Chapter 8
Cursed Do Not Enter
ELLIOT
“You’re late, Elliot!”
Mr. Treehorn shouts from somewhere among the rows of bookshelves at the back of the store, and I cringe as I glance at the old grandfather clock beside the door.
1:31 AM.
The old man is a fucking hawk.
“I know!” I shout back. “Good thing no one is in here,” I mutter to myself.
“You can’t let time slip away from you!” he answers. “It is more important than you think!”
I try not to groan as I drop my things behind the front desk.
Treehorn believes in punctuality, and he likes to pretend there’s a crowd due at any moment. Even on days like today, when the only soul around is the ghost of his old cat, Boots. But rather than argue with him, I tap the sign hanging in the window three times, causing it to change to “CLOSED.”
He won’t notice.
I pick up the stack of books sitting next to the desk and press my hand to the inlaid circle in the wood.
Faerie light flows over me, transporting me to the relevant section.
It delivers me somewhere in aisle 412, right beside the harpy history section where Tree is already standing, mumbling something about sundials.
I join him in reshelving the books and mumble a few ‘mmhmms’ and ‘oh yeahs’ as he talks. But that doesn’t stop him from launching into what I can only believe is a very well-rehearsed lecture. One I’ve heard many times before, and will likely hear again.
“You know, I knew a time weaver when I was your age,” Tree begins, and I stifle a groan. “He was an odd fellow. Prone to speaking backward at times. Or all together out of order. Had trouble keeping it all sorted, I suppose.”
He shrugs, and his short stature makes it look as if he’s bouncing with excitement.
I smile politely as I nod and cross my fingers that he won’t launch into another retelling of his lessons on time. But it seems my luck is running out.
Not that I’m surprised. I’ve been testing the fates lately—hiding bodies, claiming crazy succubi. It’s a miracle I haven’t been drawn and quartered yet. Though the night is young. There’s plenty of time.
Tree hasn’t paused in his lecture as I finish shelving my first stack. I’m halfway down the shelf ladder, and he’s in the middle of telling me about the alchemic age when he suddenly stops.
“Go on,” I say, hoping to get this over with before the sun rises.
“You look different,” Tree says, inspecting me over the rim of his glasses.
Treehorn is a short, round fae-born old bastard who likes to pretend he’s nothing more than a humble bookkeeper. Which, to be fair, he is. But what he never reveals is that he’s also a very gifted watcher. One of the best. And a bit nosy at times.
I clear my throat, feeling like a bug under a microscope.
“My face hasn’t changed,” I say. “Not since I last checked.”
Treehorn’s eyes narrow.
“Yes, it has,” he contradicts.
His dark, weathered skin crinkles as he concentrates.
“I can see it. There. On your face. What is that?”
He points at me, wagging his crooked finger in my direction, but all I can do is shrug.
“I don’t know,” I say. “You’re the watcher, not me.”
He hobbles forward for a closer look.
“What have you been up to, son?” he asks.
What have I been up to?
Gods, let’s see.
In the last week, I’ve covered up a murder, acquired a mouthy, man-eating girlfriend, threatened to maim a few people, sat through the dullest pack meeting in Crescent history, fed my mouthy, man-eating girlfriend, and narrowly avoided having her fall apart at the seams.
Am I forgetting anything?
Oh, yeah, and I’m pretty sure I’m being blackmailed.
That’s what I’ve been up to.
Treehorn looks at me expectantly as I try to figure out how to sum it all up, but all I can come up with is, “Helping a friend.” To which, he hums loudly.
“Hmmm. I see…” He scratches the greying patch of scruff on his chin. “But that’s not possible, now is it?”
“What’s not possib—”
“Oi!”
A deeply accented voice cuts across the store, breaking Tree’s focus.
“Where are you?” it shouts. “You know your sign says—”
“Be right there!” I call back, moving toward the dais at the end of the aisle so it can deliver me back to the front.
When I manifest on the other side, Dred is leaning on the front counter, flipping through a copy of Kelton’s Abbreviated Guide to Nymph Mating Rituals, a rather pained expression on his face.
“Put that down,” I say. “Or I’ll tell Ty.”
Dred’s fangs descend, and his accent grows thicker as he grumbles, “Her name is Tysin. And you wouldn’t dare.”
No, I wouldn’t. I’m not a snitch. But I like fucking with Dred. Especially when it comes to Tysin. I’m not sure if he’s blind or just dumb, but he seems to be under the impression that his obsession with her is not noticeable. Which only makes it funnier each time I mention her name.
“It’s not an obsession,” he snaps, plucking my thoughts right out of my head. “It’s—”
He glances at me, eyes darkening before he ultimately shakes his head.
“Never mind,” he mutters. “You wouldn’t understand.”
