Chapter 5
“Jesus, you look rough,” Astrid said when Bridger walked into school on Monday. “Have you slept, like ever?”
“Well, hello to you, best friend. I’m fine, thank you. I had a great weekend that involved nightmares of water and death. Thanks for asking.” Bridger gave Astrid his best fake smile.
Astrid frowned.
“Ugh.” Bridger rested his forehead on his locker; the metal was cool against his skin. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a breath. He hadn’t slept much since his conversation with Pavel about the nature of life, the universe, and everything. And, you know, the fact that all Bridger knew about the aforementioned was lacking in very important details. Pixies, mermaids, and manticores, oh my! His brain had been a weird place the past few days. His thoughts had vacillated between all things related to Leo and the fact that trolls were apparently real.
“Wow, Bridge. You are on the verge of collapse.”
“Punny.”
Astrid huffed a laugh, then leaned next to him. “I didn’t mean to make fun of your name.”
“So you’re unintentionally hilarious today.” Bridger was too exhausted to filter. It was going to be an interesting day, especially if he couldn’t dial it back during class. Were people who could predict the future real? Because he could foresee a demerit or two in his future. He’d have to ask Pavel.
“Damn, I get it. You had a rough weekend, but don’t take your snark out on me. Build a bridge and get over it.”
Bridger lifted his head from the locker and glared at her. “Is this make fun of Bridger day? Did I miss a memo?”
She smirked. “Every day is make fun of Bridger day.”
Bridger groaned. He opened his locker and grabbed his English notebook and shoved it in his bag. “I swear, if we talk about Ophelia’s drowning this period I am going to straight to the nurse’s office. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.”
“Well, if you do that then you’ll miss out on your daily ogle of your favorite football player.”
Bridger slammed his locker shut. “Say it a little louder, Astrid. I don’t think the rest of the student body heard you.”
“Oh, cut it out, drama llama. You know there is a subset of students you could talk to. A school organization even. I hear they are super supportive.”
Bridger intensified his glare. Great. Astrid on her soapbox was just what he needed today. He’d rather deal with the lake mermaids. “Yeah, and those kids don’t get harassed ever.”
“So you’re scared?”
“No. I’m not—that’s not—don’t put words in my mouth.” Ugh. Why did his liking a guy have to be a whole production? Why couldn’t he just be himself and it not be a big deal? Why did high school have to suck? Why was there such a thing as a manticore? He’d looked up pictures on the Internet. They were terrifying.
“Fine. You’re not scared. Then talk to Leo without being weird and awkward.”
“First, I don’t know if you’ve met me, but I am the definition of weird and awkward.” Astrid rolled her eyes. “Second, I don’t want the attention and the inevitable drama that would follow. I just want to keep my head down and graduate.”
“But what if there was someone that could make your last year fun and happy?”
“Are you saying that you’re not going to try and make our last year fun and happy?”
Astrid crossed her arms. “Quit being obtuse.”
“Fine. That person would have to be interested enough to brave the social ostracization as well. It’s not worth it.”
“Is ostracization even a word?”
Bridger gritted his teeth. “Not. The. Point.”
“Okay, whatever. But it doesn’t change the fact that you’re a river in Egypt,” Astrid said primly.
“And you’re being bossy. Drop it, Astrid. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Leave me to my confusion and misery.”
She sighed. “You’ll have to figure it out someday.”
“And when I do, hopefully it’ll be when I’m soaking up the sun on a warm day at a college campus far away from here.”
Astrid’s playful expression dropped. “Wait? Is that why you’re hell bent on leaving?”
Uh oh. Filter has failed. There was a leak. Contamination. Warning. Warning.
“Not talking about it,” Bridger deflected, brushing past her to walk down the hall. The tape on his leg holding his bandage in place pulled at his skin as he walked. Another irritant. Another reminder of a world beyond his imagining. “We’re going to be late if we don’t hurry.”
Astrid pursed her lips and opened her mouth to respond, but Bridger cut her off.
“Astrid, please. Not today, okay?”
The please did it. Astrid snapped her mouth closed and nodded.
Relieved, Bridger let out a whoosh of breath. One battle down. Now, if only Ophelia’s death was off the table. He crossed his fingers.
Lunch was awkward.
After his not-fight with Astrid before school, she barely talked to him. She treated him as though he was fragile and ready to break the rest of the morning. They did indeed talk about Ophelia in English Lit, but Bridger was so tired he fell asleep during the discussion. He fell asleep in his second period class, too, and earned a demerit.
Maybe he was clairvoyant. He’d have to ask Pavel.
Bridger’s every waking moment was dominated by his brain running nonstop: pixies, mermaids, manticores, werewolves, trolls. His thoughts were on a hamster wheel of improbability, and he couldn’t turn it off or even slow it down. His wound itched under his jeans, and he curled his fingers against his thighs to keep from pulling at the bandage.
Bridger slumped over his tray of square pizza, a pile of corn, and a can of pop. Astrid watched him with a concerned gaze, but didn’t engage. She talked to her field hockey squad, who sat with them during the season. They gave Bridger pitying glances.
