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23

Mor

When I return from my date, I enter the house through the back door to drop the food off in the kitchen before seeking out my employee.

I find Bo at the front counter, tongue pinched between his teeth as he repairs a book spine.

I’m quiet as I approach, not wanting to startle him and mess up his project.

When I’m only a handful of feet away, I pause, and then I stop.

He carefully spreads the glue and presses the pages into place, holding them steady as the glue dries.

His chest expands on a particularly deep inhale, and a moment later, his head pops up, eyes locking with mine.

“Mor.” He straightens.

“You’re back.”

“I am. With food. You like the roast beef sandwich from Coffee & Claws, right?” I hold up the to-go bag.

Bo’s nostrils flare, and my curious mind wonders once more what type of mythics make up his monster.

Most Of the Claw mythics have heightened scent.

With his size, he could easily be part bear shifter.

“That’s my favorite. Thank you.”

“Thank you for looking after the library on your own. I know being in this building still has to be uncomfortable for you.”

Especially when, every night, he goes out to sleep in the RV rather than moving into one of the open bedrooms upstairs.

Bo’s eyes track around the entryway, as if expecting the house to move.

Everything remains still.

“I can take over.” I circle the counter and offer him the food.

“Take a lunch break.”

“I can eat later. If you need to finish what you were working on when that guy showed up.”

“Nope. I’m good. Go eat, I insist.”

Bo hesitates for another moment, then gives a nod, collects his food, and heads toward the back of the house.

He may have found some type of truce with the library, but I’ve noticed the monster always eats his midday meal out on the dock.

I wonder though if that has less to do with this building and more to do with wanting a slice of freedom in his day after being trapped for so long.

If I took the time to focus on and sift through his emotions, I might have a better idea, but I pull back on that urge.

Bo deserves privacy.

Still, as I settle on the stool behind the desk and take a closer look at his project, I think back on Jaylen’s words.

About villains using the library for nefarious deeds.

Knowing Bo like I do, he’s low on my list for potential baddies.

But I’m almost certain he did do something bad.

He entered this house without permission and tried to steal from Dimitri’s hoard.

Why else would the ward magic have attacked him?

I have a good guess as to what Bo was searching for.

Likely the same item that Hamish wanted to get his hands on when he ensorcelled our household to sleep while he crept through the halls.

Just like the house had turned Bo to metal, it also fought back against Hamish.

The way the walls came apart to capture the selkie was intimidating, but compared to the complete imprisonment of Bo, kind of mild.

My best guess is, since the dragon no longer lives in the house, the protection magic is still here but diminished.

At least for now. Who knows what housing all these magical texts in one place will do?

My mind circles back to Bo and what he was likely trying to take.

The golden apple.

The god object.

One of the reasons I didn’t hesitate to hire him is that the apple isn’t here anymore.

Once Lucky alerted us to its presence, we took the mystical object from its hiding place in the wall, and I have it stored in a high-security lockbox at Wolf Trust Bank.

But Bo doesn’t know that.

And he’s made no move to find it again.

Is it because he’s properly chastised from his first punishment?

Or was he never truly interested in obtaining it?

The mystery pesters me for the rest of the afternoon, as I help a coven sister find spells for dream walking and as I brush past Bo throughout the day.

He also seems tense.

I wonder if it’s because he senses how my mind is stuck on him.

How I’m working up to a kind of interrogation.

When I flip the front-door sign to Closed , I’ve made my decision.

“Bo, can we talk?”

He blinks at me from behind the counter, eyes owlishly large.

“Did I mess something up? I’m sorry. I’ll fix it.”

My heart squeezes at his immediate assumption that he’s in the wrong.

“No. You’re fine.”

And because I don’t want him overly anxious during what I suspect is going to be a tough conversation, I wave for him to follow me back through the house.

As always, I hear his heavy footsteps and take a strange comfort in their clomping.

When we’re in the cool fall evening, the sun dipping behind the trees, I lean on the porch railing and face Bo, bracing my hands by my hips in hopes that my open posture will set him at ease.

“I get the feeling this is going to be a very one-sided conversation, but I’m hoping you might be able to lend some weight to a theory I have,” I start off.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I purse my lips, but don’t chide him.

