Chapter 17
WAVERLY
Iwoke up wearing yesterday’s clothes, one shoe, and the sinking feeling that I’d done something big and quite possibly embarrassing. Which might explain why my cardigan was inside out.
For several seconds, I stared at the dark wall of my room at the Tidal Inn and tried to assemble the previous evening.
Hex & Hearth—I remember going there. The stunning Elara, I absolutely remember, and her beautiful drink.
And Aldric looking way too good to be legal.
After that, nothing. A giant void, completely blank.
How much did I drink?
I sat up too fast and immediately regretted every decision I’d made since lunch yesterday. Flopping back down, I rolled to my side.
“Shit.” My voice sounded like I’d gargled with salt water and washed it down with a generous helping of regret.
I looked at my nightstand.
“Gerald,” I whispered, “at least I didn’t lose you.”
A knock sounded at the door.
I froze.
Another knock.
“Waverly? Are you awake?”
Aldric. Of course it was Aldric. Because humiliation never sent a stranger. It sent the devastatingly attractive man who had probably watched me do whatever had resulted in my current state.
Oh God, what if I was sick in front of him?
“One second,” I called.
Then I looked down at myself.
No. Absolutely not.
I rushed to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and brushed my teeth with the frantic energy of a woman fleeing consequences.
I brushed my hair, shocking myself that I still had some left on my head when I finished.
Kicking off my remaining shoe was the only fix to the clothing situation I could manage without making him wait too long, so I simply made eye contact with myself in the mirror.
“Be normal.”
The woman in the mirror looked skeptical.
I opened the door and blinked.
Why does the morning sun have to be so bright?
Aldric stood in the hall holding two coffees and a small paper bag. He wore a dark coat over a burgundy sweater, because apparently some men woke up looking like autumn catalog models, while others of us woke up with emotional fog and a missing shoe.
“Good morning,” he said, which came across as suspiciously calm.
“Good morning.” His eyes moved over me—not in a rude way, just in a noticing way.
I crossed my arms. “I know, I slept in my clothes.”
“I know you did. I’m the one who put you to bed.”
I closed my eyes. “I don’t know why, but that somehow makes this worse.”
He walked past me into the still-dark room, set the coffees and the bag on the table, and tugged the curtain open, flooding the room with bright, cheery sunlight.
Shielding my eyes, I said, “You suck.”
“Here.” He handed me a coffee. “I brought peace offerings.”
I took it immediately. “Thank you. But you still suck.”
His mouth twitched in the form of a smile. He sat down at the table and opened the bag. “Scones. Cranberry orange.”
“Wonderful. We are rebuilding civilization.”
I plopped down in the other chair and took a sip of coffee, closing my eyes as I savored the hot liquid.
“Oh, thank the bean gods.”
Aldric waited until I had taken another sip before he said, “I got yours with extra espresso. How are you feeling?”
“Like I had a drink at a magical tavern mixed by tiny criminals.”
Aldric stared at me with a shocked expression.
I pointed at him. “If you stay like that, your face will freeze.”
He gave his head a small shake. “What do you remember about last night?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Elara was right.
“Not a damn thing. I remember walking in. I remember Elara being gorgeous.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. Which is kind of alarming.”
“You were very tired by the time I brought you back.”
“Oh.” I looked down at myself and held out my shirt. “That explains this.”
“You were nearly asleep by the time we reached the inn. I made certain you were safely inside and in bed.”
“That’s very kind of you.” I hesitated. “Did I do anything horrible?”
“No.”
The answer came too fast.
“Aldric.”
“You were honest.”
“That’s horrible.”
“You were fine.” He opened the paper bag and slid a scone toward me. “You may want to eat before we continue today.”
“Is that a polite way of saying I need strength to survive my own shame?”
“No. There’s nothing to be ashamed of—you didn’t do anything.”
“How much did I drink?” I tried hard to remember.
“Two. But to be fair, they were very strong. Elara said they had multiple liqueurs. She prides herself on an incredibly strong drink.”
I nodded and ate half the scone in three bites.
Aldric watched with an expression that looked dangerously close to fondness. He slid another scone my way.
“How long shall I give you before you’re ready?”
I answered with a mouth full of scone. “Is a year too long?”
“Yes. How about forty-five minutes?”
“Party pooper.”
“I’ll meet you downstairs.” Aldric let himself out of the room.
By the time I’d showered, changed, and rejoined him downstairs, I felt almost human again.
Driftwood Pointe looked washed clean by the morning light. The sky was a soft gray-blue, clouds gathering far out over the water. The air smelled like salt, damp leaves, and chimney smoke.
