Page 13

12

Bo

My savings might have rotted with time, but it turns out that my dad was smarter than me.

After bagels with the witch, I wandered around the altered town, and then I hiked back to the trailer for a third time and finally found something worth keeping.

Behind the bathroom mirror, which someone cracked, is a medicine cabinet.

But behind the cabinet is a cavity, where I found one of my father’s many cash stashes.

He would ball up a few bills when he was drunk, tuck them away for safekeeping, then promptly forget where he had hidden them.

Then he’d holler at me for supposedly stealing from him.

The thing about his cash stashes?

He’d always put them in a ziplock bag.

Sealed tight. Waterproof.

No mold.

So, now I’ve got a few hundred dollars and an entirely new life to figure out.

The moment I decide to take my scant money to the bar, I know I’ve made a mistake.

This is exactly what Dad would do.

Unfortunately, that thought has a weird edge of comfort to it.

Yes, my father spent most nights in Tipsy Howls—the werewolf-owned bar—where he could piss away the money he’d earned from repairing cars.

But because he often imbibed too much to drive himself home, Kev, the bartender, would call me to come pick him up.

That wolf always overserved Dad, no matter how many times I had politely asked him to cut him off after a certain point.

Kev would just glare at me and tell me to stop being a waste of a son and drive my father home.

So, I did.

And now I’m back here to follow in his paw prints.

And maybe find out whatever happened to Arvin Folan.

Only it looks like Tipsy Howls got a makeover, including a new name—Local Brew.

Sounds almost witchy to me, but I still pick up the scent of wolf when I push through the front door.

Tipsy Howls was a dive, with a grimy floor, bad lighting, and a welcoming face—only if you were a regular or member of the pack.

Local Brew has a scuffed but clean wood floor; low, warm lighting; and, from what I scent, a mixture of mythics.

There’s laughter that has no note of harshness, an atmosphere with no undercurrent of violence, and a crowd that doesn’t pay me any notice as I make my way through.

Much different from what I remember.

There are open stools at the bar, and I settle on one, feeling the weight of shame and misery bow my shoulders.

“Welcome in,” a deep voice says, the bartender having spotted me.

A younger guy who’s definitely not Kev.

At least one thing has improved.

“What can I get you?”

And here, we run into a speed bump on my road to getting drunk—I don’t drink.

After watching the way my father wasted all his free time in alcohol’s grasp, I figured there was no point.

But now I’ve decided there is a point—I don’t care, so I will do what I want.

Only I don’t know what to order.

Let’s leave it to the expert.

“Your stiffest drink, sir.” I pound a fist on the bar.

My meaty hand sets the nearby drinks to rattling, liquid sloshing over the edge of a few.

People glare my way, and chagrin heats my cheeks.

“Sorry. So sorry.” I grab a couple of napkins and help mop up the speckles of beer that escaped my fellow bar-goers’ glasses because of my aggressive move.

Once that’s dealt with, I face the bartender again.

“Your stiffest drink, please,” I mumble.

The bartender scoops up a glass and a bottle—all the while, his curious eyes stay on me, and a lopsided smile sits on his mouth.

The expression tugs at a memory, as does the man’s scent.

But all I know for sure is that he’s a werewolf.

“You look familiar.” He slides a short glass of amber liquid my way.

The color of the alcohol is pretty.

Kind of reminds me of the highlights in a certain redhead’s hair.

I shake my head and focus on the wolf.

“I was just thinking the same about you.”

“Are you from Folk Haven?”

“Born and raised.”

He tilts his head with curiosity.

“You been away for a while?”

I huff a humorless laugh as I bring the glass to my mouth.

“You could say that.”

Then I take a sip.

And promptly spit it back out.

“Gods, that is disgusting!” I grab a napkin and try to wipe the taste off my tongue, but to no avail.

“Did you pour me poison?”

The bartender blinks.

Then the guy throws his head back and roars with laughter.

I don’t see what’s so funny about him trying to kill me in front of all his customers, but I’m distracted by the sound of his hilarity.

I would swear I’ve heard that laugh before.

Maybe not as deep, but the cadence, along with the hiccup on the end, stands out in my mind.

“Griffy?” I ask, voice hushed.

