Chapter Three
The bookshop was eerily silent—no door or cat bell jingling, no creaking ladder. Even Nick was silent once he stopped swearing.
Vi stared at the crumpled heap of dragon on the floor. His single wing was folded, his tail twitching. One of his feet was bare. The leg it was attached to was twisted beneath him at an unnatural angle.
Chester let out an ear-splitting howl.
“Fuck,” Nick spat.
For once, Vi was tempted to agree with him. She raced out from behind the counter, almost tripping on her skirt in her haste.
The bell sounded over the door. Vi ignored it, falling to her knees beside a groaning Chester.
“We heard the most adorable cat in town lives here,” called a fae tourist in a floppy hat and too-big sunglasses. “Where might we find the— Oh gosh.”
“I’m so sorry. This isn’t the best time,” Vi called back, hands hovering uselessly over Chester’s leg. It looked pretty damn broken. “Is your wing okay?”
“It’s fine. My leg, however—” Chester cut off, whimpering. Smoke poured from his nostrils, his tail twitching in agony. If dragons could sweat, he would be covered in it.
“Is it bad?” he croaked. “It feels bad.”
“It’s fine,” Vi assured him, squeezing his arm. “Everything’s peachy.”
She dug in her skirt pocket, then another. Then her secret third pocket sewn into the belt. All three were empty. Where the hell was her phone?
The bell jingled again. Vi glanced back and saw a human tourist had joined the fae, gaping at the scene in front of them. Nick stood in front of them, frozen, staring at Chester with a horrified expression.
“Everything’s fine,” Vi called. “We just had an accident.”
“That makes it sound like I soiled myself,” Chester told her, a wheeze creeping in as the smoke thickened. “I broke my damn leg!”
“We’re taking care of it,” Vi said, half to the gawkers, half to Chester. She turned toward the door. “I need to get his inhaler. Could one of you . . . ?”
Her words trailed off as she saw a strange sight: the tourists leaving.
And Nick Wicker, jackass orc extraordinaire, was folding those meaty green legs to kneel down next to her.
She noticed he had missed a patch of stubble while shaving.
It was a strange thing to note in such a tense situation, but Vi couldn’t help it.
She was always noticing things about Nick Wicker, despite turning away from him every chance she got. It was infuriating.
“Flipped the sign to Closed,” Nick told her. “Thought you might not want any more tourists gawking.” He turned to Chester. “Hey, man. Looking kinda pale there.”
Breath whistling, Chester told him to go do something he wasn’t supposed to say to customers since the day he made a high schooler cry in the cooking section.
“Whoa, alright,” Nick said. He grabbed his phone out of his jeans pocket, and Vi was appalled to notice how large his hand was around the thing. She was doubly appalled by the X-rated image that flashed through her mind in response.
“I’ll call 911,” Nick continued.
Vi tore her gaze from his ridiculously large hand, forcing herself to stop imagining it wrapped around his dick.
She often found herself imagining those kinds of things about Nick Wicker, but she was shocked that it was happening now, with Chester writhing in pain on the floor.
What was wrong with her? She shouldn’t be lusting after Nick.
She should be surprised he was actually doing something instead of standing there, gaping like an idiot.
“Great. Thank you,” she said. Then Chester wheezed, and Vi startled, pointing toward the staff-room door. “Wait! Go get his inhaler. It’s in his coat. It’s hanging on the back of that door. Left pocket. And give me that.”
She took the phone from him.
He stared at her. For a second, Vi thought he’d crack another stupid joke and she’d finally break down and scream at him to take something seriously for once.
“Okay,” he said instead. He stood, stumbling a little on the first step. The first time Vi had met him, she’d assumed he was wasted, but he never slipped wolfsbane into his beer to turn it into something that could actually get orcs drunk; he just tripped over his own feet stone-cold sober.
Chester gasped in pain, drawing Vi away from staring at Nick’s legs, which were infuriatingly attractive, even when he was stumbling around.
“You’re okay,” Vi said, swiping through to the call pad. His phone background was of his stupid motorcycle. Of course it was. “Ambulance, please. Hi, we need an ambulance at Sweethelm Books as soon as possible.”
Nick jogged back, skidding to a stop next to Chester, holding out the inhaler like it was a joint. “Hey, bud. Want a puff?”
“I despise you,” Chester managed through the smoke.
“Cool,” Nick said, lifting the inhaler.
Vi held the phone away from her mouth, ready to tell Nick how to use it, but Nick was already shaking it hard and putting it to Chester’s smoky mouth. He pressed down on the trigger and Chester gulped a breath, some of the tinny whistle leaving him.
