The best thing about Elliot?
He knows exactly what buttons to press.
Chapter8
Cursed Do Not Enter
ELLIOT
“You’re late, Elliot!”
Mr. Treehorn shouts from somewhere among the rows of bookshelves at the back of the store, and I cringe as I glance at the old grandfather clock beside the door.
1:31 AM.
The old man is a fucking hawk.
“I know!” I shout back. “Good thing no one is in here,” I mutter to myself.
“You can’t let time slip away from you!” he answers. “It is more important than you think!”
I try not to groan as I drop my things behind the front desk.
Treehorn believes in punctuality, and he likes to pretend there’s a crowd due at any moment. Even on days like today, when the only soul around is the ghost of his old cat, Boots. But rather than argue with him, I tap the sign hanging in the window three times, causing it to change to “CLOSED.”
He won’t notice.
I pick up the stack of books sitting next to the desk and press my hand to the inlaid circle in the wood. Faerie light flows over me, transporting me to the relevant section. It delivers me somewhere in aisle 412, right beside the harpy history section where Tree is already standing, mumbling something about sundials.
I join him in reshelving the books and mumble a few ‘mmhmms’ and ‘oh yeahs’ as he talks. But that doesn’t stop him from launching into what I can only believe is a very well-rehearsed lecture. One I’ve heard many times before, and will likely hear again.
“You know, I knew a time weaver when I was your age,” Tree begins, and I stifle a groan. “He was an odd fellow. Prone to speaking backward at times. Or all together out of order. Had trouble keeping it all sorted, I suppose.”
He shrugs, and his short stature makes it look as if he’s bouncing with excitement.
I smile politely as I nod and cross my fingers that he won’t launch into another retelling of his lessons on time. But it seems my luck is running out.
Not that I’m surprised. I’ve been testing the fates lately—hiding bodies, claiming crazy succubi. It’s a miracle I haven’t been drawn and quartered yet. Though the night is young. There’s plenty of time.
Tree hasn’t paused in his lecture as I finish shelving my first stack. I’m halfway down the shelf ladder, and he’s in the middle of telling me about the alchemic age when he suddenly stops.
“Go on,” I say, hoping to get this over with before the sun rises.
“You look different,” Tree says, inspecting me over the rim of his glasses.
Treehorn is a short, round fae-born old bastard who likes to pretend he’s nothing more than a humble bookkeeper. Which, to be fair, he is. But what he never reveals is that he’s also a very gifted watcher. One of the best. And a bit nosy at times.
I clear my throat, feeling like a bug under a microscope.
“My face hasn’t changed,” I say. “Not since I last checked.”
Treehorn’s eyes narrow.
“Yes, it has,” he contradicts.
His dark, weathered skin crinkles as he concentrates.
“I can see it. There. On your face. What is that?”