The werewolf’s laughter fades off with another two hiccups as he refocuses on me.

He clears his throat.

“What did you call me?”

“You’re …” Couldn’t be.

This is a full-grown wolf.

Seventeen years.

“Are you Griffy? Griffith Fangworn?”

His thick brown brows twist in confusion.

“How do you know that nickname?”

“I made it.” My tone is distracted as my eyes catalog his face.

Eyes and ears that seemed too large for a young boy now fit well with the way he’s matured.

The wolf let his dirty-blond hair grow long enough to touch his shoulders, which is a good thing because when he had it cut shorter, the strands would always stick out in weird directions and mean pack members would call him Scarecrow.

What tells me I’m for sure looking at Griffy is the scar on his chin he got from an energetic bear shifter elbowing him in the face during a wrestling match.

Werewolves don’t inherit their speedy healing until puberty, when they have their first change, so the wound scarred.

How old was Griffy when the wolf first overtook him?

I’ve missed seventeen years’ worth of full moons.

The werewolf, who I last saw as a little boy, gapes at me, recognition hitting him.

“Bo? No … you. Gods, you haven’t aged a day.” He smacks his forehead.

“A long-lived mythic. You’re immortal?” He lowers his voice on that final word.

As if asking about a secret.

Just like monsters, feelings on long-lived mythics are mixed.

It’s not always safe to be around someone who never ages.

They think differently when time isn’t a factor in their life.

Many have God-like complexes.

Sometimes the centuries affect their minds in odd ways.

Maybe it’s the passage of time.

Maybe it’s watching everyone you know age and die.

Whatever reason, every long-lived mythic I’ve encountered has had a subtle air of danger.

One is the reason I got frozen in a statue.

“I’m not.” My voice is gruff.

“I was cursed. A witch freed me last night.”

“Hells.” Griffith braces his elbows on the bar, staring at me.

“I thought you’d just skipped town. That’s what your dad said anyway.” His face falls.

“I missed you, but understood why you’d left. Always thought you deserved better than how they all treated you.”

The back of my neck heats.

“I got by.” Clenching my hands together in my lap, I ask the question I’ve wondered since I came upon the trailer.

“Do you know what happened to my dad?”

Griffith swallows so hard that I can hear it.

“He left. A few years after you did. I mean, after you disappeared.” His eyes turn soft with sorrow.

“Heard not long back that he had challenged the wrong wolf. Fight went lethal, and he wasn’t the winner.”

There’s a twist in my chest. Is it sorrow?

I’m not sure. Can’t tell if I have enough feelings for my father to miss him.

But it’s good to know at least.

“Thanks for telling me.” I pick up my drink, then get a whiff and set it back down with a grimace.

“Can’t believe you’re old enough to work at a bar. And that you’re serving whatever this toxic liquid is.”

“Hey!” Griffith chuckles, taking the glass from me and using a rag to wipe up where I spit out the booze.

“That’s some decent whiskey right there. I’ll not have you wasting another drop.” The werewolf sips the drink himself, then pulls out a fancier glass.

“You’re not really a drinker, right? I’ll make you something different. On the house. Pay you back for all the piggyback rides you gave me.”

I smile at the thought.

Griffith was scrawny compared to other young werewolves, and I know some of the bigger boys bullied him.

Whenever I came into town, I’d keep an eye out for him.

I’d always wanted a little brother.

A family.

The pack didn’t want me, but Griffy was still too young to have formed a prejudice.

But he’s older now.

“You …” I clear my throat.

“You don’t mind?”

“Mind what?”

I scratch the corner of my jaw and try not to think too hard about the way Georgiana avoided my eyes.

“One of my kind being in your bar?”

Griffith pauses with his big hands wrapped around a metal shaker he just poured an assortment of liquids into.

Then he sets it aside, steps forward, reaches across the bar, and hooks his hand around the back of my neck to drag me in until our foreheads press together.

The wolf stares hard into my eyes, making it impossible for me to look away.

“You’re welcome wherever I am, Bo.” His hand tightens.

“And I’m sorry for whatever happened to you, but I’m glad you’re back. I look forward to getting to know my pack mate again.”

“I’m not?—”

“You are,” he growls.

