Chapter 14
GRIFFITH
The Divos siblings and I fall into a kind of routine.
When Carl is off duty, he and his sister hang out together, either at the house; or running errands round town; or at The Folk Haven Public Mythic Library, trying to find a fix for the unhealing wound in her side.
When Carl is on duty, Clementine is with me at home or at Local Brew.
Also, her medical appointments.
Mor assures us she’s looking for a solution among her shelves, but the witch keeps coming up empty so far.
So, every three days, Clem has to return to Madeline in order to get her bandage reapplied.
They go into another room for the procedure and close the door, but with my advanced hearing, I pick up on the little gasps of pain Clementine lets out.
The sound has me wanting to rip the door off its hinges and carry her away from the witch.
It’s not Madeline’s fault, I remind myself. She’s helping.
But then Clementine walks out, shaky and pale, and I have to shove my fists into my pockets to keep from punching something.
Instead, I take her to get a bear claw from Coffee & Claws.
The first day we stop by the café, Clementine is surprised to see a bookshop next door.
The place was an abandoned storefront when she left town.
Since the new owner, a siren named Neri, happily lets Shrimp inside, we’ve added book browsing to the post-healing ritual.
Clementine is normally smiling by the end, and I realize belatedly that’s my goal.
To erase the pain lines etched into her face, ease the sour stench of fear from her vanilla-hibiscus scent, and bring a spark of joy back to her eyes.
When did I start caring about her happiness?
It’s only because Carl’s happiness is directly related, I tell myself. That must be the reason.
After the bookstore, we head to the bar—where I work, and she works, and I make some gods-damned complicated cocktail that I normally wouldn’t care about whipping up for anyone else, but for some reason, the fact that Clementine keeps ordering them irks me.
By the sixth day, when she requests a pomegranate mojito, I can’t handle it anymore.
“What do you have against beer?” I wave at the chalkboard, listing more than twenty options, all on tap, a portion that I’ve brewed myself.
“Nothing.” Clementine doesn’t bother to look at me when she answers, busy on her computer.
A few times, I’ve glimpsed her screen and seen her arranging graphics and typing out text on what looks like the back end of a website.
“So, why are you ordering these fancy cocktails every day?” That question comes out in more of a growl than I meant it to.
“Because I contain multitudes.” Clementine stops typing and focuses her full attention on me, which makes my skin hot for some reason.
“When I’m working, I like to treat myself to a pretty drink.
Makes me feel like I’m on Sex and the City.
” She should not be allowed to say the word sex.
“Besides, you want more than just beer drinkers in here, right?” She gestures toward the wall of liquor behind me as proof.
“This is good practice for you. Hone your skills with a forgiving audience.” The taunting curl of her lip threatens my blood pressure.
“You’re my booze coach now?” I straighten and cross my arms. “You assume I need practice?”
“You don’t?”
“No. In fact, I have that.” I point to a framed certificate just above our 100.00 health rating. The framed document clearly shows off my Advanced Bartender Certification.
Clementine lets out a low whistle that has Shrimp’s head perking up. “Well, look at that. I didn’t know I was dealing with an expert.”
I can feel the smugness in my smirk, but I can’t help the pride. It was a hard fucking course.
“Guess I’ve been taking it easy on you.” Clementine braces her elbows on the counter, a challenging glint in her stare. “Make me something really fancy then. Blow my mind with your skills.”
I turn away, pretending to stare at the selection of liquor I have behind the bar. But really, I’m trying to keep from revealing the effect those words had on my body.
So many skills I could use to blow her mind, and none are related to mixed drinks.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I run a rough hand over my face, as if it’d clear these off-limit thoughts from my mind.
I cannot be getting hot for Clementine Divos. My best friend’s little sister. The woman I want to leave this town forever.
Been too long since I went on a date. That must be the problem.
Because I need the distraction—and not because I want to impress her—I start on one of the most complicated drinks I’ve ever fashioned. I’ve only made it once before, as part of the test for my mixology course.
I carefully measure each of the ingredients into the shaker, then begin the first round of mixing, keeping an eye on the clock to make sure I stick to five minutes exactly. Under shake, and it won’t reach the perfect foamy consistency. Over shake, and the drink turns to shit.
