“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Apollo said, tossing his golden curls. “I’m going out tonight. Bas, you are coming with me because you need to leave the house for a few hours. Val, you are going to take this sleeping potion and get some fucking rest. You’re starting to look more like a vampire than usual.”
Apollo magicked a small bottle out of thin air and put it in front of Valentine. Surprisingly, he didn’t argue, just took the bottle and downed it. Now Bas was really concerned because it wasn’t like him to take whatever Apollo gave him without questioning what was inside of it.
“I don’t want to go out,” Bas protested. Apollo just stared at him until he gave in. “Fine, but I swear if you ditch me for a sleazy hookup, you’ll regret it.”
Maybe a few hours out of the house would clear his head, and he would finally figure out how he would find Hawk Girl in his dreams that night. If he could find her in the astral, surely he could find her in her dreams. He grinned, encouraged by the thought.
“I don’t suppose I could have one of those sleep potions too?” Bas asked.
Apollo hummed. “Let me choose your outfit tonight for it?”
“Okay, but nothing shiny, glittering, or cropped in any way,” Bas agreed.
“There goes my gold sequined assless chaps idea,” Apollo said with a roll of his eyes. “Come along, little brother. We must make you presentable.”
“You know better than to get into a deal with the devil, Basset,” Valentine mumbled, his eyes already clouding from the potion.
“But look how happy it makes him.” Bas kissed the top of his head. “Get some rest, big brother.”
“Tell me if you find your Hawk Girl again,” Valentine said and rubbed his face. “I think she’s important.”
Bas made sure Valentine got to the nearest couch safely and went after Apollo before he trashed his wardrobe completely.
4
Bridget was deep in a rabbit hole of research when Marge came in at six p.m. to take over the night shift.
The bookstore was located near the river in Smithfield, and it tended to stay open late to accommodate students, nighttime shoppers, and foodies going out to try different restaurants. The shop was prime real estate that had been in Marge’s family for generations.
Marge herself was in her sixties, a widower, and had lost her son to cancer over a decade ago. Now that she had Bridget to run things, she only came in a few hours at night because she slept odd hours.
“You’re looking a bit off. Have you eaten yet?” Marge asked, her sharp brown eyes looking at her critically over the top of her glasses.
She wasn’t some wilting old lady. Marge was an eccentric, who spoke directly, read customers’ tea leaves when she was in the mood, and had an endless collection of turbans she liked to wear over her curly gray hair. Tonight’s turban was purple-blue velvet, which reminded Bridget a little too strongly of Bas the Stranger’s eyes.
“No food yet. I lost track of time today, but I’ve restocked the bestsellers, done last month’s bookkeeping, and dusted all the high shelves,” Bridget said, closing down all the browsing tabs on the computer, including the latest edition of her favorite web serial. Marge still liked to dust the shelves; she just didn’t have the reach to do the high ones, and Bridget wouldn’t let her get up on step ladders.
Marge tapped her red nails on the wooden counter. “When was the last time you left the store and had a night out?”
“I left the store yesterday to buy some groceries. Or was it the day before?” Bridget tended not to keep track of things that her brain didn’t deem important.
Marge hummed. “Go eat at the pub tonight. You need to be around people for a few hours. You’re getting that obsessive, crazy look in your eye. Is it a man? Please tell me it’s a man.”
Marge was always pushing Bridget to date more. She was the only person Bridget had told her history to. Marge knew when Bridget was too deep in her research or obsessions. Bridget didn’t mind the fussing because it anchored her.
“There is a man,” Bridget agreed reluctantly.But I met him in my head, so I don’t know if that counts.
Marge’s expression lit up. “Oh, well now, isn’t this a surprise? Is he good-looking?”
Bridget squirmed a little. “Yes. I mean, I think so. But it’s nothing. We aren’t even friends.”
“We all have to start somewhere,” Marge replied and moved around the counter. “Off you go. Go have dinner somewhere. I’m kicking you out, and I don’t want to see you for at least two hours.”
Bridget hadn’t eaten anything all day except for a cinnamon roll from the coffee shop next door. “Fine, I’ll go and eat, but I’m not agreeing to two full hours.”
“Call that man of yours and have a date,” Marge said, taking up Bridget’s vacated spot behind the counter.
“I didn’t get his number,” Bridget said, heading for the door.
