Hanry’s gaze drops down on me. I was right: he looks like he’s more comfortable again. Maybe sharing his secrets with me has made him feel lighter too. His blue eyes are shining with mischief, and in spite of his technological incompetence, I could kiss him. Maybe do more than that.
“I shouldn’t be surprised you have a devious side,” I say. “I did catch you sneaking into that graveyard, after all.”
“My motives were pure,” Hanry argues. “I was creating art, sustainably.”
“Art isn’t pure. Have youseenthe Venus de Milo?”
“Have you seen yourself in the mirror?”
“Oh, flirty again. I like it.”
The rep doesn’t, based on her annoyed huff. Who cares what she thinks? I’m in a better mood now that I have a working plan to hire nefarious beings of nonviolence. We can sabotage the saboteur, fight the paranormal with the paranormal. I like the justice of it.
“Why do gnomes take jobs like this?” I ask, returning the iPad to Buzz-Cut Lady.
“Because,” she answers, “gnomes are little assholes.”
Harry nods in hearty agreement. “It’s due to fracking, probably. Some members of the Community lost their homes to the fossil fuel industry. The gnomes, the fay—”
“That’s right! Fay live underground.” I read that in one of Mom’s favorite books. I think it was calledThe Court of Sexy Times. I blush, remembering one particularly spicy scene and trying not to look at Hanry’s arms. Confusingly, the sexiest thing about him might not behis biceps, but the way he understands my sense of humor. I never thought that was a priority before. Well, I guess he’s raised the height of my romantic bar. I can’t believe he lets me rib him as much as he does. And I don’t mind the way he counters back, not in the least. “So, Hanry, do fairies hang out in caves, like bats? Are they secret vampires?”
“The fay don’t suck blood, and they don’t have wings,” he ticks off. “They don’t live underground anymore either. Sometimes near cave entrances, but not always.”
I think back to Rochester. He was definitely wingless, unless you counted his eyelashes.
“How do you differentiate them from humans?” I ask. “Secret little claw feet? Telltale moles?”
Struggling to keep a straight face, Hanry answers, “Personality defects.”
“You mean like—”
The rep clears her throat.
“Can you please complete your payment? My book is becoming impatient.” She’s not joking. Her copy ofA Complete History of Chocolate Makinghas started growling at a low level. Maybe it’s not a book but a chocolate-themed, historical cat. “And sign here?”
When she taps the number on the screen, my eyebrows shoot up my forehead. They nearly crawl into my hair before I chide them back.
Hanry whistles. “Whoa, that’s expensive.”
I shush him. “It’s fine.”
Hanry isn’t wrong; these gnomes cost a lot of dough. I’d be worried if I didn’t know for a fact enough money’s coming in with Sidney’s wedding to cover my half of the rent in that Midtown East apartment, the Home Depot’s gnomic army,andMandy’s undefined wages.
Buzz-Cut Lady offers me a receipt, seemingly materialized from the air. I take it, prepared to ball the paper up and toss it over my shoulder, when I’m stopped: on the back of the receipt are coupons for Home Depot’s various business partners. And one of them has a name I could never, ever miss:
DA SEVEN TIDES SCUBA SHOP.
16WEREWOLVES CAN BE CLASSY, TOO
HANRY, BULAN, AND I BEHOLDthe front of Da Seven Tides Scuba Shop with differing degrees of wonder.
“I feel like it’s had a rebranding,” I say finally.
“That’s one way to put it,” says Hanry.
In the window, the painted driftwood sign revealing the shop’s name is lost beneath a burden of barnacles. And by “barnacles” I mean witch junk: crystals backdropped by tie-dye sarongs. Odd statues with vaguely spiritual vibes. Lava lamps. A sincerely painted canvas of a werewolf riding a surfboard.
“Joe’s had something of an identity crisis since discovering he was one-eighth mermaid,” says Bulan. “Best not to mention his snorkel.”