Next ice, then more shaking.
Luckily, my arms don’t get tired like a human’s would. Plus, I’m fueled by Clementine’s growing astonishment.
Finally, I pour, satisfaction rushing through me as the cocktail comes out exactly how I planned.
Delicious, creamy yellow color with a perfect whipped head, smelling both citrusy and sweet. I garnish it with a slice of lemon and nudge it across the bar.
“There. Fancy enough for you, Ms. New York Wannabe?”
Clementine’s eyes are comically wide, and I realize she thought I was bluffing about my mixology skills. “What is this?”
“Try it. Then I’ll tell you.”
“Ah. So, poison then?” Despite her words, Clementine picks up my concoction and takes a sip.
She lets out an erotic groan of satisfaction.
Fuck. Distraction backfired.
“Oh my gods.” She moans the words, and I wonder if anyone will notice if I duck outside and go take a dip in the chilly lake. “This is the best cocktail I’ve ever had.” She takes another long sip.
“Careful,” I grumble. “It’s strong.”
Clementine licks a stray drop off her bottom lip, and I step closer to the bar, if only to have it block from my waist down.
“I need you to make one of these for me every day.” She pounds a fist on the bar, as if making a proclamation. “This …” She quirks a brow in silent prompting.
“Ramos Gin Fizz,” I supply.
“This Ramos Gin Fizz is my official usual.”
I’ve created a menace, and it was my own doing. Mentally, I make a note to myself to put in an order for more orange flower water and heavy cream. Plenty of my patrons order specialty drinks, but never anything as elaborate as what I just made Clementine. I only have limited supplies just in case.
Why order so much when she’s going to be heading out as soon as the coast is clear?
A week ago, I would have welcomed the thought.
Now … I don’t know. Spending these days together, cohabitating and weaving our routines—it’s been sort of pleasant.
I find I like having someone else to consider when making my plans for the day.
And when we’re not bickering, the conversations we have fall more on the amusing banter end of the communication spectrum.
“What are you working on?” My voice is always grittier when I speak to her, like I’m on the edge of a temper. More likely, I’m preemptively trying to protect myself from these unfamiliar feelings cropping up whenever we’re near.
Clementine takes another savoring, eyes-closed sip, and then she turns her laptop so I can see the screen.
The background is a breathtaking image of the Great Smoky Mountains with intricate script in the sky, displaying what I assume is the name of a band.
There’s a list of tour dates, with buttons encouraging you to click for tickets.
On the side of the screen, I spy a toolbar and realize that Clementine is currently building this site.
“You follow them on tour too?” I try the joke as my eyes stay glued to the screen.
“Not anymore.” She reclaims her laptop, and I try not to let on how I was still reading.
“My band-chasing days are over. I mean, I’ll road-trip to see one of my favorites if they aren’t visiting the city I’m in.
But I got tired of living out of a bag. Plus, it’s not fair to Shrimp to keep him cooped up in a car all day. He needs to roam.”
The dog in question lost interest in our conversation and has returned to napping deeply on the ground, seeming uninterested in moving an inch from his current position. Doesn’t give me roaming vibes, but I don’t argue with her.
“You settled then? In Nashville?” That’s where she encountered the hunter.
Clementine wobbles her head in a noncommittal gesture. “I’m renting an apartment. Been there for close to a year. But I’m not sure it’s my forever place.”
I don’t know why a tension in my chest eases at knowing she isn’t longing to return to Nashville. Maybe it’s just because I see that city—where she met Luke, the hunter—as dangerous now.
“Well, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need.”
She quirks a brow. “In your house? You mean you’re not itching to get rid of me? Developing a rash at the mere thought of me in your space?”
Wanting to see how she’ll react, I tug up the bottom of my shirt, showing off a six-pack that I refuse to admit is largely due to my werewolf genes. “Been over a week, and no rash as far as I can see.”
When I glance at Clementine, her eyes are sweeping over my torso, her cheeks turning pink.
I think she likes the view.
But before I can press her, another voice distracts me.
“When did we decide to turn this place into a strip joint? I must’ve missed that investors meeting.”
I drop my shirt, face on fire, as a familiar woman settles on a barstool next to Clementine.
