Chapter 11
Were-Psychology
IRIS
I don’t ask many questions as Elliot drags me around. I’m too busy trying to wipe away the burning urge to hit something. That something being him.
A part of me still thinks he might be lying. He’s a man after all, and a shameless slut on top of that. He practically has the word “cheater” stamped on his forehead.
Then again, does it even count as cheating if we’re not really together?
I don’t know.
And somewhere between Crescent House and Elliot sliding the bike into a narrow parking space downtown, I decide I don’t care.
“Where are we?” I ask as he unbuckles my helmet.
Mr. Safety insists I wear one. Although I don’t think I’ve ever seen one on his head.
“Does it matter?” he asks. “Just hurry up before you make me late.”
“Late for what?” I snap.
He doesn’t answer me as he grabs my bag from my shoulder. Without it, I have no excuse to burden my pace, and he grips me by the hand, pulling me along down the deserted sidewalk.
I’m not surprised to find the street empty. Anyone with business outside at this hour is probably in the 3rd Quarter, standing in line for Beta or Ms. Divine’s, not this sleepy stretch of road full of little shops and tiny tea houses.
After a few yards, Elliot stops beneath an old shop sign hanging from the black and white striped awning. It reads “Treehorn’s” in a sweeping, gold script, and beneath it the words “texts and fine editions” in bold white print.
“A bookstore?” I muse. “You’re dragging me across the earth to go to a bookstore?”
He turns to me, face taut.
“Don’t touch anything without asking, and do not leave my side. Understand?” He reaches for the door, then pauses. “Oh, and don’t tell him your name.”
“Tell who—”
The door swings open, and he ushers me inside before I can get the words out. But I forget my question as the little bell chimes overhead and a gruff voice booms.
“Cross!” it shouts. “You’re late!”
“No, I am not!” Elliot calls back.
He hurries over to the giant grandfather clock stationed by the entryway, and I watch as he opens the front case, turns the clock hand back, and waits a moment for it to ring.
The noise is nearly deafening. Louder than the bell tower could ever be, and I clamp my hands over my ears as Elliot yells back, “See!”
“Oh, my apologies! I must have lost track of the time!”
The voice comes back faint, as if it’s suddenly miles away, which is odd because from here, the store looks to be no larger than a few hundred square feet. Maybe less.
“Listen! Treehorn, I brought someone to—”
“What?” the voice shouts back.
“I brought—”
“What?”
It shouts again, and Elliot rolls his eyes.
“Ancient old goat,” he mutters, leaning over the front desk and rifling through the stacks of paper piled on top.
When he finds what he’s looking for, he scribbles something then lights it aflame using the ivory pillar candle sat along the edge.
It burns up quickly, and Elliot crosses his arms while he waits.
A second later, a short, bearded man manifests before us, popping into sight, paper in hand.
“What are you calling me up here for?” the man asks. “You know I’ve got—”
The old man stops, frowning at me.
“Ohhh. Why didn’t you tell me you brought someone with you?”
In my periphery, Elliot shakes his head, sighing, but my attention is fixed on Treehorn.
He appears to be a fae-born creature of some kind. I can see the faint fae-mark on his forehead, a little leaf-shaped birthmark, square in the center. Now Elliot’s directions make sense.
“Hello,” Mr. Treehorn says.
“Hi,” I answer, deciding it best to be brief.
Treehorn adjusts his glasses.
“What might you be?” he asks.
I ignore the odd turn of phrase and answer his question as I assume it was meant to be asked.
“I’m Elliot’s girlfriend,” I say, smiling as best I can.
But apparently it isn’t working, because Treehorn frowns, his face twisting in confusion.
“No, you’re not,” he says.
“Tree,” Elliot warns. “You’re staring.”
Treehorn jumps, seemingly startled by Elliot’s voice.
“Am I?”
His round face pinches as he continues to look at me, and I wonder what kind of creature he is.
There’s nothing telling just from looking at him. His height is more in line with the gnomes, but he has a dark complexion, speckled with moles and a few freckles, more common among the brownies. But whatever he is, he is old.
His not-so-subtle inspection and foggy eyes give him a rather sage appearance. One you can only acquire with age.
“Yes,” Elliot answers. “You are.”
Treehorn blinks but does not stop, not until Elliot steps in front of me.
“It’s rude,” he reminds the old shopkeep.
“Ah, quite right.” Treehorn nods. “My apologies, Elliot’s girlfriend.”
“Apology accepted.”
Treehorn smiles, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his blazer and glancing back and forth between Elliot and me.
“Well,” he declares after a few moments of silence. “I suppose I’ll take my leave. No sense in both of us wandering through the shelves at this hour.”