“To me, you are.” He presses a kiss to my forehead, then backs off.

Leaving me to deal with the first time I’ve ever felt welcome …

anywhere.

“There’re two packs in town now. If you’re wanting to officially join, my bet is, both would be open to the idea.” Griffith pours out whatever he’s been concocting, and I smell the strong citrus scent of lemons and limes.

“Margarita.” He slides the glass to me, salt on the rim, and pops a tiny umbrella in it.

“Not poison.” He smirks.

“You said you were freed from a curse. Did a Shelly witch break that for you?”

I jerk at the surname, then try to cover up how much the mention affected me by taking a sip.

Tart and oh-so delicious.

Is there even any alcohol in it?

Doesn’t matter. I take another eager swallow.

“That’s good,” I hum happily.

“You might not be terrible at your job, Griffy.”

“Thanks,” he says dryly, smirking at my enjoyment.

“Why do you assume a Shelly witch?”

“They’ve freed two others. Both cursed by a sorcerer. They seem to have a specialty in breaking curses. Hell, they probably specialize in everything with that library Mor has.”

The witch’s name drags a shiver down my spine.

“What do you know about Mor Shelly?”

Every moment I’m not actively thinking about something else, my mind goes back to the memory of her licking cream cheese off her middle finger.

“Not a whole lot.”

Griffith nods at a guy farther down the bar, who gestures toward an empty glass.

While he gets busy pouring, I swallow more of my tasty drink and brainstorm how I can ask more questions about Mor without sounding obsessed.

But as if sensing my fascination, Griffith keeps on the same topic when he returns to the chat with me.

“She seems nice enough, but doesn’t leave that library of hers too often.”

“Hmm.” The habit sounds familiar.

I rarely ventured far from the woods surrounding our trailer or Dad’s mechanic shop.

I wonder why she keeps to herself.

For me, I was just doing my best to avoid others.

Better chance that way that I wouldn’t encounter someone who hated me.

Georgiana and I met by accident the first time.

I mean, I had known who she was.

The Stormwinds had nice cars, and they’d bring them by Folan Auto Shop for regular tuning.

I had been aware of her, but I’d never met her.

Never spoken to her.

Then, one evening, as the sun was setting, I made my way out to the forest for a moment to myself.

But then I heard laughter.

That was an odd noise to hear around my home.

I didn’t laugh much, and my father never did.

Besides, it was a woman laughing.

I followed the noise and came upon a small cliff at the edge of our property.

And there was Georgiana, wings spread wide, jumping off the edge.

I stumbled forward in time to watch the breeze catch her wings.

She glided around, laughing in delight, then returned to the cliff, only to do the maneuver again.

As if she enjoyed the falling as much as the flying.

On her third round, she noticed me watching.

“What are you doing? Are you spying on me?”

She sounded angry, and I ducked my head and held my hands out in surrender, like I was used to doing, though I kept my fingers together to hide the webbing.

“Sorry. No. It’s only that I live just near here.”

“Oh.” Some of the wariness left her voice.

“You’re that guy who works at the mechanic shop, right?”

She had brought her Mercedes in a couple of weeks ago for an oil change.

“I do. I work there.”

“And you live here?” She waved at the forest behind me.

“Yeah. My dad and me.”

“Hmm.” Her wings flexed as she studied me.

“That means you’re a monster, right?”

“I am.”

“According to my parents, I’m not supposed to associate with monsters.” She snorted a laugh that didn’t sound humorous.

“I’m also not supposed to fly on nights that aren’t the dark moon.”

She waved behind her at the visible sickle moon between parted clouds.

At the dismissive tone in her voice, I found myself relaxing.

“I won’t tell anyone,” I offered.

She smiled, and it was a gorgeous sight.

The siren opened her mouth to say something, but it was as if the world tilted and swayed under my feet.

I reached out for the nearest tree to steady myself.

And I tried to remember what just happened.

Georgiana said something.

No, she sang something.

The most beautiful song in the world …

only I couldn’t remember it.

“Sorry,” she said, not sounding too apologetic.

“I never get to sing either, and I wanted to see if my voice would work on you. Looks like it does.”

Ah.

