Page 14

13

Mor

“Hey, Mor. Are you busy?” Griffith—a bartender at Local Brew and the one I go to for high-quality spirits when a spell calls for a touch of booze—sounds like he’s in the middle of a party wherever he’s calling from.

I glance down at the almost-finished charcuterie board I fashioned for myself and the large glass of wine I filled past the point that a sommelier would find acceptable.

The drink sits un-sipped, seconds away from my first big satisfying gulp.

Am I going to need wine to get through this conversation?

I can’t fathom why the werewolf would be calling me.

Only … last time I stopped by Local Brew I chatted with him longer than normal because I’d come across a text about a Gods Object.

The book was vague, the ink mostly smudged, but what I’d gathered was that The Clawed One had made a tankard of some kind, filled with a mystical mead that did …

something. I’d hoped Griffith, a werewolf and beer brewer, might know more about the legend.

He didn’t. What he did say was that we should go out sometime.

I’d left without giving him an answer.

Griffith isn’t asking me out on a last-minute date, is he?

If the answer to the second is yes, then so is the answer to the first—yes, I will need wine.

Which again has me wondering, What is up with me?

Griffith is an objectively attractive guy with a friendly personality and a full-time job.

Plus, as a werewolf, he’s part of the same magical community I am.

He’d be a fine person to go out with and try to fall in love with.

But when I think of him asking me out, I get a full-body cringe.

Because, in my mind, I can already see me breaking things off and then all our run-ins turning awkward.

So, instead of making up an excuse or telling him the truth, I simply say, “What’s up?”

“I, uh, have a situation here at the bar.”

Well, that’s not a date request. Color me interested.

“Go on.”

I could swear I hear singing behind Griffith’s voice.

“You know Bo? The guy you freed? He’s here. And I think you need to come pick him up.”

I frown.

“You don’t want him in your bar?”

Griffith is a pure-blood werewolf, but I didn’t think he held monster prejudice.

Not when I know he’s dated other mythics before.

“It’s not that. I love Bo. I knew him when I was younger. Couldn’t meet a better guy.” The praise cuts off as some kind of wailing gets louder before trailing off.

“The thing is, I might have accidentally overserved him.”

“What?” I snap.

“He’s a big guy! But the margaritas hit him hard, and now he’s wasted. I’d take him home with me, but I’ve got two more hours here.” The background noise lessens, and I get the sense that Griffith stepped into a back room or something.

“He doesn’t have anyone that I know of. And you Shellys seem to stick to the ones you save. But if there’s another person I should call about him, you point me their way.”

I open my mouth, ready to give him Levi’s name.

But then I remember the monster telling me about his pregnant wife.

Moira is a badass selkie who can certainly handle herself, but that doesn’t mean I want to put any extra stress on her or her husband’s plate.

Not when I’m the reason Bo is free to cause drunken mayhem.

And I certainly don’t want to call the cops on him.

I saw the way he cowed in the face of Samantha’s badge.

“I’ll come get him,” I sigh.

“Thank the gods! His mopey singing is driving away my customers.”

Not sure what to say to that, I simply tell Griffith I’ll be there soon.

With a mournful glance at my wine, I leave it on the kitchen table and stick my cheese slices into the fridge.

As I grab my keys, lock up, and head out to my car, I shoot a quick text on the Shelly group family chat, letting my siblings and their partners know where I’m headed and why.

The overinforming habit started not long ago after the break-in at the library, and now the lot of us send regular updates for peace of mind.

My phone buzzes with good luck s and offers of help if I need them.

But I should be able to handle this monster myself.

Then I step into Local Brew and wince at the horrendous noise coming from the back corner, where there’s a small stage.

Sometimes, Local Brew will have live music, but I suspect whoever Griffith hires to stop by is slightly better than the rendition of “Roxanne” a monster is belting out.

“Mor! You’re here.” The bartender waves me down.

“Thank the gods. I was considering using a tranquilizer just to shut him up.”

As if in response to Griffith, there’s a loud, drawn-out, “ Roxannnne !”

“How many margaritas did you give him?” I’m having trouble taking in the quiet, insecure mythic now up onstage, shamelessly belting out a bad rendition of—ironically—The Police’s song.

“Only three. I’m not sure he’s ever imbibed before. Turns out, he’s a sad drunk who likes to sing.” Griffith shakes his head with a rueful smile.

I watch Bo clutch a mic while his other hand cradles an empty glass with a tiny beach umbrella skittering around the edge.

