His thick brown brows twist in confusion. “How do you know that nickname?”
“I made it.” My tone is distracted as my eyes catalog his face.
Eyes and ears that seemed too large for a young boy now fit well with the way he’s matured. The wolf let his dirty-blond hair grow long enough to touch his shoulders, which is a good thing because when he had it cut shorter, the strands would always stick out in weird directions and mean pack members would call him Scarecrow. What tells me I’m for sure looking at Griffy is the scar on his chin he got from an energetic bear shifter elbowing him in the face during a wrestling match. Werewolves don’t inherit their speedy healing until puberty, when they have their first change, so the wound scarred.
How old was Griffy when the wolf first overtook him? I’ve missed seventeen years’ worth of full moons.
The werewolf, who I last saw as a little boy, gapes at me, recognition hitting him. “Bo? No … you. Gods, you haven’t ageda day.” He smacks his forehead. “A long-lived mythic. You’re immortal?” He lowers his voice on that final word. As if asking about a secret.
Just like monsters, feelings on long-lived mythics are mixed.
It’s not always safe to be around someone who never ages. They think differently when time isn’t a factor in their life. Many have God-like complexes. Sometimes the centuries affect their minds in odd ways. Maybe it’s the passage of time. Maybe it’s watching everyone you know age and die. Whatever reason, every long-lived mythic I’ve encountered has had a subtle air of danger.
One is the reason I got frozen in a statue.
“I’m not.” My voice is gruff. “I was cursed. A witch freed me last night.”
“Hells.” Griffith braces his elbows on the bar, staring at me. “I thought you’d just skipped town. That’s what your dad said anyway.” His face falls. “I missed you, but understood why you’d left. Always thought you deserved better than how they all treated you.”
The back of my neck heats. “I got by.” Clenching my hands together in my lap, I ask the question I’ve wondered since I came upon the trailer. “Do you know what happened to my dad?”
Griffith swallows so hard that I can hear it. “He left. A few years after you did. I mean, after you disappeared.” His eyes turn soft with sorrow. “Heard not long back that he had challenged the wrong wolf. Fight went lethal, and he wasn’t the winner.”
There’s a twist in my chest. Is it sorrow? I’m not sure. Can’t tell if I have enough feelings for my father to miss him.
But it’s good to know at least.
“Thanks for telling me.” I pick up my drink, then get a whiff and set it back down with a grimace. “Can’t believe you’re old enough to work at a bar. And that you’re serving whatever this toxic liquid is.”
“Hey!” Griffith chuckles, taking the glass from me and using a rag to wipe up where I spit out the booze. “That’s some decent whiskey right there. I’ll not have you wasting another drop.” The werewolf sips the drink himself, then pulls out a fancier glass. “You’re not really a drinker, right? I’ll make you something different. On the house. Pay you back for all the piggyback rides you gave me.”
I smile at the thought.
Griffith was scrawny compared to other young werewolves, and I know some of the bigger boys bullied him. Whenever I came into town, I’d keep an eye out for him. I’d always wanted a little brother. A family.
The pack didn’t want me, but Griffy was still too young to have formed a prejudice.
But he’s older now.
“You …” I clear my throat. “You don’t mind?”
“Mind what?”
I scratch the corner of my jaw and try not to think too hard about the way Georgiana avoided my eyes. “One of my kind being in your bar?”
Griffith pauses with his big hands wrapped around a metal shaker he just poured an assortment of liquids into.
Then he sets it aside, steps forward, reaches across the bar, and hooks his hand around the back of my neck to drag me in until our foreheads press together. The wolf stares hard into my eyes, making it impossible for me to look away.
“You’re welcome wherever I am, Bo.” His hand tightens. “And I’m sorry for whatever happened to you, but I’m glad you’re back. I look forward to getting to know my pack mate again.”
“I’m not?—”
“You are,” he growls. “To me, you are.” He presses a kiss to my forehead, then backs off.
Leaving me to deal with the first time I’ve ever felt welcome … anywhere.
“There’re two packs in town now. If you’re wanting to officially join, my bet is, both would be open to the idea.” Griffith pours out whatever he’s been concocting, and I smell the strong citrus scent of lemons and limes. “Margarita.” He slides the glass to me, salt on the rim, and pops a tiny umbrella in it. “Not poison.” He smirks. “You said you were freed from a curse. Did a Shelly witch break that for you?”
