Hart and Hunter

Chapter 8

Ch. 8: Julian

Vaguely, I hear Dane and Vasquez exchange greetings, but most of my attention is on Rian Halloran.

He's a few inches taller than me, and has fashionably cut black hair and sapphire blue eyes. His skin is smooth and lightly tanned, and his face is classically handsome. He's dressed in a black suit with a black tie, and wears a red silk pocket square. The hand he extends to grasp mine is large, strong, and elegant, with clean, manicured nails.

Dane says Wolves don't always recognize other Shifters, but they always recognize their own kind. I've had very little opportunity to put it to the test, but as Halloran approaches and flashes us a blindingly handsome grin, I realize that the same may be said of Fae.

Halloran extends his hand towards me, and all I can do is stare.

I look at Dane, expecting to see my shock mirrored, but his expression is merely one of mild confusion and concern.

"Julian? You two know each other?"

Halloran's perfectly groomed brows lift a fraction, and my sudden conviction departs as suddenly as it came.

"N-no," I stammer, and manage a smile as I accept Halloran's handshake. "Sorry. Julian Hart."

He flashes me a wink, and my doubt returns. I don't know what it is, but there's something 'Fae' about him, for sure.

"And you must be Dane Hunter," he says, turning, "of whom I've heard so many splendid tales."

Dane scowls. "Dunno what's you've heard, but I guarantee most of it's not true."

Halloran glances at Vasquez, and smirks. "So, you didn't break up a bar fight and single-handedly arrest an entire gang, or leap from an overpass onto a moving car to stop a chase?"

Dane rubs the back of his neck and gives Vasquez an exasperated look. "It was half a dozen drunk, middle-aged bikers, and it was a low overpass."

Again, I can't hide my surprise as I realize how little Dane has talked about his past. I'd assumed it was something he didn't enjoy discussing, and so I hadn't pressed him, but now I wonder just how much I don't know about my mate.

Sensing something of my feelings through that very bond, Dane's expression shows a hint of pain, and I see him resist the urge to reach for my hand. I wish he would.

"That's not the way Monica tells it," Halloran continues. "In fact—"

"Where are you from?" I blurt, surprising even myself with the blunt question. I'd caught a hint of an accent as he spoke.

Halloran turns back towards me, brows lifted, but still smiling. When he speaks, his accent is much stronger than before.

"Ah, found me out already, have you? I've been trying to sound as North American as possible—makes things easier, you know—but you're right. I'm from Ireland. I'm actually here as part of an exchange program. One of yours trades places with one of ours, and we learn how things are done different here and there."

"What part of Ireland?"

Vasquez frowns at my borderline rudeness, but Halloran seems unperturbed.

"County Kildare," he says easily. "Have you been?"

"No, I haven't," I say, and again look at Dane with a question in my eyes. Unfortunately, he doesn't speak 'eyeball' and only lifts a shoulder in a half shrug.

Soft music begins to play, and further up the hill, a small group gathers before an urn on a pedestal surrounded by wreaths and garlands of white flowers.