Page 1 of Beware of Hodags

RACHEL

I stare in horror at the giant green fiberglass monstrosity. “What is that?”

“A hodag,” my unofficial tour guide, Mirk, says proudly.

Red eyes, horns, a row of spikes jutting out along its head to the tip of its long tail, and four giant clawed paws to match its mouth brimming with mighty teeth—including a pair of tusk like fangs longer than my arms—are the primary features of this creature.

As if this isn’t enough to make it properly hideous, it’s plushly covered in a riot of forest green fur, and it’s hurting my eyes and my brain to look at it.

Who would create such a thing? Why? It’s clearly the result of a radioactive brown bear having a one-night stand with an evil dragon.

“And the town is happy to be known for this?”

“You betcha,” he confirms. “in fact, when my family visited Germany, people all over asked us where we were from, and when we said Rhinelander, Wisconsin, it was almost every other person who’d reply something like, ‘Oh, you’re a hodag!

’” He smiles ruefully. “It was a heck of a thing to agree that we were, in fact, ‘hodags.’ But it was still pretty cool.”

I can’t help the face I make as I stare at the statue planted in front of the town’s chamber of commerce and visitor welcome center. “How do people all the way in Germany know about this… thing?”

“We host a lot of foreign exchange students here,” Mirk replies. “A lot of them come from Germany. Alright, here’s your squeaky cheese—”

He presses a squishy, cold plastic baggie into my hand, scaring me. The baggie is full of rubbery chunks and questionable opaque fluid.

“Don’t look so horrified. It’s cheese. Delicious,” Mirk is quick to assure me, the same claim he made earlier when he bought all the bags that the little bookstore and pizza place had for sale.

“Um, thank you,” I tell him, frightened.

He grins at me. “You’re welcome.”

Autumn sunlight is beaming into the lenses of his glasses, causing a glare, partially obscuring his eyes. Above his glasses are two brows that have, so far in our acquaintance, been fixed high and close, as if he’s in a constant state of slight anxiousness.

Deeply hooded, downturned eyes give him a gentle, thoughtful mien. He has a full head of hair that’s somewhere between dark brown and black, but occasionally when the sun catches it just right, the brown strands turn red.

His beard bristle is more obviously reddish. And low at the base of his throat, a couple of auburn hairs peek out above the collar of his flannel shirt, which is the unassuming color of a mild thundercloud.

Which looks weirdly academic on him. And that’s cool. It takes some serious nerd power to tame down a fairly rough-looking outdoorsman’s shirt.

His legs are clad in coyote-colored cargo pants, and his feet are shod in dark rubber boots, the kind farmers typically wear.

I’m in a simple button-down shirt that wasn’t quite thick enough against the morning chill here in October, so over it I’ve also got on a lightweight western jacket. My lower half is in jeans and sneakers.

The jeans have seen better days. I threw them on after I deemed them to be perfect as traveling pants, because when I take long drives, I tend to wear about half as much coffee as I drink.

And my reputation did not disappoint. I spilled my first cappuccino across my lap as I pulled out of the gas station parking lot back in Escanaba this morning .

Somehow I didn’t think I’d be doing much interacting with people, and certainly not my potential new boss. Glancing down at my cheese, I clear my throat. “So, Mirk.”

I can feel his eyes on the top of my head. He’s staring at me intently enough to make my scalp tighten. “Yeah?”

I heft my bag of squeaky cheese. “I want to ask you something.”

He leans a little closer to me, close enough I can smell the spicy cinnamon in his gum as he whispers, “What?”

Swallowing, I pull back and sidestep him, and since I don’t want to offend him, I play off the move by peering around him as if I want to take another good look at the hodag sculpture. “Is Mirk a nickname or your name?”

He blinks the intensity out of his stare and grimaces. “Oh. It’s my name. My middle name is Mirkwood.”

Now it’s my turn to blink. “That’s…”

“Unfortunate?” he supplies.

I laugh—then bite my lips. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay to laugh.”

My mouth twists. “I disagree. I was teased terribly when I was a kid. I’m sorry I laughed.”

He rolls a shoulder, and the smile he gives me is easy. “I like your laugh.” He frowns. “Why were you teased? There’s nothing wrong with your name.”

He says this with such genuine confusion creasing his brow that I can’t help but smile.

“I was teased for my face.” I gesture at my marks.