Elliot nods, chuckling beneath his breath as Treehorn winks at him.
“Sure, Tree. I’ll lock up.”
Mr. Treehorn reaches for the leather jacket on the coat rack by the door, and Elliot kindly helps him into it before handing him the tattered hat hanging from the top hook.
Treehorn takes his time braving himself for the cool night air, but when he’s finished, he gestures for Elliot to stoop down and cups his mouth to his ear.
“She’s got a bite,” Treehorn says, much louder than I think he intends to. “Like you. That must be fun.”
Elliot shakes his head, tail wagging as he pats the old man on the shoulder.
“It is,” he whispers. “Have a nice night, Tree.”
“Goodnight, young Cross.” He pats Elliot back, then waves a hand absentmindedly. “Goodnight, Elliot’s girlfriend.”
“Goodnight,” I call back. Though I don’t think he’s listening as the door opens and he steps out into the night, muttering to himself.
As soon as the door shuts and the chime stops, I turn on Elliot.
“You work here?” I ask, biting back a splitting grin.
“Work would imply that I get paid,” he says dryly. “This is more of a hostage situation.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he still gets mad if I’m late.”
I roll my eyes at his cryptic answer and decide I don’t care enough to ask again. Instead, I stand beside the front desk, surveying the store, as he locks the door and changes the sign in the window from ‘OPEN’ to ‘CLOSED.’
It’s cozy in here, like a bookstore should be—warm woods, soft lighting, and the smell of old printed paper. There’s a song playing over a speaker somewhere toward the back, a smooth, jazzy tune with a lilting trumpet and slow piano.
No wonder he hates the library. It’s a hovel compared to this.
“I just have a few carts to reshelve,” Elliot says, sorting through a stack of stray books. “You can come with me if you want. It’s not as tight as the archive, but if you’d rather wait here, we can talk when I’m done.”
My eyes roll at his mention of the archive.
“I’m—”
“Fine…” he interrupts. “We know.”
For a second, he looks exhausted as he sighs and pries at the leather choker.
I don’t understand why he keeps wearing that ugly thing. It doesn’t seem like he likes it very much.
He recovers, rolling his shoulders back and straightening to his full height.
“Are you coming or not?” he asks.
I shrug.
“Sounds better than just sitting here.”
“Great, grab a stack.”
“A stack? I don’t think I—”
“Nope. Too late,” he says. “You already said yes. Here.”
He places a pile of books in my hands rather than waiting for me to collect my own, and I know he’s enjoying this a little too much when he laughs as I groan.
“I’m serious about sticking close,” he adds. “You’ll get lost if you aren’t careful.”
I frown, peering around once more.
From here, I can see all eight rows of shelving. They’re spaced fairly wide, but I can clearly see them all.
“How could I get lost in here? The place is like twenty feet across.”
Elliot chuckles, gripping me by the arm and setting me directly in front of him so I can see clear down the center aisle.
“Holy, shit,” I mutter.
The row stretches clear back for at least five hundred feet, probably more, but I can’t really tell. My eyes cannot see that far.
“It’s a pretty heavy extension charm,” Elliot explains. “So, just follow me, alright.”
I nod, mouth open, still staring.
I expect him to set off down one of the aisles, but instead, he returns to the front desk and waves me over. I go willingly, and come to regret my decision as he ropes an arm around my waist and pins me to his chest.
“Is this really necessary?” I ask.
“About as necessary as all your questions.” I curse him silently, but he only grips me tighter. “Hold your breath until we get to the other end.”
He gives me a fraction of a second to comply before laying his hand on top of a circle etched into the old wooden desk. The movement calls up a bright golden light, and it inks out over his fingers, traveling up his arm like ribbons before crawling across his body.
I suck in a quick breath as it starts to consume me, too, only exhaling when the light recedes to reveal that we’ve been transported from the front desk to somewhere deep in the recesses of the “little” bookshop.
We’re now standing in front of a section with the label “Were-Psychology,” and Elliot raises his hand to his mouth to let out a loud whistle.
The sound echoes eternally through the seemingly infinite shelves, and a moment later, a rolling ladder comes sliding down the aisle. I flinch when it skids to a stop just a few inches in front of Elliot’s face, but he only chuckles.
“I dare you,” he says, speaking to the ladder.
It answers, wheels squeaking and creaking in response, but whatever it says, I cannot understand.
“You going up? Or should I?” Elliot asks, this time, speaking to me.
I shake my head.
“All you.”
“Alright. Just hand ‘em to me as I go,” he says, climbing up the rungs.