We reach the diner. Through the windows, I can see it’s packed, half humans, half shadow creatures reading menus with great concentration.
“Rianne?”
“Yeah?”
“What now?”
It’s a bigger question than it seems. What do you do after you save your town from transformation? After you permanently bond with someone you’ve known for four days? After your cat becomes a supernatural apex predator and your coworker becomes a shadow corporation CEO?
“Now we figure it out as we go,” I say.
“You and me?”
“That’s the only way I know how to do it now.”
We walk into the diner, permanently bonded, covered in library dust and other evidence of our celebration, ready for breakfast and whatever comes next.
Behind us, Mister Poofypants the Third follows, dragging what appears to be an entire shadow creature in his mouth.
“Poof, no! We don’t eat shadows at breakfast!”
He drops it reluctantly.
“Your cat is a menace,” Stenrik says.
“Our cat,” I correct, smiling. “Our menace. Our life.”
“Our perfectly imperfect disaster,” he agrees, and kisses me right there in the diner doorway, not caring who sees.
Carl applauds from booth three. His Yelp review of this moment will probably be five stars.
Keith announces from booth five: “KEITH HAS PREPARED A POWERPOINT ABOUT ADAPTING TO POST-CRISIS NORMALCY!”
Some things are already becoming tradition.
And honestly? That’s exactly how it should be.
EPILOGUE: RIANNE
Six Months Later
“And that’s when the ice elf learned the true meaning of summer reading programs,” I conclude, closing the picture book.
Twenty small faces stare up at me, mouths open. In the back, several parent chaperones look equally entranced.
“Is that a real story, Miss Rianne?” asks Timothy, age five and three-quarters.
“All the best stories have some truth in them.”
“Even the part about the shadow creatures?”
“Especially that part.” I point to the circulation desk where Carl is teaching Keith how to use the new computer system. “Carl works here part-time now. He’s excellent with returns.” On the corner of the desk, a small, very official-looking brass plaque reads: “Mister Poofypants the Third - Head of Security & Morale.” Said Head of Security is currently napping on a pile of newly returned books, purring like a diesel engine.
Stenrik enters from the back office, carrying snack time supplies. The kids immediately swarm him. He’s their favorite, probably because he can make it snow inside just in their corner, and his ice sculptures are better than any toy.
“Mr. Frost, Mr. Frost! Make us a dragon!”
“A unicorn!”
