9. The Owl is a Terrible Wingman
The Owl is a Terrible Wingman
Ipull back, the spell instantly broken.
Ash contemplates Rowan, miffed. “Your bird is obnoxious.”
I laugh a little, uncomfortable, and then turn toward the computer, away from Ash, away from happiness. “Okay, so…I need an accountant?”
Ash moves his gaze to Rowan, eyes narrowed—and not in a friendly way. “Or maybe a taxidermist.”
I snort out an unexpected laugh.
Ash turns to me, his expression softening. “It’s probably for the best. I don’t know what got into me. I’m sorry.”
Rowan stares at us for several more seconds, and then he flies into the living room.
Keeping my voice low, hoping my feathered roommate doesn’t have exceptional hearing, I quietly say, “Our magic was sort of crackly, wasn’t it?”
“Opposites attract. You’re a summer; I’m a winter. It happens, to varying degrees, depending on how much physical attraction there is to boost it.”
I smile at the laptop, studying the words on the screen but not reading a single one of them. “Are you saying you’re attracted to me?”
“Yes.”
Startled, I look over at him.
Ash looks thoughtful. “But perhaps we should get to know each other before we rush into anything physical.”
I nod dumbly, still hung up on handsome, put-together Ash being drawn to me.
I feel like there are levels adults attain as they age, and I’m still at the starting line. Ash is several steps ahead of me—he’s an actual grown-up. I, however, am a twenty-six-year-old playing pretend in her aunt’s fairytale cottage. Technically, yes, I’m an adult. But he’s an adultier adult.
“If you’re free on Saturday, maybe we could—”
Rowan screeches from the other room, cutting Ash off and making me jump in my seat. I glare toward the living room.
“Right.” Looking annoyed, Ash turns back to the computer. “About that accountant…”
I sigh, accepting that romance is going to be impossible as long as Rowan is my roommate.
I lock the front door after Ash leaves, turning slowly to glare at the bird on his perch. “We need to have a chat.”
Rowan scowls at me, appearing annoyed. I can’t tell if he actually is, or if that’s just the way screech owls look. “It seems like you had a nice evening.”
“If I have company, make yourself scarce.”
“This is my home, too,” he points out. “In fact, it was my home first.”
“Yes, but your name isn’t on the deed, is it?”
He ruffles his feathers, staring at me, and then he takes a deep breath that rocks his whole body. “You’re young and lovely. You can date—you should date. Just not Ash.”
“What’s so wrong with Ash?”
“To put it bluntly? He’s an—”
“Rowan,” I chastise. “He’s been nothing but nice to me.”
“That’s because he’s enchanted by your magic.”
“I’m not a spring!” I exclaim, a little more stung by that than I want to admit.
“No, you’re worse—you’re a summer. You don’t make people feel puppy love, you make them feel joy. Your magic is the most addicting drug in the known world, especially to someone who isn’t particularly happy to begin with.” He softens his tone slightly. “Like Ash.”
“Why isn’t Ash happy?” I ask quietly.
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not your problem to fix.”
“Or is it that you dislike him so much you don’t want me to fix him?”
Rowan doesn’t answer.
“If we’re going to live together, we must establish a few ground rules. First off, you don’t decide whom I date, and you won’t interfere with my dates. And in return, I will consider your well-meaning advice, even if I don’t end up agreeing with you.”
He stares at me, unblinking, and then finally says, “Fine.”
“Fine.”
I sigh, ready to put this behind us. “What did you do this evening?”
“I sat in the tree outside the kitchen window and eavesdropped on your conversation.”
“Rowan!” I exclaim, setting my hands on my hips.
“What else am I supposed to do?”
“Oh, I don’t know—sit in any other tree?”
“I just wanted to see when Ash was leaving so I could come back inside,” the bird snaps. “It was a business meeting. How was I supposed to know he was going to make a pass at you?”
I growl, beyond frustrated, and turn down the hall.
“Where are you going?” he demands. “We’re not done yet.”
“Yes, we are. I’m going to bed. Tomorrow, I have a billion teas to try, a business to run, and I have to figure out how to turn you back into a man so I can boot your sorry self out of my house.”
I feel bad.
Maybe Rowan overstepped by a lot, but he’s been an owl most of his life. Obviously, his social skills have atrophied, much like unused muscles.
But I can’t live with him, and the only way to get rid of him is to turn him back. And that’s why I’m standing in front of the Moss Hollow Public Library at 8:58 AM, waiting for them to open their doors.
It’s overcast today, and my weather app says there’s a 75% chance of rain. Thankfully, this time, I’m not to blame.
I have an umbrella in my purse, but I can’t use that while I’m on Laverna’s old bike. I’m afraid it’s going to be a soggy ride home.
At 9:00 exactly, a woman unlocks the front door.
She pauses when she sees me, smiling warmly. “Have you been waiting long?”
“Only a few minutes,” I assure her.
She wears her gray hair short and curly. She’s probably in her seventies, though that can be difficult to discern with the fae. Dressed in a pale pink cardigan over a tea-length navy dress with a rosebud pattern, she’s maybe five feet tall…and even that feels like an illusion.