“And I was teased for my last name too. It’s Bruiser.

Kids would ask me if my birthmarks were bruises—even though I told them they were birthmarks—and I became ‘Bruised Bruiser.’ It was stupid but that’s how kids are.

Grade school to middle school it was worthy of much harrying. ”

“Bullies are brutal,” Mirk says. His brows pinch. “And they make no sense. You had to have been adorable and a name that tough would have been so cute on a little kid. Sorry they picked on you.”

“Thanks.” Shy, I change the subject back to him. “How did your parents decide on Mirkwood?”

“Eh,” he says with a lift of his shoulder. “It’s a family name with a long history. And like I said, that’s just my middle name. I have three weird names.”

“Three of them?” I ask, hoping he’s teasing me. “What are they?”

He is dead serious when he shares, “My first name is Shelob.”

I try not to let my brows hit my hairline. “That’s unique.”

“I told you it was weird.”

“Unique,” I stress. “Never heard that one.”

His grimace is pained. “That’s because most kids are very lucky not to share a grandmother with me. It was her name.”

“You’re named after your grandmother?”

“I am. Weird, right?”

“No, it’s… sweet.”

“It’s not sweet. Neither was she. But I bear the burden of her name’s legacy anyway. My full name is Shelob Mirkwood Lycosid.”

“You poor kid,” I breathe before I can slap my hand over my mouth. Then I curl my hand into a regretful fist that I tuck against my mouth as I look at him with full sincerity. “I’m so sorry! That popped out before I could censor it.”

He grins, not looking offended in the least. “No. It was honest. I appreciate honesty.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

He nods, and his gaze on me sharpens. “Where did you say you were from again?”

I force a smile. “I didn’t say.” Earlier, I’d stopped into a cute little shop on Brown Street in Rhinelander called Spider and the Fly—

Wait. Why don’t I just back up ?

REWIND

One hour earlier…

Bells jingled as I pushed open the door to Spider and the Fly, and the sweet aroma of bakery treats and the alluring scent of coffee practically dragged me to the counter.

I myself smelled like new books—and also like exotic pipe tobacco.

This was thanks to the store next door, Book World, which stocked a vast selection of both.

Perusing the Victorian-era styled establishment had been a treat.

Everything from the dark wood paneling to the sumptuous red velvet chairs (parked next to vintage steamer trunks that I had a strong impulse to buy if not for the fact that I recently became a vagabond and traveling with vintage steamer trunks would be difficult) had me in love.

I even liked the sounds of the place: gorgeous oak floorboards had creaked pleasantly as I’d meandered through their stunning baroque bookcases full of paperbacks, hardbacks, and the occasional leatherbounds.

Understandably, I’d stepped out with a lighter wallet and a bag laden with many books.

Now I needed coffee. And maybe some pastries. Or brownies. Or anything displayed behind this counter. My mouth nearly watered at how good everything looked. And smelled.

A three-tiered stand held pastries and cookies on top of a glass bar stuffed with more pastries, cakes, and dangerous goodies.

On the wall to my right were black chalkboards declaring specials and prices in white, pink, and blue chalks.

Behind the counter was a wall of ornately carved shelving, which held an array of coffees and teas.

A narrow door was quietly tucked beside it all.

The sign on it was antique brass, and the word Private was printed on it in classy but bold script.

An attractive woman with dark cherry colored hair folded her arms along the top of her counter and raised her brows at me.

“Well, hello, hello.” Predictably, her eyes locked onto the markings on my face.

But instead of confusion or discomfort or embarrassment at either seeing my ‘condition’ or at being caught gazing at a stranger’s facial features for longer than is socially acceptable, her eyes sharpened—and so did her smile.

“Coffee spots,” she observed. Her huge hoop earrings swung as she tilted her head and continued to examine me.

I should be used to the reactions people have when they see me for the first time, and I mostly am.

I have loud birthmarks the color of coffee starting on either side of my nose, rising above my brows, and spreading back to my jawline.

One of my ears is coffee colored. The other one is only partially birthmarked.

And a little off to the left side of my forehead, it looks like God smudged his thumb against the otherwise unblemished portion of my skin.

That’s what my mom would tell me happened when I was growing up.

That God spent a little more time on making me.

It’s the same thing her mom told her, because she’s the one who passed this on to us.

And all considered, it’s a lot. I get that people have to do a double take.