Only … last time I stopped by Local Brew I chatted with him longer than normal because I’d come across a text about a Gods Object. The book was vague, the ink mostly smudged, but what I’d gathered was that The Clawed One had made a tankard of some kind, filled with a mystical mead that did … something. I’d hoped Griffith, a werewolf and beer brewer, might know more about the legend.
He didn’t. What he did say was that we should go out sometime.
I’d left without giving him an answer.
Griffith isn’t asking me out on a last-minute date, is he?
If the answer to the second is yes, then so is the answer to the first—yes, I will need wine.
Which again has me wondering,What is up with me?
Griffith is an objectively attractive guy with a friendly personality and a full-time job. Plus, as a werewolf, he’s part of the same magical community I am.
He’d be a fine person to go out with and try to fall in love with. But when I think of him asking me out, I get a full-body cringe. Because, in my mind, I can already see me breaking things off and then all our run-ins turning awkward.
So, instead of making up an excuse or telling him the truth, I simply say, “What’s up?”
“I, uh, have a situation here at the bar.”
Well, that’s not a date request. Color me interested. “Go on.”
I could swear I hear singing behind Griffith’s voice.
“You know Bo? The guy you freed? He’s here. And I think you need to come pick him up.”
I frown. “You don’t want him in your bar?”
Griffith is a pure-blood werewolf, but I didn’t think he held monster prejudice. Not when I know he’s dated other mythics before.
“It’s not that. I love Bo. I knew him when I was younger. Couldn’t meet a better guy.” The praise cuts off as some kind of wailing gets louder before trailing off. “The thing is, I might have accidentally overserved him.”
“What?” I snap.
“He’s a big guy! But the margaritas hit him hard, and now he’s wasted. I’d take him home with me, but I’ve got two more hours here.” The background noise lessens, and I get the sensethat Griffith stepped into a back room or something. “He doesn’t have anyone that I know of. And you Shellys seem to stick to the ones you save. But if there’s another person I should call about him, you point me their way.”
I open my mouth, ready to give him Levi’s name. But then I remember the monster telling me about his pregnant wife. Moira is a badass selkie who can certainly handle herself, but that doesn’t mean I want to put any extra stress on her or her husband’s plate. Not when I’m the reason Bo is free to cause drunken mayhem.
And I certainly don’t want to call the cops on him. I saw the way he cowed in the face of Samantha’s badge.
“I’ll come get him,” I sigh.
“Thank the gods! His mopey singing is driving away my customers.”
Not sure what to say to that, I simply tell Griffith I’ll be there soon. With a mournful glance at my wine, I leave it on the kitchen table and stick my cheese slices into the fridge. As I grab my keys, lock up, and head out to my car, I shoot a quick text on the Shelly group family chat, letting my siblings and their partners know where I’m headed and why.
The overinforming habit started not long ago after the break-in at the library, and now the lot of us send regular updates for peace of mind.
My phone buzzes withgood lucks and offers of help if I need them.
But I should be able to handle this monster myself.
Then I step into Local Brew and wince at the horrendous noise coming from the back corner, where there’s a small stage. Sometimes, Local Brew will have live music, but I suspect whoever Griffith hires to stop by is slightly better than the rendition of “Roxanne” a monster is belting out.
“Mor! You’re here.” The bartender waves me down. “Thank the gods. I was considering using a tranquilizer just to shut him up.”
As if in response to Griffith, there’s a loud, drawn-out, “Roxannnne!”
“How many margaritas did you give him?” I’m having trouble taking in the quiet, insecure mythic now up onstage, shamelessly belting out a bad rendition of—ironically—The Police’s song.
