Chapter 14
I'm Calling Your Mother
IRIS
“Gods damnit, where is it?”
I whisper the words to myself as I continue to tear apart the sofa, running my hands through the cracks.
This is the last place it could be. I’ve already destroyed my room and half the house. I even checked my usual spot at the library this morning. I’ve actually already checked the couch twice. But at this point, I’m desperate.
I reach in between the seats, and when I find nothing, I rip the cushions off completely. But all I scrounge up is some lint, a few more pieces of braiding hair, and a lip gloss Kitty has been looking for.
“Ugh!”
I chuck the lip gloss across the room and collapse on the cushionless couch.
I can’t find my copy of Manhurst anywhere, and after last night, I need it.
The ending always makes me feel better.
I grab my phone, prepared to ask Elliot to sniff around Crescent House, but my fingers hover over his name before navigating to Kitty’s instead.
Her nose is better anyway, or at least, that’s what I tell myself as I hit send.
I’m still slumped forward on the couch, phone in hand, muttering to myself, when the front door swings open.
“Hey,” Elsie mutters, as if I’ve seen her just yesterday.
I blink to be sure I’m not hallucinating, then nearly jump out of my seat when I realize she’s actually here.
“Um. Hi!” I say.
She pauses, frowning at me, eyes scanning the tattered state of our living room, and asks, “What’s wrong with you?”
“Huh? Oh, nothing. I can’t find my copy of Manhurst,” I say. “I think I’m going through withdrawals.”
“Hmm,” she hums knowingly before making a beeline for the fridge and snatching it open.
Though she quickly realizes it’s practically barren, and swiftly shuts it.
“You hungry?” I ask. “We could go grab—”
“Can’t,” she interjects, diverting her course for her bedroom. “I’m just here to change really quick.”
“Change?”
I follow her, propping myself up in her doorway to watch as she digs through the pile of clothes on the floor.
It’s unusually messy in here, like her closet blew up.
Stray shoes and blouses are strewn about so haphazardly that I can’t even see the floor.
It’s unlike her to leave a mess for longer than five minutes, let alone three weeks.
Now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve heard any music seeping out from her door recently.
As I watch her rushing around the room, making more mess for herself, I realize Elsie’s missing in more ways than one.
“Where have you been?” I ask.
She doesn’t look up from her scavenging, only mumbles some bullshit answer into the floor.
“Library…”
“And what about the other five days?” I say.
“What do you mean?” she asks, yanking her top over her head as she ducks into the bathroom to turn the shower on.
“You know what I mean. I haven’t seen you all week, Els. You missed class last night.”
From the bathroom, I hear a quiet, “shit,” muffled by the sound of running water.
“Have you even checked your phone?” I ask. “I texted you.” And I’m sure Tara did too.
“Uh…I’ve been kind of busy,” she mutters, sliding the shower curtain back. “Why? What’s up?”
I follow her into the bathroom and perch on the counter as I sift through my phone.
It doesn’t take long to find what I’m looking for. It’s still the last text I received.
I hold the phone out, pushing my hand into the shower just enough for Elsie to see, but not enough to risk it getting wet. There’s a startled gasp from the other side, and a moment later, the curtain slides back, revealing Elsie’s shocked face.
“Oh my gods!” she shouts. “Did you fucking kill him? I’ll kill him!”
“No,” I say lamely. “It’s…not him.”
I go with Elliot’s shitty lie, and Elsie’s brows lift in disbelief.
“Bitch,” she snaps, fisting the light pink shower curtain. “What do you mean it’s not him? I’m looking right at him.”
I told him this was stupid.
I snatch my phone back, unable to keep from laughing.
“Trust me. It’s not.”
Elsie’s lip curls, and she passes me a wary look before she ducks back into the shower.
I wait patiently for the few minutes it takes her to emerge, and when she shuffles out in her towel and fluffy red slippers, I claim a seat beside the pile of discarded skirts on her bed.
“Where are you going?” I ask as she fusses with her outfit.
She’s selected a tight, white crop top that she’s cut a V into the collar of, more room for the girls to breathe, she likes to say. The color makes her dark skin look richer as she pairs it with a simple red skirt that stops just beneath her butt. She picks out a pair of heels before answering me.
“Potions lab,” she says dryly, and my eyes roll so far back in my head I think I scratch my corneas.
“Bullshit.”
She eyes me in the mirror of her vanity as she settles to slap on a bit of lip gloss and mascara.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I said bullshit. I haven’t seen you. Kitty hasn’t seen you. You’re missing classes. And don’t tell me you’ve been in the library. You haven’t been to the library in weeks. I would know, because I’ve been in the library. So just tell me what’s going on.”
