Chapter 12
CLEMENTINE
Carl is very happy about the shoe. He even wants a turn with it—which is ridiculous because we merpeople may have slightly better sniffing power than humans, but we’re nowhere near werewolf level. I doubt, if my brother were blindfolded, he’d be able to pick Luke out of a lineup on scent alone.
Also, I really need to stop thinking about how probably every wolf in this town is going to be getting a whiff of my footwear. And people think wikiFeet is invasive.
“We should figure out a plan, right?”
Carl has been hovering since the moment he woke from his nap and returned to Griffith’s house, where we’ve been watching old episodes of Survivor.
My brother has never been the sit-still-and-chill type, so five minutes into the show, his knee is jumping, and he’s suggesting we pause the episode and strategize.
Griffith and I share a look, which I realize is the first time we’ve ever done that. Commiserated. He blinks in surprise, probably coming to the same unsettling realization.
“I agreed to hang out at Local Brew,” I offer up to calm my brother, even though I haven’t officially signed on to Griffith’s idea.
But with Carl here, looking on edge, I figure taking some of the worry off his shoulders is worth being in the vicinity of his aggravating best friend.
“Plenty of wolves there in case trouble shows up.”
Carl’s brow wrinkles as he glances between us. “You want to hang out at Griffith’s bar?”
“You shocked people like my place?” the wolf grumbles.
“No.” Carl continues to study us. “But you two don’t … get along.”
“I’ll get along if he gets along.” I throw down the challenge.
“I’ll get along if she gets along,” Griffith tosses back.
And so my temporary protection plan is decided.
But Carl’s tense energy remains, so eventually, I beg off, claiming I need a shower—which I do—and try to slip away, but have to pause when Carl asks, “Do you need anything?”
“I’m good. Don’t worry about me.” But the words are empty because I’m not sure he’ll ever be able to stop.
Maybe if I hadn’t gone into chaos mode when our parents left, then Carl would trust me to take care of myself.
But I burned into his brain just how self-destructive I can be early in life, and then I left when I was eighteen, not giving him the chance to see firsthand how I’ve matured.
That’s what I remind myself of anyway when his hovering threatens to suffocate me.
“You can use the master bathroom,” Griffith offers. “There’s a tub if you need to get scaly.”
“Get scaly?” I glance between the two friends. “Oh gods, is that what you call merpeople shifting?”
Griffith smirks. “How else am I supposed to describe it?”
I roll my eyes and stalk from the room, choosing to simply shower in the bathroom connected to the office/bedroom where I slept the night before.
The water is a refreshing cleanse, rinsing away the clinging fear, sweat, and specks of blood Madeline missed when scouring my wound clean before sealing it.
I revel in the water pouring over me, the way it soaks into my hair and turns the mass heavy, dragging in an almost-massaging weight against my scalp.
Makes me miss fully submerging myself.
Instinctively, I know exactly which direction and how far Lake Galen is from Griffith’s house. As a mermaid, the large body of water calls to me. I want to go so bad that my bones ache with the need.
But I’m too vulnerable right now. Terrified that a shift will worsen my wound.
And I’ve been training myself to ignore the call of water for years.
I spend more time in the shower than I probably should, starting to regret turning down Griffith’s offer of a bathtub. Maybe I can have a soak tomorrow.
And maybe, in the next day or so, Mor will find me a cure.
After I’m healed, my first stop will be a dock to jump off of and lose myself in Lake Galen for a little while.
April is still too early in spring for recreational swimming if you’re human.
But I could dive into arctic waters and still be comfortable. My body, when it’s not injured, adapts.
The next morning, after a night of fitful sleep, I dress in a torn pair of jeans, plus a faded band T-shirt, and discover Griffith alone in the kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal. An army of boxes sits on the counter next to an empty bowl.
“After you eat, we’ll head to the bar.”
I glance at the clock above the stovetop that shows it’s barely nine. “You need to open for lunch?”
“Only on Saturday.” It’s not Saturday. “Normally, I spend the day brewing and bottling.”
I pause in the middle of dumping out a mountain of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. “You mean, like … you make the beer?”
He nods.
“Where?”
“Eat. Then beer.” He reaches down the counter and comes back with a shoebox. Inside is a set of slip-ons in the exact right size.
“Where did you get these?”
“The store.”
With anyone else, Griffith is happy to chat. But I get the stoic grump.
Makes me want to poke him with a stick.
“And you knew my size?” I slide my feet into the comfortable shoes. “You been staring at my feet? Taking pics for your personal collection?”
He scowls, but can’t respond until he swallows the bite he just spooned into his mouth.
I take advantage.
“You got any favorite colors? I could paint my toes special for you.” Slowly, with a slight air of menace, I slice a banana on top of my cereal. “Or is your kink that you like the feet dirty? Want me to stomp around in some mud barefoot?”
Griffith swallows—hard—then opens his mouth.
Then he snaps it shut and shakes his head slowly.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” I continue to taunt, enjoying myself too much. “You want to suck on my toes.”
“Fuck,” he mutters, whirling away from me to face the sink, busying himself, washing his empty dish, his shoulders tense.
I grin as I raise my spoon to my mouth, only to knock the metal against my tooth. My coordination isn’t that bad, and I’m confused for a second until I realize the problem.
My fangs descended.
