История кривого билда: Баф-машина. Сергей Вишневский

inside and called out Beck’s name. Instead of a handsome werewolf popping his head up from behind the raised hood of a truck, the blond dreads of a very familiar familiar swung around the front quarter panel of a red F-150.

      Sunday winked at Daisy. “Hey there, sweetie!”

      “Sunday! Beck told me you worked here, but I didn’t expect to run into you.” Daisy looked about the neat shop that featured four car bays. Tools hung neatly along the walls, and tires were stacked in a corner. There were even red-and-white-checked curtains on the door window that must lead to the office. “Does Dean mind that you work here?”

      The self-confessed grease monkey laid a wrench on the engine and wandered around the side of the vehicle. Grease smeared Sunday’s pale check. Daisy had known her since she’d been born because of the cat-shifting familiar’s friendship with her grandmother. She considered her an aunt, even. Of all the women in the family, she got along with Sunday best. Probably because they were a couple of tomboys.

      “Why should Dean mind?” Sunday asked. “I don’t let my man tell me what to do. Unless it’s in bed.” She winked.

      Daisy fought against rolling her eyes.

      “So why are you here?” Sunday asked. “Shouldn’t you be more respectful of your father and his very obvious dislike for an unaligned wolf?”

      “My dad doesn’t know I’m here. And you won’t say anything to him.”

      Sunday quirked a brow, but her easy smile held the kind of knowing that all women shared when a man was the topic. “There’s nothing to tell. Beck’s a good guy. Just because he doesn’t feel comfortable joining a whole group of wolves after living in a small family his entire life shouldn’t make him a pariah.”

      “Exactly,” Daisy said, relieved that Sunday had put into words what she should have said.

      Behind the car bays, a big-screen TV flashed a news report that featured area gray wolves scampering across the screen.

      Sunday noticed Daisy’s interest and turned up the volume with a remote she tugged out of her pocket. The report was on the local wolf hunt. It had only been a few years since the DNR had passed legislation to allow hunters free rein on the gray wolves that had been removed from the endangered species list.

      Thing was, the mortals didn’t care what happened to the environment when they reduced the wolf population. Not to mention the devastation to the wolf packs. They were killing wolves that belonged to families. Fathers, mothers and pups. And the loss to the pack was no less heartfelt than a loss to a mortal family. Of course, the hunters never looked at it that way.

      It made Daisy think of Beck’s loss again. Poor guy.

      “So, having car trouble?” Sunday prompted. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those clown cars. I can’t imagine it has traction on an icy road.”

      “I try not to drive too much in the winter. But no trouble, as far as I know. I wish I was mechanically inclined like you. None of my brothers are, either.”

      “Not like they need it,” Sunday said. “Those Saint-Pierre boys are too fine to get all greasy fixing engines.”

      “Whatever. I’m just here to pick something up,” Daisy said, trying to ignore the news. Though she shouldn’t. This was her story. But she was distracted by the obvious. “I’m not here for, you know, a date or anything.”

      “What’s that about this not being a date?” Beck rounded a yellow sports car (sans windshield) at the end of the shop. A large cardboard box was hoisted on top of his shoulder. “I thought we were going to the iceworks tonight?”

      Sunday tilted another eyebrow quirk at Daisy, and it was accompanied by a knowing smile. So much said. Daisy’s neck flushed warmly.

      “We hadn’t confirmed that. Are those the bicycle chains?” she asked, to change the subject.

      Beck set the box on the floor before the pickup, and both Daisy and Sunday bent to inspect the contents. Dozens of chains slicked with grease snaked within the box.

      “This is awesome,” Daisy said. “I can use these.”

      “Best way to get the grease off is with Simple Green,” Sunday said.

      “I know. I’ve done it before.”

      “How’s your art stuff coming anyway?” the familiar asked.

      “My work in progress is turning out a lot cooler than I’d hoped. I plan to donate the finished piece to the wolf sanctuary up in Ely.”

      “Cool.”

      “And now with these, I’ll be able to finish it sooner than expected. Thanks, Beck.”

      Daisy swung around toward Beck, arms out as if to hug him—her family hugged a lot—then she paused, and dropped her arms. Right. Not ready for that kind of contact. At least, not in front of the familiar.

      “Uh, how much do you want for them?”

      “I’ve already stated my price.” Beck crossed his arms and peered down at her with his arctic-ice eyes.

      He meant accompanying him to the fireworks tonight.

      Daisy blew out a breath that fogged before her, even standing within the garage. Attending the midnight iceworks near the ice castle on the lake was a family tradition. And the only way to really enjoy it was to bundle up, snuggle next to another warm body and sip hot chocolate from a thermos. She could completely imagine doing that with Beck.

      She glanced to Sunday, who put up her palms and strode around the front of the hood, disappearing from view. “Not listening,” the familiar called out. “But check out the news.”

      Both swung their heads toward the TV, where the female newscaster was talking about the ghost wolf that had been scaring hunters witless. A pair of hunters had sworn off hunting for wolves and anything else, including deer.

      “The thing was big and nasty,” one of the hunters said to the camera. He gestured widely with his red flannel-coated arms. “And white and filmy like a freakin’ ghost.”

      Beck chuckled. “Ghost wolf. That’s a good one.”

      Daisy wished she could have been the one to interview the hunters.

      “But it was solid!” the other hunter chimed in on a shaky voice. “It slapped the shotgun right out of my hand. I ain’t never hunting again.”

      Beck’s smile captured Daisy’s attention. He was proud of what the ghost wolf was doing. Either that or he was amused by the redneck hunters getting their justice and repenting. Both were good reasons to smile, in Daisy’s opinion.

      “Whoever or whatever the ghost wolf is,” she said, “it’s doing all the wolves in the area a big favor by chasing away the hunters. I hope he keeps it up.”

      “He?” Beck asked as he picked up the box and started toward her car. “You called it an it first. How do you know it’s a he?”

      Daisy ran up to unlock the trunk. Surprisingly, the tiny car held a lot in the back end. “I don’t know if it’s a he, or an it, or a ghost. But this whole story has superhero undertones, don’t you think?”

      “Superhero?” Beck winced. “I don’t know about that.”

      “The underdogs, which are the wolves and us in this case,” Daisy explained, “need a defender to protect them. And suddenly from out of nowhere comes a hero on a quest to set things right. I love it!”

      “Yeah, but I’m guessing the ghost wolf doesn’t have a cape.”

      “You don’t need a cape to be a superhero. Just a focus and a desire to do good. That is my new angle.”

      “Your angle?”

      “I did tell you I’m trying to win an internship for the local paper.”