She sucks in a deep breath.
“Iris, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can! And you must!” I snap. “Or…I’m calling your mother.”
Elsie blanches, opal eyes wide as she twists in her seat to face me head-on.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
My arms cross.
“Try me.”
Her shoulders sag as she huffs, and the sweet look on her face melts as her eyes find the floor.
“Is it the Order?” I prompt when she doesn’t look up for a few minutes. “Are they bothering you again? Because if they are, you need to tell your mom. They can’t—”
“No,” she sighs. “It’s not the order. I’m just…I’m…”
She pauses, head craning toward the ceiling as she tries to find the words.
“I’m seeing someone,” she finishes, eyes shut, face pinched as if this is the worst possible outcome.
“What? Since when?”
She cringes and shrugs before folding her legs under her butt and whispering, “Fright Night…”
“Oh, my gods! I knew it! You little liar!”
She winces, but there’s a smile on her face now, shy but genuine.
“Who is it?” I ask.
Her brows tip together, and her shoulders slowly lift up towards her ears as she squeaks out a name.
“Owen,” she says.
“Owen Owen? Big Owen?”
She nods.
“You’re joking,” I say.
“Why would I be joking?”
“Um, I don’t know. Maybe because you once told me you could never deal with his feet obsession long-term.”
“Oh.” She bites her lip. “I did say that, didn’t I? Well, it’s not that bad. You kinda get used to it.”
She shrugs, returning to her vanity, and my face screws up while she’s not looking.
“You really expect me to believe you’re dating Owen?” I ask.
“It’s not so unbelievable,” she sasses. “Definitely more believable than you being in love with Elliot Cross.”
Her head cocks, and my mouth drops open as she eyes me over her shoulder in the mirror, a small smirk playing on her plump lips.
“You know what,” she says. “Actually, this is perfect. Why don’t we all go out tomorrow? We can go to a tea house or something. That’d be fun.”
She’s smiling at me a little too hard, but I’m more than capable of faking it with Elliot for a few hours.
“Sounds great,” I say.
“Great!”
Still grinning, Elsie pushes back from the vanity and stalks out of the room, presumably on her way to meet Owen.
My phone rings as the door slams shut behind her.
Kitty
I don’t see it.
“Ughhh!”
There’s one more place I haven’t looked.
* * *
“Hello?” I call out from the doorway.
“One moment!”
Treehorn’s voice booms so loudly I half expect thunder and lightning to manifest as he materializes in front of me.
“Oh,” he says, fussing with his glasses and perhaps a little disappointed to see me. “Elliot’s girlfriend. Hello.”
“Hi,” I repeat, waiting for him to say something more, but he only goes on staring.
I decide not to correct him this time. His gaze isn’t so malicious, and there’s nothing more invasive than a hundred people gawking at you every night and day for four years straight. By comparison, Treehorn’s watchful eyes are a polite greeting.
I can feel his magic weeding through me as I stand there, and when he reaches out a hand, I take it, feeling the spark of his magic between my fingers.
“Interesting…” Treehorn mutters.
He holds onto me for a few seconds longer before releasing me.
“Young Cross is not here,” he says, turning to leave.
“Oh, wait. I’m not looking for Elliot. I’m looking for a book!” I blurt, worried he might disappear into the labyrinth of shelves where I’ll never find him.
“A book, you say?” Treehorn turns, peering at me over the top of his glasses. “What kind of book?”
“My book,” I explain.
He frowns, straightening his blazer over his round stomach.
“Well, none of these books are yours, my dear. They are mine.”
“No, I mean, I think I left my book here. Last night. My copy of Manhurst.”
“My Copy of Manhurst? I have not heard of such a book.”
Ugh. I forget how literal the fae-born can be.
“No,” I correct. “It’s called Manhurst. Just Manhurst. And I think I left it here.”
“Ahhhh, Manhurst. Yes, excellent choice.” He closes his eyes and scratches his chin. “No, not here.”
“Well, would you mind if I checked?”
“I just did.” He taps his temple. “No copy of Manhurst here, sorry, my dear.”
Treehorn grins, confident in his “search,” and I sigh.
I could go looking for it. But I wouldn’t know where to start, and I wasn’t paying much attention as Elliot dragged me through the shelves last night.
“Alright,” I say, turning toward the door.
But Treehorn’s still smiling excitedly, and he grabs me by the sleeve before I can take a step.
“But,” he says, bushy, greying brows lifting into his thinning hairline. “If it’s a book you’re after. I know just what you need.”