Violetta Radeva doesn’t leave her home often, preferring to stay in her secluded bungalow, deep in the woods of Folk Haven. As fond as I am of the sea witch, probably safer for everyone that way.
“Don’t you feel lucky?” Violetta faces my temporary roommate, the movement causing her long brown braid to slip over her shoulder.
The witch is dressed in a loose peasant top, paired with overalls, the outfit and her big blue eyes making her appear younger than the grandmother she is ever since her son, Levi, had his baby.
“Drinks and a show. Did you tip him extra for that bit of flash?”
Clementine grins in delight. “Nope. He’s giving up the goods for free.”
“Bah. Bad business.” Violetta reaches over the bar and steals the container of olives. “I’m Violetta, by the way. Co-owner of this fine establishment.”
Clementine blinks in astonishment at the reveal, and I’m kind of surprised as well.
Of course I know Violetta owns the place with me.
But she tends to keep her involvement in the business out of the public eye.
Something about scaring off potential customers.
Violetta is a powerful witch with a garden of poisonous plants in her backyard and a reputation around town of cursing people when she’s in a bad mood.
Not the investor I want to piss off.
“This is Clementine Divos.” I stand straight, attempting to regain some sense of professionalism. “Carl’s sister. She’s staying with me for a while.”
“Ah. Attempting to woo your friend’s younger sister.” Violetta pops an olive into her mouth and chews delicately. “I never knew you were so messy, Fangworn. How delightful.”
“Not wooing. We’re just …” Shit, what are we?
“I require wine,” Violetta says before I can come up with a descriptor. “Clementine. You must be the poisoned one. Tell me”—the witch leans closer, gaze searching—“what does it feel like?”
Clementine frowns. “Who told you I was poisoned?”
“The librarian. Morgana Shelly. She came to consult with me.” Another olive disappears into her mouth. “Asked an expert.”
“You poison a lot of people?”
“Define a lot.”
I tap the bar to capture Violetta’s attention. “Are you here because you were able to help Mor? Do you all have an answer?” I manage to keep my voice steady, knowing that if she understands how badly I want an answer, she’ll draw her response out even longer. Maybe not answer at all.
Not for the first time, I wonder if accepting Violetta’s money in order to afford this place was a bad idea.
I was shocked when she offered. When I asked why, she said that Kev—the former owner—was a mangy lap dog and she wanted to take something he loved and twist it.
That wasn’t the best pitch, but then she clarified that her investment meant the name needed to change, and there would be no restriction on who could enter, and there would be a food menu. With soup.
So, I agreed, and we’ve had a tense yet successful partnership ever since.
But that doesn’t mean she can play with me or the people I care about.
“Let me see the wound.” Violetta snaps her fingers regally—and she’s the type of person no one says no to.
What’s most surprising is that Clementine, normally the one to rail against authority, blinks once, then lifts up her shirt, almost in a mimicry of my earlier move.
Without further invite, Violetta presses her palm flat over the witch Band-Aid, and I watch Clem bite back a wince. I knew it was still paining her despite what she claimed.
“Vi—” I start.
“Shut it.” The witch keeps one hand on Clementine and chucks an olive at my forehead with the other.
The air around us appears to shudder, and Clementine can’t completely stifle a gasp of pain.
“Stop it, Violetta.” I growl the demand.
She drops her touch, but I’m not sure if it was my command or if she was simply finished with whatever magic she was working.
“There’s not a drop of poison in you.” Violetta pouts. “Pity.”
“That’s a bad thing?” Clementine’s voice stutters, and she smells like sweat.
The witch takes a deep sip of her drink, pursing red-stained lips. “If it were poison, I could have made you an antidote.” She smirks. “For an exorbitant price.”
Clementine frowns at the bar top, her arm dropping down so she can bury her fingers in Shrimp’s scruff. The dog stood up at some point and now leans his big body against his person’s leg, as if he’s trying to soothe her.
Violetta pinches a menu and slides it toward herself, unconcerned with the discord she’s sown with the truth she shared. “We need more soups on this menu.”
“We’ve already got two.” Both at Violetta’s demand.
“And we need more.”
“If it’s not poison, then why won’t it heal?” Clementine asks, ignoring our bickering.
Violetta grins wide. “A mystery.”