“I do,” I huff. “It opened a window. From the outside.”
“Oh.” Now her voice changes, but she sounds delighted rather than horrified. “Fascinating. I’ll take a look when I get home.”
Ame does not sound at all as anxious as I am about this. But I bet that Jack will be on my side. When I present this as a failing in our security system, that is.
But then I immediately scratch that approach because Jack will probably go so far as to suggest that we install bars on the windows to keep all bad characters away from his precious mate.
Sometimes, werewolves can go a little overboard.
“Okay, yes. Please help me brainstorm how to raccoon-proof our house. I can’t have them coming in here. They’ll damage the books.”
“Well, maybe you should look for a raccoon repellent spell. You’re welcome. I just gave you a new research topic. It’s your favorite thing to do.”
Damn her. She’s right. There is probably a particular repellent enchantment that would work perfectly at keeping all forest creatures away from my library. I have a lot of other projects that should come first, but this has reached priority level one.
Plus, it should thoroughly distract me from worrying about a certain monster.
“Fine. I’ll research. Because you’re making me.”
I hang up to the sound of her soft chuckle. And then I go to reset the books that the raccoon decided to take off the shelf for me.
12
Bo
My savings might have rottedwith time, but it turns out that my dad was smarter than me.
After bagels with the witch, I wandered around the altered town, and then I hiked back to the trailer for a third time and finally found something worth keeping.
Behind the bathroom mirror, which someone cracked, is a medicine cabinet. But behind the cabinet is a cavity, where I found one of my father’s many cash stashes. He would ball up a few bills when he was drunk, tuck them away for safekeeping, then promptly forget where he had hidden them.
Then he’d holler at me for supposedly stealing from him.
The thing about his cash stashes? He’d always put them in a ziplock bag.
Sealed tight. Waterproof. No mold.
So, now I’ve got a few hundred dollars and an entirely new life to figure out.
The moment I decide to take my scant money to the bar, I know I’ve made a mistake.
This is exactly what Dad would do.
Unfortunately, that thought has a weird edge of comfort to it. Yes, my father spent most nights in Tipsy Howls—the werewolf-owned bar—where he could piss away the money he’d earned from repairing cars. But because he often imbibed too much to drive himself home, Kev, the bartender, would call me to come pick him up. That wolf always overserved Dad, no matter how many times I had politely asked him to cut him off after a certain point. Kev would just glare at me and tell me to stop being a waste of a son and drive my father home.
So, I did.
And now I’m back here to follow in his paw prints.
And maybe find out whatever happened to Arvin Folan.
Only it looks like Tipsy Howls got a makeover, including a new name—Local Brew. Sounds almost witchy to me, but I still pick up the scent of wolf when I push through the front door.
Tipsy Howls was a dive, with a grimy floor, bad lighting, and a welcoming face—only if you were a regular or member of the pack.
Local Brew has a scuffed but clean wood floor; low, warm lighting; and, from what I scent, a mixture of mythics. There’s laughter that has no note of harshness, an atmosphere with no undercurrent of violence, and a crowd that doesn’t pay me any notice as I make my way through.
Much different from what I remember.