Of course. When sirens sang, the only people who could remember the experience were other sirens or someone a siren loved.

Could there ever be a day where I remember a siren song?

But that was a ridiculous thought.

I should have just been glad she was not running away, screaming.

“Did you come to the Monster section so no one would see you flying?”

It was a good plan.

There weren’t many of us here, and humans didn’t come this far.

“That, and I spotted this cliff when I was on my daddy’s speedboat earlier.” She pointed off to the side, where Lake Galen glittered in the moonlight.

“I thought it would be a good launching point.”

“Feel free to use this cliff whenever.”

Technically, it was on my father’s property, but I doubted he’d care about some random mythic jumping off of it.

He barely thought past the hood of a car or doors of Tipsy Howls.

She quirked her head while studying me.

“Do you fly? In whatever monster form you take?”

“No. I … no. I don’t look near as pretty as you do when I shift.”

She smirked and gave a little half shrug.

“Charmer. Probably better you keep that to yourself anyway.”

I agreed, though there was an uncomfortable tug deep in my gut that wished I could have the comfort with changing that most other mythics have.

“I’ll leave you to it. Sorry to interrupt.”

I made to leave, but her voice halted my steps.

“You can stay. If you want. I don’t mind the company as long as you keep this little encounter to yourself.”

“Of course. I won’t tell anyone.”

And I didn’t.

For years, I kept Georgiana’s secret.

Sometimes, she’d come every week.

Sometimes, months would go by without a visit, and I’d only see her from afar in town.

She never acknowledged me there, but I told myself I didn’t mind because on top of our cliff, she’d sit beside me and call me her friend and tell me how she chafed under the rules of her strict parents.

Then, one night, she kissed me, and I swore I grew my own set of wings from pure joy.

Georgiana stayed away for months after that, and I convinced myself I’d messed up the encounter.

Then she returned and acted like nothing had happened.

A week later, she kissed me again, only her breath smelled like the bottles my father always clutched close.

It was the first time I didn’t want to kiss her back.

She pressed me, tugging at my clothes and dragging my hand under her skirt.

I didn’t want to do what she was demanding, not when she was drunk.

But I also didn’t want to leave her alone in the woods.

The only thing I could think to do was hold her in a tight hug, roaming hands trapped between us.

When she realized I wasn’t planning to give her what she wanted, Georgiana turned from sloppy seductive to scathing.

She cursed me, insulted me, and struggled to get loose.

I let her go and did my best to convince myself it was the alcohol talking.

Not her.

She flew off before I could stop her.

Another handful of months, and I was sure she was done with the cliff.

Done with me.

But then, on the first day of spring, there she was, in a pretty pink sundress, sitting on a picnic blanket, waiting for me.

“Hi, Bo,” she said, smiling up at me.

And I instantly forgot every hurtful word she’d thrown my way.

That wasn’t the real Georgiana.

This poised woman was, and I was just happy that she was back.

She kissed me again, and her mouth tasted like sweet tea.

We did more that night.

Georgiana said she wanted me to be her first.

I wanted to be her everything, but I’d take whatever she was willing to give.

Riding that pleasure, I thought I was the happiest I could ever be.

That there was no higher point in my life than to be what my siren needed.

“I know you want to go,” she said as we lay beside each other, staring up at the stars, the sweat drying on our bare skin.

I’d told her how I was saving up money to leave Folk Haven.

“But I want you to stay. Stay for me.”

“I’ll stay.” Besides, when I had told her I wanted to leave Folk Haven, live somewhere else where no one knew I was a monster, that had been before.

Before she claimed me.

“I’ll do anything for you, Georgie.”

I turned my head then, hoping to see her gazing back at me.

But her eyes stayed pointed up at the sky as a smile overtook her mouth.

“Good.”

It wasn’t long after that I went to the cliff and found her frantic.

“Oh gods, Bo. I’m in trouble. I need you to help me.” Her eyes were glassy with tears, pupils blown wide with fear.

And just like before, I said, “Anything.”

This is my own fault.

I offered her anything, and she took me at my word.

Now I’m still paying for it.

“I’m going to need another one of these.” I wave my now-empty margarita glass in the air.

“Sure thing.” Griffith chuckles.

And he keeps them coming.