“What were you trying to take the night you were turned into a metal statue?”

Bo’s eyes go wide again, his mouth popping open, but no words emerge.

After a breath, his jaw snaps shut, his neck flexes with a swallow, and he drops his eyes, along with his shoulders.

The whole posture screams of shame.

“Bo, please look at me.”

He drags his gaze upward, and I swear I can see a silent apology.

“Do you want to tell me what happened that night?”

“I …” He clears his throat.

“I do.”

“But you can’t,” I guess.

He doesn’t respond. In a way, that is all I need.

I nod, and I reach for the locket of spell powder around my neck.

I pop it open and rub a small pinch over the palms of my hands.

Bo watches the process with hesitant fascination.

I extend my red-powdered hands to him.

“If you let me touch you, I can get a clear read on your emotions. You won’t need to say anything. Just feel how you feel as I ask my questions.” I keep space between us.

“But I won’t force you. It’s your choice.”

“You can read emotions?”

I nod.

“But I’ve trained to shield myself. So most of the time I’m not. I don’t like to invade people’s privacy.”

How will he react?

I can easily see Bo turning his back on me.

Quitting his job because he doesn’t want to be around someone with a power like mine.

The thought brings a pang of sadness to my chest.

Bo blinks once, then steps forward and sets his hands in mine, wrapping his webbed fingers around my palms.

The trust is an act of bravery, and I remind myself not to abuse it as Bo’s emotional grid flares to life in more vivid detail than I could ever hope to achieve on my own without potion powder and touch.

The twisting rainbow of threads reach toward me, and I fight the urge to shield myself, instead choosing to focus on each of them.

To feel what Bo feels so I don’t misinterpret anything by only relying on color.

Time to ask my questions and see what emotions respond.

I breathe slow and evenly, tempted to smile when I realize Bo’s inhales are matching the pace I set.

“Were you enchanted not to discuss that night?” I ask.

Surprise fills me, flashing lime green.

Relief. Lilac.

“You were,” I respond for him.

Bo smiles hesitantly, along with a turquoise flare of eagerness.

“Were you told to hurt anyone?”

Emerald of shock.

Charcoal gray of disgust, which twists my stomach.

“No on that,” I say, and Bo lets out a deep breath.

“Were you here looking for an item?”

Daffodil yellow of hope.

“A golden apple?”

Gold of triumph.

Burnt orange of guilt.

My guess was correct, but he feels bad about it.

Like he didn’t want to steal the golden apple, but felt as though he needed to.

“Were you sent here by Sev?”

Bo stumbles back a step, dropping my hands and breaking the connection.

But not before a flaring tangle of colors reached me with shadows of the emotions they represented.

Saffron of fury.

Cobalt of devastation.

Ochre of betrayal.

Cream of hopelessness.

And the searing white of fear.

I nod, keeping my composure as I remind myself that bombardment wasn’t mine.

Bo stands stiffly before me.

“I thought that might be the case. He came here for a meeting once, but wouldn’t come in the house. And I’ve heard rumors that he collects things. It would make sense that he sent someone else into danger on his behalf.”

“We … we shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t—” He coughs, eyes watering.

After swallowing multiple times, he manages to say, “I want you to be safe.”

I study Bo, experiencing my own mixture of anger and frustration.

But not with him.

“I’m sorry you’re still bespelled.” I wipe the powder off on my pants so Bo doesn’t have to worry about me still reading him.

“And if he ever tries to make you do something you don’t want to do again, please come to me. You aren’t alone.”

“I’m not fired?” He whispers the words, as if speaking them too loudly might make me change my mind.

“No, Bo. I know what it’s like to be manipulated by someone with stronger magic. I won’t hold it against you.” I step close but keep my hands to myself.

“The apple isn’t here anymore, in case he presses you.”

Then, because I realize Bo probably needs a moment to himself, I give him one more parting comment before heading inside to wash my hands.

“No matter what happened in the past, I’m glad you’re here, Bo. I like having you around.”

In the corner of my eye, I swear I see the black of need.

But I must be mistaken.