance.

  * * *

  He had her, he had the cub’s scent, he had to

  (make her safe)

  do his job, he had to

  (keep her safe)

  and that was fine, he could and he would but then

  YOW!

  the big noisysmellything bit him and sent him tumbling and here came the Stable so he crouched down down down

  (don’t see me)

  in the dark hollow by the ditch and here she came

  (don’t smell me)

  and she was looking and he was he was downwind of her which was good which was perfect and

  (oh)

  the Stable smelled like berries and blankets, sweet and safe, and it was wonderful, and he didn’t realize he’d followed her out of the ditch until he caught the scent of two more cubs and if they saw if they all saw

  (if She saw)

  they would be scared and scatter and that would not would not do so he slipped back into the dark and watched and watched and watched and drank in as much of her scent and watched some more.

  And followed.

  Chapter 2

  “Yes. For the third time, I found a wounded bear cub about a quarter of a mile from my house. Well, someone else’s house.”

  “What?”

  “I’m just renting. And it’s a bargain, or so they keep insisting.”

  “A bear cub.” This in a tone that suggested the dispatcher was questioning Lila’s sanity. Which was smart, frankly.

  “Fourth time,” Lila pointed out helpfully. “Yes. And don’t forget about the wolf.”

  “The wolf.”

  “I can’t shake the feeling that you’ve got a criminally short attention span.”

  “Can you still see the animal?”

  “Which?”

  “Do you have eyes on the cub?” the dispatcher asked.

  Lila looked down at the animated ball of fuzz taking up her lap (and then some!) while licking honey off her fingers. For a wild creature (was it? maybe it escaped from a zoo? or was someone’s pet?), it was gratifyingly vermin-free, as far as she could tell. It had interesting coloring, too… Most of its fur was a deep black, with a whirl of reddish-orange fur that curled down from its shoulders, forming a rough V-shape down the chest. Its face was broad, with a short snout, tiny ears, and it had cream-colored claws. It—wait.

  Lila discreetly checked, then noted she was a little muddy, and her right foreleg was clearly causing her pain, but that seemed to be the worst of it. She didn’t even smell bad, more like…old cotton? Dusty curtains?

  “Ma’am? Do you have eyes on the cub?”

  “Yeah, I can—ow!—see her. So anyway, my address is…”

  “I’m afraid we don’t deal in cubs. You need to call the IPA.”

  “Sorry, what?”

  “The IPA. Do you need the number?”

  “I need to know what an IPA is. The phone number is secondary.”

  “I’ll connect you.”

  “God damn it! At least tell me what the acronym stands for. Important People Arriving? International Parasailing Accountants? Ow!” To the cub: “If you keep eating my hand, you won’t be hungry for lunch. Get it? Of course not, you’re a bear cub. Great movie, take my word for it.” Meanwhile, the deeply unhelpful person at animal control had made good on her threat to transfer; she could hear phone ringing. “Whatever IPA is, I hope they make house c—now what?”

  Lila viewed the front door, on which someone had just knocked, with deep suspicion. She was new in town, and she hadn’t ordered pizza. The kids, maybe? Did they follow her back? The mama bear? No, an aggravated bear wouldn’t have knocked. Was it an election year? She’d honestly rather deal with a frantic mama bear than someone shilling for city council.

  The cub, meanwhile, was mewling and butting her with its hard little black head, displeased at the lack of honey on Lila’s fingers. “Sorry, I’m cutting you off. You’ll thank me in the morning.” And, louder: “I’m coming!” She cast about for somewhere to put the cub, who had abruptly stopped being adorable and was now wriggling and scratching and bawling like a calf going through udder withdrawal. Lila could barely hold onto the ball of flailing, furry limbs. “Ow, shit! Okay, just…okay, I’m putting you down now—ow, Jesus, there, so you…uh…”

  The cub rolled over and over, shaking its head and bawling and then

  and then

  and then

  she wasn’t a cub anymore. If Lila had turned her head, she would have missed it. Where the cub had been now crouched a little girl with the cub’s coloring—long, wild black hair halfway down her back, and dark eyes with an upward tilt, with fair skin and golden undertones—who looked about ten. She was naked, so Lila could see how scratched up the

  (girl?????)

  artist formerly known as Cub was, and then something she could actually understand happened for the first time in the last twenty minutes: the child burst into tears.

  “Never mind!” Lila shouted at whoever was still knocking. “If you’re IPA, it was a false alarm. If you’ve got pizza, I don’t want a
ny.” This was a rather large lie. A deep-dish pie loaded with sausage and mushrooms would go down just fine with a beer or five. “If you’re stumping for a politician, leave the brochure in my mailbox. If you’re the two random kids from earlier, go home, it’s a school night. If you’re a bear, there’s no cub in here.”

  There. That ought to cover everything.

  To the little girl sobbing in the corner: “Hi, I’m Lila. Don’t worry, the noise and the situation definitely aren’t getting on my nerves or anything.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Calm. Calm-calm-calm. Project so much calm. Be fucking calm, dammit! “What happened? Should I call someone? Do you know your parents’ numbers? Are you friends with a great big wolf? Am I hallucinating? It’s okay if I am. You can tell me. I won’t be mad.”

  The little girl sniffled and wouldn’t look at her.

  “You’re shivering.” Because of course she was. The rental house was agreeably old, with lots of dark wooden floors and very little carpet, and the heater struggled, especially since it was only about fifty-five degrees outside. “Let’s get a blanket on you, and a sweatshirt, maybe? Are you hungry? I could get you something more substantial than honey.” That was another lie, she realized. The fridge held a twelve-pack of LaCroix coconut water, a box of Little Debbie Swiss Rolls (they were better chilled), a half-gallon of skim, and the ingredients for Flanders’s cocoa. The honey she used for her tea and random bear cubs was nearly empty. She’d planned to get groceries in the morning.

  At least the knocking had stopped.

  The child sniffled, wiped her nose on her forearm, leaving a shiny trail up and down her arm

  (urgh)

  and still wouldn’t look up.

  “Look, it’s okay. We’ll figure this out—uh, whatever this is—and get you home. Wherever home is. And by ‘we,’ I mean someone in authority. Maybe a bunch of them.” She rooted around in a box marked Who the hell knows? Maybe the living room?, found a blanket, and draped it over the cowering kiddo. “There’s nothing to be scared of.” Most likely. But what the hell did she know? Maybe Lilydale was crawling with bear hunters. Maybe it was Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery,” only with bears. “It’s gonna be okay.”

  No sooner had she run out of platitudes than she heard the rear porch door twang (the hinges were old and stretchy), followed by the sound of wood splintering, followed by the slam of the door against the wall as two kids or a politician or a pizza delivery person or a bear came in without an invitation.