“What would you like to do today?” Aldric asked.
“I read in one of the brochures that there’s a museum. Could we go there?”
“Yes, it’s right by my office.” He took a step, then stopped. “Do you want to take the short, direct way or the meandering-through-town way?”
“Meandering. I could use the fresh air.”
He didn’t say anything, just smiled.
Smart man.
We left the inn and headed through what Aldric called the Fisherman’s Quarter, which included a former shipyard, then past the auto repair shop.
“Note,” I said, pulling Gerald from my pocket. “A town with history blended with modern amenities.”
We crossed the road. “Let’s take the bridge,” I said, pointing to the stone bridge ahead.
We stood on it for a few minutes, watching the water rush quickly past below.
“Aldric?”
He glanced at me. “Yes?”
“Tell me the truth—did I make a fool of myself last night?”
“You didn’t. Not at all.” He placed his hand over mine. “I promise.”
I gave him a small smile and hooked my arm through his as we descended off the bridge.
We continued past the bowling alley and the high school.
I paused to take a few photos of the fire station.
Strolling past the elementary school, we arrived at what the sign declared to be Driftwood Pointe Historical Museum.
“Well,” I said, “that name feels on brand.”
Inside, the museum smelled like wood polish, dust, and the faintly sour scent of old paper.
I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in.
Glass cases lined the walls. Ship models.
Fishing tools. Old photographs. A wedding dress yellowed with age.
A display of early apothecary bottles that made me glance toward Aldric.
A woman with a high, tight bun and thin wire glasses appeared from a back room, wearing a navy blazer, sensible shoes, and the expression of someone who had a personal vendetta with humidity and salt air where historical documents were concerned.
“Mr. Wrest,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you.” Her thin lips turned upward into what I thought was either a smile or a grimace. One of the two.
“Good morning, Beatrice.”
Her eyes slid to me.
“This is Waverly Anderson,” Aldric said. “She’s an author visiting for research.”
“An author?” Beatrice said in the tone of a woman who considered authors only slightly less dangerous than school field trips. “An author of what?”
“Books,” I smiled, and when she didn’t react, I added, “paranormal and horror.”
Beatrice’s eyebrows disappeared into her tight hairline.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “I promise not to lick anything.”
Aldric made a sound that was clearly a cough hiding a laugh.
“We have strict rules,” Beatrice said. “I expect everyone to follow them.” She turned to the counter behind her.
“Understood. Thank you.” I side-eyed Aldric, who winked at me, very nearly causing me to giggle.
Beatrice returned, handing me a white piece of paper with the word RULES printed in bold font across the top. “No loud voices. No touching exhibits. No leaning on cases. No flash photography. No food or beverages. No opening drawers without permission. No moving ropes.”
“Geez, that’s a specific list.”
“It must be—history is a serious thing. Are you wanting a tour?”
“I think so,” Aldric answered, nodding.
“Tours are ten dollars per adult. For credit card users, it’s eleven eighty-five—the museum doesn’t absorb the processing fee.” She held out her hand.
Aldric paid with cash and Beatrice slid around the counter.
“Welcome to the Driftwood Pointe Historical Society Museum. Follow me, please.” She launched into what was clearly a very rehearsed, very monotone presentation. “Here we have—”
She began explaining the first display. And I tried to listen. I really did. But my attention drifted from Beatrice to the back of the museum, where a narrow doorway led into a smaller room.
We continued on to another display. After thirty minutes of Beatrice’s droning, I began scanning the room for a chair or sofa I could quietly nap on.
She led us into a small back room, dimmer than the rest of the museum.
One window in the middle of the left wall.
Three large glass cases lined the other walls.
An incredible model of an old ship sat proudly in the center of the room, protected by a rope from curious visitors and small children.
While Beatrice recited her information about the ship, I drifted toward the cases. In the third one, an object caught my attention. Stepping closer, I bent and gazed.
A talisman. Round, with curling lines carved into the surface. Silver, though tarnished dark at the edges. A stone at the center looked black until I leaned in—then it flashed a deep, vivid blue.
My breath caught as a voice boomed through my head. YOUR TRUTH IS HERE. CLAIM US! Everything narrowed to a single point. The room, Beatrice’s droning, Aldric—all of it fell away. Nothing existed but the talisman and the pull of it against my chest like a second heartbeat.
“There you are,” I whispered, with words that didn’t feel like mine, although they came from me. CLAIM US!
“Touch me,” I said, pointing.
“Waverly?”
“Waverly!”