Shock hits me and sends my feet on a quick turnaround, mirroring Griffith’s. Just to be sure, I press a finger against my canine.
Yep. I’m fanged up.
A mermaid’s fangs are subtle when compared to the long, sharp vampire variety. But they’re still distinctly not human. Plus, they only show up when we’re super turned on.
Or when a potential mate is nearby.
No. No way.
Trying to act normal, I carefully eat my cereal and stroll toward the window, like I’m enjoying the woodland view. Internally though, I’m freaking out.
Griffith is not a potential mate.
My body is out of whack because of the injury. This is simply a symptom. I’ll talk it over with Madeline, and she’ll agree.
Shrimp lumbers up to my side and leans against my leg, always knowing when I need some support.
Luckily, by the time I’ve reached the bottom of my bowl, the fangs have disappeared. After I feed Shrimp his morning cups of kibble, Griffith leads me out to his truck, and the three of us pile in.
The drive is more pleasant with the sun out and me not bleeding profusely in the passenger seat.
I notice that, at some point, Griffith must have wiped all trace of my blood from the seats and aired out the wet-dog smell because the cab is immaculate.
I’m surprised he was willing to drive us today when chances are, I’ll mess it all up again.
That’s just how my life seems to go. Plus, my panting beast of a pup is leaning against Griffith’s shoulder, which can’t make driving easy.
But the wolf doesn’t say anything.
The Local Brew parking lot is vacant when Griffith pulls in.
“You have space to brew in the bar?”
The seating area is spacious, but I thought there was only room for a small kitchen behind the wall of booze bartenders pull from. Even if they gutted the kitchen, I’d guess brewing beer requires more square footage than that, and I doubt it’s sanitary to set up an operation outside.
“No.” Griffith waves for me to follow him on a gravel path that leads to the left, around to the other side of the building.
Where I expect to find only a grassy expanse between the bar and the woods instead is a building a touch larger than a two-car garage.
The structure appears new when compared to the bar, though I’d guess it’s a few years old now.
Griffith pulls out a key and unlocks the door, pulling it open and ushering me inside.
As I step over the threshold, he flicks on a light, revealing six massive silver barrels, propped up on stilts, with all kinds of pipes running to them.
“This is quite the operation.”
He shrugs. “Started as a hobby. Got a little obsessed. And when Tipsy Howl went on the market, I saw an opportunity to do something I loved as a job.”
When I left Folk Haven, Griffith was working in the butcher section of the small grocery store on the edge of town.
I remember the red apron he had to wear and the glare he’d send my way whenever I walked by on my way to the chips aisle.
The wolf had started working there around when he was sixteen—which, now that I think about it, seems way too young to allow someone access to a meat-cutting machine.
Though Griffith did always seem responsible for his age, which I suspect is why my wildness agitated him so much.
My total self-involvement becomes more evident as I try to remember what the deal was with Griffith’s parents. I can’t recall ever meeting them. Don’t even know their names or if they’re living or dead.
Was Griffith working in that grocery store because he had to support himself?
I never gave much thought to Griffith’s wants and needs and future plans. Learning from Carl that his best friend had bought a bar distorted the mental picture I had of the floppy-haired wolf who moved like his body was bigger than he expected and spent his days cutting up cow carcasses.
But he was always responsible. Personable with everyone but me. I never doubted he’d be successful.
“This seems like more beer than what one bar needs.”
Griffith runs his gaze over his alcohol domain. “I distribute across Georgia.”
“Look at that. Mythics secretly taking over the world.”
He snorts. “How have you been dominating the globe these past nine years?”
“Hmm. I’ve been more of a drifter than a dominator.” I meander around the brewing setup, looking closely at all the shiny equipment as if I might know what any of the tubbing or knobs do. “When I left here, I followed a few different bands I liked.”
“Your job was groupie?”
I roll my eyes. “I wasn’t sleeping with them, perv.
I just liked music and wanted some direction in my wandering.
One band hired me on as a roadie. I carried their instruments”—I flex my biceps—“sold their merch, did setup and break down.” I smile wistfully.
“That was the first time I truly felt useful. And like I had control over my life.” I shove my hands in my pockets and make my way back toward Griffith.
“Bought a tablet with my first few paychecks. Started making my own designs for the band. Offered to set up a website for them. They loved it. Realized I could do that, help bands with back-end stuff. Marketing things. Just grew from there.”
“That easy, huh?”
I scoff, thinking of all the nights I slept in my car or in a shitty motel. The cheap food I ate and the never-ending traveling I had to keep up with. Long nights, long days, building trust and learning how to take care of myself.
“Wouldn’t call it easy. I’m settled into it now, but for a few years … let’s just say, I blurred the truth a bit whenever I caught up with Carl.”
“Why did you do that?” His brow crinkles with the question.
I shrug. “Didn’t want to worry him.”
“Really? Worrying him used to be your favorite pastime.”
The words hang between us like a chandelier made of knives, cutting up the semblance of a truce we were building.
He’ll never move past it. The angry teenager that I was.
My fault for thinking maybe he could.
“Is the bar opening soon?” I pass by Griffith without meeting his eyes.
“Clem—”
I’m out the door before he can finish what was likely going to be an empty apology.
An attempt to keep his promise to get along.
But I think the only way either of us will keep that vow is if we maintain a healthy distance.
Close enough to notice any danger, but far enough that neither of us is doing the hurting.