“There,” Nick said. “Feeling less like death?”
Chester groaned in response, fangs clenched. The smoke was already coming slower.
Vi ended the call. “Dispatcher said the ambulance will be here in five minutes. Pretty good, huh?”
Chester reached a trembling claw up toward the ladder, which lay innocently next to his shoulder. “If you say I told you so—”
“I would never,” Vi lied. She squeezed his thin arm again, looking around for his missing slipper. It had rolled under the poetry display a dozen feet away.
Nick was still staring at her with those big brown eyes.
Vi had the horrible thought that if she looked into them too long, she would get lost in them.
She raced off to grab the slipper, half dreading what she’d find when she got back.
Beth, the hedgehog woman who owned Prickles, the chocolate shop down the street, once told her about an incident in high school when a chimera had snapped his wing falling down the stairs, and Nick, ever the jokester, had prodded it.
Apparently, the scream could be heard all the way across campus.
But Chester didn’t look any more pained when Vi got back with his slipper. If anything, he looked more annoyed than pained.
“Shakespeare is not boring,” he barked, the last of the smoke drifting from his nostrils.
“You just think he’s boring because of those dolt teachers forcing you to drone on in English class.
Shakespeare was made to be performed, not read aloud by idiot teenagers who don’t know what they’re saying.
Have you ever seen Shakespeare on stage? ”
“No,” Nick said with a grin that made Vi’s heart stutter. “But I bet it sucks ass.”
Heart stutter aside, Vi had to stop herself from glaring at him as she slipped on Chester’s missing slipper. She opened her mouth to change the subject, but Nick cut her off.
“What’s your favorite play, old man?”
Vi hesitated in the middle of giving Chester’s good ankle a comforting squeeze. He wasn’t making fun of Chester, she realized. Or, he wasn’t only making fun of him. He was trying to distract him until the ambulance came. That was . . . oddly sweet. And smart. Chester took the bait immediately.
“Richard the Second.” Chester sent Vi a defiant look.
Vi took him up on it. “His real favorite is A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He likes to pretend he’s pretentious, but he’s a big softy who loves romance and happy endings.”
“Shut your mouth,” he said. Then his own mouth snapped shut, a pained noise forcing through his gritted fangs.
Vi rubbed his good ankle again, going against the scales. Her thumb brushed against his slipper. She’d told him to wear real shoes to climb that ladder a thousand times.
Nick looked at her. His jaw clenched, a hint of panic flickering over his face. He was nervous. She’d never seen Nick Wicker nervous before. If he didn’t make fun of her all the time, Vi might find it endearing.
Determined to be the bigger person, Vi gave him a comforting nod. You’re doing good. She expected another glib grin, maybe even an eye roll. But Nick nodded back, some of the panic draining out of his face.
“I know that one,” Nick said. “That’s the donkey one. What’s so great about the donkey one?”
Chester released another irritated groan.
* * *
Nine minutes later, Vi had one good thing to say about Nick Wicker: He had stamina. He kept up with the enraging literature questions until the ambulance arrived, and even managed a few retorts as the paramedics loaded Chester into the back.
“You’re a prime example of the failure of our public schools!” Chester yelled at Nick.
Vi turned to Nick, who was back to his default position: extremely casual, his long limbs held so loose, they might as well fall off. Only his fidgeting hands hinted that something stressful had just happened.
Vi lowered her voice, hoping the nosy passerby watching the ambulance wouldn’t overhear. “Thank you. Being angry really calms him down.”
“I picked up on that.” Nick grinned. He lifted his hand to his mouth, chewing on his thumbnail. Muffled, he continued: “Oh, shit. Almost forgot.”
He handed her the inhaler.
She tucked it into one of her many skirt pockets. She felt like she was forgetting something, but the paramedics had almost finished loading Chester into the ambulance, people were staring, and she could hear Chester telling a paramedic about his deep hatred of Alice in Wonderland.
“Really,” Vi said, still surprised by the reluctant respect blooming in her chest. “It was good. Thanks for not being all—” she waved at him, mind already whirring with everything she needed to reschedule or cancel or update“—you,” she finished distractedly.
One of the paramedics leaned out of the ambulance. “Either of you coming with?”
“Me,” Vi said.
The ambulance was halfway to the hospital when Vi realized two things. One: Thanks for not being all . . . you was probably a little hurtful. And two: Nick’s phone was in her secret third pocket.
* * *