The Dream Runner by Kerry Schafer

Chapter One
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    O ne of the truths I've learned about life is this: never say never. The gods take it as a personal challenge and are bound to screw you over. Trust me on this—I'm the poster child for fate.
    I skipped town the week I turned sixteen, taking nothing with me but the clothes I was wearing and my father's vintage Indian Scout motorbike. He was dead; it wasn't like he was going to miss either it or me. And when I rode away, I swore I would never set foot in Williamsville again.
    Ten years later, almost to the day, I pulled my old motorcycle, Red, off the highway just south of town to get the lay of the land and wrap my head around the idea of coming home. From that vantage point, nothing seemed to have changed about Williamsville at all. Alderson's Forestry Products still clung firmly to the western shore of the lake, a sprawl of buildings I knew inside and out. 
    The rest of the town curved along the lake's south shore: big houses along the water, stores and businesses in a grid behind them, the ranks of more unassuming homes and then the mansions lining the heights. I could pick out the grocery store, the skating rink, the stampede grounds. All there, all unchanged. And I was good with this. When you've traded your soul to a supernatural entity and are bound indefinitely to serve as an errand runner, it's good to know that some things stay the same.
    The lake was another story. Just the sight of it was a visceral blow to my solar plexus. An onslaught of memories damn near made me drop the bike but I managed to get the kickstand in place, and then went through all of the coping moves I'd taught myself over the years. Breathing helped, but it wasn't enough and I pulled off my gloves and dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands hard enough to break the skin, centering myself in the physical pain. If I had to come back here to take care of business, so be it. I sure as hell wasn't going to let this visit—and let there be no doubt it would be a short one—suck me into a vortex of memories.
    I got back on Red, pulled my gloves on over bloody palms, and rode into town.
    It was round about 4 pm, full heat of the day, and the wind in my face was warm and smelled of sawdust and fresh-cut lumber. I was scheduled to meet Tom Hasbro, the realtor, to pick up a set of house keys and run over a basic strategy for selling the property. I'd chosen Dave's Roadhouse, which would be jam-packed later but not too busy yet at this time of day. Besides, just thinking about the place set my mouth to watering.
    Inside, not a thing had changed. Same split wood floor. Same red checked tablecloths and plastic coated menus. Same mouthwatering smell of slow roasted meat and properly fried potatoes. Every eye in the building turned to me when I walked in. It's a side effect of the biker gear. People can't help looking at a woman in chaps and motorcycle boots. Mostly it slides off me like water off a duck's back; but on that day the last thing in the world I wanted was attention. Fortunately there weren't many folks in yet, and those who were went right back to their brisket without that awkward moment of recognition.
    Avoiding eye contact with everybody else, I looked around for Tom. He'd already been old when I left, at least by my definition, so I figured he wouldn't have changed much and should be easy to spot. While I was busy looking for the dumpy guy with a hefty comb-over and a loud Hawaiian shirt, my path was intercepted by six feet of lean mean cowboy.
    A pair of boots well-loved and well worn, not just for show. Muscular denim clad legs, leather belt, black t-shirt tight enough to show off a well-muscled chest without getting tacky, all topped by a familiar grin and a pair of hazel eyes, the right with a triangular spot in the iris that was just plain green.
    "Well, would you look what the cat drug in? Never expected to see you back in town."
    I stared up at him, speechless, my heart galloping along like a