I shrug.
He’s right. I probably wouldn’t.
I’ve never felt anything but pain and pleasure my entire life. Whatever tortured emotion he’s grappling with is well beyond my scope of possibilities.
“Well,” I say, snatching the book back from him. “If you ever decide to do something about it, we’ll make sure to save a copy of this for you.”
I tap the hard, leather-bound cover before setting it back on the cart of returns.
“Yeah, yeah.” Dred’s crimson eyes roll. “Can we hurry this up? I don’t want to run into—”
“Ah, young Bloodsoe.”
Tree’s voice comes from just over Dred’s shoulder, and I watch, biting back a laugh, as Dred stiffens and the rare scent of his fear fills the air.
“Hello,” Dred says, voice hollow as he turns. “Mr. Treehorn, good to see you.”
“Yes, but better for me to see you,” Tree proclaims, holding up a finger.
Dred cringes as he tries and fails to put on a friendly smile, all the while glaring at me in a silent plea.
I understand how he feels. Tree’s surveying can be jarring, even worse than Dred’s mind weave. But I have no intention of helping him. This is what he gets for butting into everyone’s heads all the time. If he can’t take it, he has no business dishing it out.
“Interesting,” Tree muses while reading Dred intently. “How unfortunate…”
Dred stays silent as Tree continues his evaluation, and when he’s finished, Tree declares, “I know just the thing!”
He shuffles over to Dred, waving for him to bend down. Dred complies, mostly out of caution, stooping low so Tree can reach his head.
Wordlessly, Tree presses his thumb behind Dred’s right ear, then against his left wrist and right knee. At which point Dred straightens in surprise.
“Better?” Tree asks, grinning up at him.
“Much better,” Dred murmurs, turning his palms over to look at them, a hint of awe on his face. “My magic has been stunted all week. Thank y—”
He catches himself before making a fatal mistake, but I notice the brief flash of excitement in Tree’s eyes before he winks and disappears down the nearest aisle.
“You’re welcome!” he calls back.
Dred is too nervous to reply, worried he might accidentally bind his entire bloodline to a favor for the old fae.
That would be quite the deal for Tree. The Bloodsoes are one of Lilith’s original lines. A favor from any one of them would be priceless. Luckily for Dred, he stays quiet until Tree is out of sight.
“Fates, he’s terrifying,” he says, releasing a breath once he’s out of earshot.
“No, he’s not. You’re just not used to being on display like the rest of us.”
“That’s not fair,” Dred declares. “Don’t put me in the same bucket as him. You can resist my weave if you know how. There’s no defense against watchers. You just have to stand there and take it.”
My arms cross, and I nod, but I’m not really listening.
“Riiiight,” I say.
Dred grumbles.
“Oh, piss off. Do you have what I came for or not?”
I reach behind the desk, hauling out the relatively nondescript black backpack, and toss it to him.
“Three pints. Two O-negative, one alpha.”
Dred unzips the bag, inhaling the coppery scent of freshly drawn blood.
“Oh, that’s good,” he muses, eyes practically rolling back in his head.
“Hey.” I snatch the bag back and zip it shut. “Can’t you read?”
I jerk a thumb over to the sign hanging behind the counter. In bold red ink, it reads, simply, “No freak shit.”
Dred laughs but doesn’t try sniffing the bag again. Instead, he leans against the counter, his urgency now gone after enduring Treehorn’s greeting.
“Everything go as planned?” he asks.
“Almost.”
“What do you mean, almost? My weave was air-tight.”
“I’m sure it was, but the grove wasn’t.”
Dred frowns as I fish my phone out of my pocket and hand it to him.
On the screen is the picture of Iris, Grey, and me, posing pretty in the grass, and Dred’s face twists as he stares at it.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
Glad to know that’s a universal response.
He takes a moment to zoom in on the details, as if he wasn’t the one who helped me move the body, and when he’s satisfied that what he’s seeing is real, he passes the phone back.
“You tell your girl?” he asks, slipping his hands back in his pockets.
My girl. That’s funny.
I shake my head.
Iris is dealing with enough as it is.
“And no idea who it is?” Dred asks.
I’m about to tell him how I’ve spent the last three days scouring the grove for a scent, only to come up empty. But I don’t get the chance before the phone vibrates in my hand and a new message pops up on the screen.
Over my shoulder, Dred reads, then pats me on the back.
“Oh, you’re fucked, mate.”
Unknown
47 Valorath Rd.
One hour.
Come alone.
Yep, definitely being blackmailed.
* * *
I rush through the rest of my re-shelving and make up some lame excuse to leave the store early. Something about pack business and the council. Something Tree won’t question.
He doesn’t argue as he waves me off, but I don’t think he believes me either.