She has the most unique magic I’ve ever run across. I have no clue what sort of fae she is.
Peering up at the sky, she says, “At least it hasn’t started raining yet. Come on in.”
I follow her, feeling like a criminal as my purse squirms. I’m not a rule breaker, and my passenger is making me nervous. Not that there’s specifically a sign saying you can’t bring owls into the library.
“Stop moving,” I hiss at Rowan, keeping my voice so low I’m not sure he’ll be able to hear me.
“Stop squishing me,” is Rowan’s muffled reply.
The library smells like books, as most libraries do. But this one smells like old books. And there’s something else, too—a freshness that chases away the stale mustiness that sometimes attaches itself to aged paper. There’s magic here. I just can’t place what kind.
I pause, taking it in. It looks like a library straight from the 1800s, with hardwood floors and strange, narrow ramps that lead to raised balconies. Every wall and shelf is crammed full. The books should be leather-bound—that would fit the theme.
But no. They’re just…books. Normal books. Paperbacks. Children’s picture books. Glossy hardcovers.
My eyes stray to a man displaying his bare and very nicely toned chest on the cover of a romance novel on a display at the end of an aisle.
“That’s a good one.” The librarian pauses when she sees me looking at it. “He turns into a grizzly bear. Quite fun. The author has the details a little mixed up, of course, poor human. But I enjoyed it nevertheless.”
I press my lips together, trying not to laugh at the idea of the sweet librarian reading saucy shifter romances.
“Is there something you’re looking for in particular?” the woman asks me, rounding her desk and sitting atop a padded stool that’s embroidered with red, spotted toadstools. The desk plaque reads, “Mrs. Thimbleberry, Librarian.” There’s a pewter mouse paperweight next to it.
Pushing thoughts of bear shifters out of my brain, I shake my head to clear it. Rowan told me what to say on the way here, but I still feel like an idiot.
“Yes, I…” I clear my throat and then whisper, “I was hoping to access the back room.”
It sounds scandalous—like Moss Hollow has a seedy underground, where criminal types go to exchange fairy sugar for illegal alchemy ingredients, and the headquarters just happens to be in the Moss Hollow Library.
The woman smiles. “Is this your first time here?”
It must be obvious. How couldn’t it be?
“It is…”
“Go into the non-fiction section. Just beyond the shelf of cookbooks, you’ll see a door marked, “Janitor’s Closet.
” Stand in front of it. As soon as it recognizes your magic, you’ll hear a click—that’s the lock releasing.
Then just go on in.” She smiles warmly. “I’m assuming you know how to look up books with a computer catalog, don’t you? ”
I glance at the old-fashioned card catalog in the center of the library. “You use paper cards in the human section, but a computer system to catalog your fae books?”
“Yes.” She frowns like she can’t understand why I’m asking. “Humans aren’t allowed in the back, so we don’t have to keep up the quaint aesthetic in there.”
I glance again at the man-chest cover, not sure that’s giving the right vibe either. “Right.”
“The computer, dear?” she asks.
“Oh, yes. I know how to use a computer catalog.”
“Wonderful. If you need anything, just let me know.”
I find the entrance without issue. As promised, it only takes a second for the charmed door to recognize my magic and let me in.
The back room looks very much like the main part of the library, with hardwood floors, ramps, and bookshelves creating rows and lining the walls. But the space is lit with fluorescent lights, and there are study tables, two rows of computers, and a sign that says, “No elemental magic allowed.”
I suspect there’s a story behind that. The question is, did someone set the building on fire, or did they flood it?
“The coast is clear,” I say as I gently set my purse on a table that’s privately tucked between shelves near the back corner of the room. “We’re the only ones in here.”
Rowan wriggles out, using his wings once he frees them, and then lands on the back of the chair next to me. “You nearly suffocated me.”
“This was your idea, not mine,” I remind him. “What are we looking for?”
“My magical theory college professor was fascinated by the idea of pixies learning to wield their magic. For a good year, he studied your kind, and finally, he made a breakthrough. His pixie test subject—”
“‘Test subject’ doesn’t instill a lot of confidence in me, Rowan.”
“Let me finish. His pixie assistant was able to wilt a daisy.”
“Most people can wilt daisies,” I say, unimpressed. “All they have to do is neglect them.”
“That might be, but she was a spring pixie, and she did it with her magic.”
I blink, the idea of that almost too outlandish to be true. Spring pixies can walk through a dormant orchard in the dead of winter and bring blooms without lifting a finger to make it happen.
“We just have to figure out how Professor Bellview did it,” Rowan muses.
“We have to do more than that. You’re not a daisy, and even if you were, killing you wouldn’t be that helpful.” I pause. “For you, anyway. I’d still end up birdless.”
Rowan tucks his tufts against his head, glaring at me.
I smile. “You probably don’t realize this, but you’re adorable when you do that. It’s hard to take you seriously.”
“Enough chatting,” he says sharply. “Let’s begin.”