Page 24 of Beware of Hodags

RACHEL

Seriously, every shopper here is a hodag. I know this because they share that weird woodsmoke and wild smell that Shepard has. It swirls around us, pleasant but unmistakable.

Mirk walks the store with me, as alert as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. His jaw is tense, and if he were a dog, I’d say his hackles are raised.

“I can do this alone,” I tell him.

His eyes widen and his face loses its angry edges instantly as he drops his gaze to mine. He reaches for my shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze before dropping his hand. “Hey, no. I’m not leaving you on your own in a place like this.”

He makes it sound like we're standing in an alley littered with discarded needles and dirty crack pipes.

I look around. “This is the cleanest, snazziest grocery store I've ever seen.” I gesture at the cooler in front of us that’s full of specialty ice cream balls— Mochi, the sign reads, informing shoppers that this adorable food is a trendy Japanese-American dessert, ice cream enveloped in sweet rice dough.

Next to this cooler is another cooler containing beef sticks —‘locally raised beef made into meat by master meat crafters at Geiss Meats .’ The whole store has a homey, classy Northwoods cabin theme, with timber rafters and pine accents and category boards decorated to look like general store signs from the turn of the century. “I really like it.”

“I should have taken you somewhere else,” Mirk asserts. “Merrill. Heck, Gleason’s General Store has everything we’d need and they’re great people. Anywhere outside of Rhinelander would be better.”

“Why?” I prod. “This was close by and shopping local is pretty doggone nice,” I observe, returning the smiles flashed at me by complete strangers.

“He’s afraid of hodags,” a creaky voice offers to our left.

Mirk jumps.

I glance over to see a slightly bent woman with a crown of silver-green hair.

Mirk’s arm comes around my shoulders, startling me.

I let my purse strap slip off my shoulder so that my purse slaps to the floor, giving me a polite excuse to duck out from under his arm and scoop it up. And step away as I regain my feet.

Gazing at him, the woman’s face breaks into a beautiful, thin-lipped smile. “Beware of hodags,” she says almost wistfully.

“I’d beware of you any day, Mrs. Peggy,” Mirk says respectfully.

“I was his bus driver,” Mrs. Peggy tells my very nonplussed self.

“She also taught my Sunday School class from time to time,” Mirk shares. He steps up to her and gives her a hug. “You’re the only good hodag.”

Bony arms locked around his strong back, she cackles softly. “Flatterer. And don’t you just wish your people still had S’mores?”

He sends a harassed look around the store. “Yes.”

My eyes are narrowed on them both. I straighten when Mirk steps back, which gives Mrs. Peggy the chance to lock eyes with me. “Mirk’s family ran a very nice grocery store.” She pats his arm. “He’s a good one.”

“He's been a great boss so far,” I return politely.

Her eyes go to my neck and widen. “Oh!”

“What? What's the matter?” Mirk asks, glancing at me with lowered brows, then looking back at Mrs. Peggy for an explanation .

“Young woman, you're in a pickle,” she informs me, her gnarled hands curving over her cart’s push bar. Then she looks at Mirk. “Be careful.”

With that she turns her cart around and moves away, heading into an area of the store that signage identifies as the Northwoods Butcher department, leaving Mirk to frown after her.

You’re the only good hodag, he’d said to her. As I watch his attention flick toward shoppers who share scent markers with Shepard, it’s further confirmation for what I already suspected. When Mirk called Mrs. Peggy a hodag, I don’t think he meant she’s the only good Rhinelander native.

I think Mirk knows what hodags are.

And he’s trying to protect me by warning me away from Shepard.

We finish our supply gathering in relative silence, with me thinking heavy thoughts as Mirk scowls around us.

We get to the checkout and he’s distracted as he goes to pay because his narrowed gaze is glued to our wide-eyed grocery bagger, who is taking the two of us in with her jaw dropped in shock.

Our grocery bagger, who smells like a hodag shifter.

The girl is staring at my neck and darting disbelieving looks at Mirk.

If she’s a hodag, and I think she is, she must know Mirk is her ‘enemy’—and since I’m wearing a hodag mark, I guess everyone is concerned that Mirk must be my enemy too. And they’re definitely alarmed that I seem to be doing something as domestic as shopping with him.

We're not together, I want to say to her. I’m not stepping out on my mate; this is my boss. But I don't want to embarrass or offend Mirk by insisting to everyone that we absolutely aren't together in any way and that the only reason I’m with him right now is because he's paying me to be with him.

Seems harsh. Even if it’s true .

Finally, the cashier pulls herself together and in no time our transaction is complete.

“Let’s get out of here,” Mirk mutters, eyeing the perfectly nice-looking people at checkout like he expects them to jump us at any second.

As he moves forward with the cart, I glance back at everyone, intending to send them a grimace of apology but it freezes on my face when I see everyone’s eyes have turned red.