“Oh, that’s okay, I—”
Before I can decline again, Treehorn’s hand wraps around mine, and we’re winking out of sight.
I shut my eyes as Elsie taught me so I don’t get dizzy, but Treehorn’s magic moves much faster than hers, and I wobble for a second when we manifest on the other side.
I double over, propping my hands on my knees as I suck in a shot of air.
“Eugh…”
A gagging noise escapes me, and Treehorn pats me on the back.
“There, there, Elliot’s girlfriend.”
Gods, I wish he would stop calling me that. It feels like I’m being cursed every time he says it. But I’m not willing to risk him knowing me by name, so I simply smile.
“We are here,” he says. “No need for theatrics.”
I nod, but it takes me a few more breaths before I can stand straight again.
When I open my eyes, we are somewhere deep in the shelves beside a section titled “Love.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m not really a fan of—”
“Hush, dear.” Treehorn waves a hand. “I must concentrate.”
He lets out a high-pitched whistle, and a moment later, the ladder comes careening down the aisle. It does not try the old fae’s patience as it did Elliot’s. Instead, it stops a couple of feet before him, squeaking its wheels excitedly.
“Yes, yes,” Treehorn mutters to the creaking wooden rungs. “She has returned. No, you cannot keep her. Silly, old step stool. Move over.”
The ladder slides into position, slowly, as if to protest its duties.
“I’ll only be a moment,” Treehorn says as he starts to climb the ladder.
Mindful of Elliot’s previous instructions, I keep my hands to myself and wait patiently as Treehorn scales the ladder and thumbs through the selection. He runs his fingers over the spines, humming as he searches.
The store is not as dim as it was last night.
There’s still a bit of light trickling in from the windows set high on the wall, and I see just how tall the ceiling really is as the light dances across the shelves.
Each bookcase must be at least twenty feet tall.
And with Treehorn’s small stature, he looks tiny as he climbs all the way to the top.
“Ah!” he declares. “Yes, this ought to do the trick.”
“Catch!” he calls down, and I startle as a hefty, leather-bound book comes hurtling toward me.
“Wait!” I shout, jutting out my arms and preparing for the impact.
Treehorn chuckles, snaps his fingers, and disappears from the top of the ladder. Only to reappear beside me, book in hand, clutching his round belly as he laughs.
“Ha! Gets ‘em every time,” he mutters.
As I let out a deep exhale, I think I see why Elliot tolerates this old goat. He’s as crazy as he is.
Not wanting to upset him, I force a laugh as he drops the tome in my outstretched hands. And thank gods I didn’t have to catch this thing. It’s heavier than it looks, at least a thousand pages.
Its dark brown leather is lighter along its binding, hinting at its age, and the many pages are held together by a brass latch and a little heart-shaped locket. On the cover, embossed in gold leaf are the words, “How to Make a Love Potion.”
“Oh, um, I-I don’t think I need—”
“It is very comprehensive,” Treehorn interrupts. “I assure you.”
He turns to move down the aisle, and I follow quickly so as not to get lost. But I’m now burdened by the weight of the book he’s just given me, and I trail behind, shouting for him to slow.
“Wait!” I call. “I’m not—”
“It will have all that you need,” he repeats.
I open my mouth again to object, but as I witness him hobbling down the center of the aisle, completely oblivious to my protest, I decide not to waste my breath.
“Do be mindful of the pages, though, dear. It is very old,” he reminds me.
“O-okay.”
I guess.
We use the dais at the end to return to the front, and I do not argue as he begins ushering me toward the door. Coming here without Elliot may not have been wise, and I am not interested in prolonging this strange encounter. But as Treehorn waves me onward, he mutters something under his breath.
“Be patient with him. It may take him a while.”
I stop.
“Excuse me?”
“His face,” Treehorn says, without turning back. “There’s something there, but he’s still learning. It may take time.”
“Who? Elliot?”
He nods, shuffling onward.
“He’s still learning? Still learning what?”
Treehorn doesn’t bother to look at me. I suspect he, too, has had enough of this interaction.
“How to love,” he answers, ushering me toward the door.
He’s already holding it open, and the cool breeze rustles the papers on the front desk as I stand there positively confused.
“Have a lovely day, Elliot’s girlfriend.”
“Oh, uh, thanks, you too.”
Treehorn pauses in the open doorway, eyes suddenly clearer as he looks at me and smiles widely, revealing perfectly polished, finely pointed teeth. My breath catches as he promptly disappears, and I realize, too late, what I’ve done.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
I’m going to pay for that someday.