“Why’d you give him a microphone?”

Seems like a bad idea to offer anyone who isn’t a paid performer a way to amplify their voice.

“I thought the machine was broken.” Griffith waves toward a dented speaker.

“But Bo sat over there for a while, tinkering with it, and next thing I know, he’s onstage, thinking he’s part of Moulin Rouge .”

“ Roooooooxxxxannnnnnne !”

Damn the Dark One’s plans, is Georgiana his Roxanne in this scenario?

I need to get him down before he outs whatever kind of relationship he had with the Of the Wing council member.

“Okay. I’ll get him. No more margaritas.” I jab Griffith’s chest with my finger for emphasis, then push my way through the crowd of spectators, who seem to be a combination of amused and horrified.

“Bo!” I call out when I get closer.

But his eyes stay closed as he sloppily sings out a verse about sharing with another boy.

My lips twist in a grimace, and I really wish I had shoved some cheese in my mouth before I left because, now, I’m hungry, along with baffled.

How am I going to get him off that stage?

“Bo!” I shout again, this time right in front of him.

He blinks glassy eyes down at me, and he lets out a huge, soul-weary sigh.

Then he says, “ ROOOOXXXANNNE !”

Enough is enough.

I scramble up onto the stage and grab his arm, trying to tug him down.

But he doesn’t budge.

The guy is pure muscle, and I’m only as strong as it takes to carry a stack of books.

“Come on, Bo.” I try to reason with him.

“It’s not karaoke night.”

What kind of sad, destructive force have I let loose on the innocent townspeople of Folk Haven?

“Sing it with me!” Bo hollers, ignoring my plea, then sloppily makes his way through the same verse he just sang.

“Bo, come on .”

I try to take the microphone from him, but he simply holds it above my head and shouts, “ Roxanne ,” into it.

The thing about me is, I like to be in control.

Probably an issue left over from being raised by parents who literally drained my power on a regular basis.

But I know that being bossy can easily earn me the label of ‘bitch witch’ so I do my best to keep my commands of others reasonable and delivered in a neutral tone.

But the times I can’t suppress the bitch witch?

When I’m frustrated.

And hungry.

And tired.

Right now, I’m all three.

I cross my arms over my chest and hit the monster with my scathing—I’m disappointed in you glare—and let the bossy rampage begin.

“Bo Folan,” I bark. “Stop singing right now and get off the stage. You do not have permission to be here.” I step in close, crowding him as much as I am able.

“I haven’t had dinner. I haven’t had wine. And a racoon broke into my house today. My ‘give a fuck’ well is depleted and you are officially pissing me off .”

Bo stopped singing at the beginning of my tirade and now he frowns, the expression creasing deep lines into his cheeks.

“Are you mad at me?”

“Yes!” That came out louder than I meant.

“Oh. I’m sorry. Don’t be mad.” He drops the mic, which lets out a reverberating thunk and a loud crackle of feedback throughout the bar.

“We can go.”

“Really?” I blink, surprise draining away my annoyance.

“You’ll come with me?”

“Yeah.” Then Bo is the one tugging me offstage, his big feet stumbling on the steps.

“Let’s get drinks. I didn’t think I liked alcohol. But Griffith made it taste good.”

“Sounds like Griffith made some bad decisions tonight too,” I grumble, glaring at the smirking bartender.

“More drinks,” Bo demands, dropping cash on the bar top.

“Mor wants wine.”

Not happening.

I scoop the bills up and stuff them back into his pocket.

I don’t know where he got that money, but I’m betting it’s all he has.

“They aren’t serving any more alcohol tonight,” I inform him before Griffith can even think of mixing up another cocktail.

“Come on, Bo. I want to go home. I’m hungry.”

“You are? Me too. Let’s find food together.”

He’s still got ahold of my hand.

He drags me behind him—doing it relatively easily, I hate to add—and we burst out into the cool fall night.

Leaves swirl around our ankles, and a sliver of the moon hovers high above us.

Bo stops suddenly, staring fixedly at the orb, his mouth slightly slack.

The focus reminds me of how Jack sometimes stares at the moon.

Of course, he never lets his mouth go loose like Bo’s, as if asking for bugs to fly in.

Still, I have to wonder if the type of mythics that make up Bo’s monster might include a touch of wolf.

He shakes his head, then gives me an entirely too endearing grin.

“Food?”

“Yeah, Bo.” I nudge him toward the passenger side of my truck.

“Let’s find you some food.”