Of course, the rumor that Bridger had drowned at the lake had run rampant among the senior class and even into the lower grades. And as rumors are known to do, it became more elaborate and sensational as the day went by. By lunchtime, Bridger had flat lined, and was resuscitated by Leo via mouth-to-mouth, and kept alive until the EMTs came.
The sad part was, Bridger didn’t refute the lie. At least in that universe, he had gotten to kiss Leo—even if he was unconscious. Leo the champion over death. Leo the star football player.
Leo the hero.
Great, as if he wasn’t already unattainable.
Bridger was half-asleep when a tray plopped into the space in front of him. All conversation around him ceased. That was odd.
“Hey, are you okay? I texted you between classes, but you didn’t answer. And you looked really out of it in English class.”
Bridger lifted his gaze.
Stupid freaking gorgeous Leo sat across from him. Beautiful, wonderful Leo had joined them for lunch. Bridger would have to ask Pavel if dimension traveling was a thing, because that was the only reasonable explanation why Leo abandoned his athlete buddies to sit at a table with Bridger.
“Um…” Yeah, real articulate there.
Leo settled on the stool and popped open the tab of his drink. He had a salad and fruit on his tray.
“Bridger?” Leo asked. “Is it okay if I sit here?”
“Uh…” What a great time for the hamster to die. His brain had been spinning all day, and now he couldn’t even muster a response in the face of the amazing, talented Leo.
Astrid kicked him under the table. Bridger jerked back and banged his knee. He glared at her. She smiled sweetly back.
Oh, hey, look, the hamster took off.
“Yes, of course. Sorry. I had a rough weekend.”
“Yeah, I was there.”
“Right.”
“By some accounts, I even performed chest compressions.”
Bridger groaned and buried his face in his crossed arms. His face flushed. Heat burned in his cheeks. How embarrassing.
Leo laughed. It was an amazing sound.
“Sorry. Don’t worry. I set everyone straight.”
Straight. Of course. Thanks for the reminder. Even with the awkward flirting and the hand-holding, Bridger couldn’t make heads or tails of what any of it meant. Maybe that was the part Bridger had imagined.
He groaned again and looked up from his cotton cocoon. “Thanks. But I don’t think I’m going to shake being the guy who passed out and almost drowned in a tangle of seaweed.”
Leo smiled gently. He pushed the toe of his sneaker against Bridger’s under the table. “That’s not so bad. And hey, it’s the beginning of the year. Maybe by the end you’ll be known for something else.”
Bridger smiled back, dopily, smitten, his defenses obliterated. “Did you just jinx me? Did you imply that I’ll be known for something worse than drowning? Seriously, Leo, I thought we were friends.”
“Oh,” Leo said, putting a hand over his mouth, “I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”
“That’s Bridger’s brand of teasing, Leo. If you hang out with him at all, you’ll get used to it. I tend to ignore it.”
“Is that so?” Leo’s brown eyes sparkled. “I better hang around more often then. To get used to it.”
Flirting again! That was flirting. It had to be. He hadn’t imagined it. Bridger’s heart beat so hard he was scared it would beat right out of his chest ala Roger Rabbit. He could feel the blush rising and burning in his ears. And he instantly perked up. Who knew a little flirting was a like a shot of adrenaline?
“You should,” Bridger said. What the hell was he doing? Asking the most popular kid in school to hang out with him more? This was probably going to end in tears.
Leo ducked his head and spun his fork on his tray.
“Hey, Leo,” one of Astrid’s field hockey friends yelled across the table, “are you aware that you have a real chance of being Homecoming king?”
Leo raised an eyebrow. “Really? I didn’t know. I don’t pay attention to that stuff.”
“Well, yeah, the savior of the football team.”
“It helps you’re hot,” another girl yelled. They giggled.
Bridger scowled and shot a withering glare toward Astrid. She stepped in and diverted them with talk of their upcoming field hockey game. She really was his best friend. It was going to be difficult for him to keep the whole other-world thing under wraps. He’d barely made it a few hours last summer before he was blurting out the sordid story of being attracted to a guy. And pixies were another level.
She’d dig it so hard.
“Speaking of homecoming,” Leo said, inching forward. Bridger’s attention whipped back to focus on Leo and his shy grin and the twirl of the fork in his fingers. “I was thinking—”
Bridger’s backpack began to ring, which was odd because his phone was in his pocket on vibrate. It started softly, a low hum that broke up the conversations at the table and had everyone squirming in their seats trying to find the source. Bridger ignored it and the light that flashed through the gap of his bag where he hadn’t zipped it up all the way after class. He gritted his teeth and forced a smile, acting nonchalant, even as he remembered he had shoved the compact mirror into the bottom of his bag.
Crap.
“Do you need to get that?” Leo asked.
Bridger played dumb—which he was surprisingly good at. He put his chin on his hand. “Get what?”
“Your bag is making noise,” Leo said. “Is that your phone?”
“That’s not mine.”
“Bridge,” Astrid butted in, leaning over the table, “did you change your ringtone?”
Bridger drummed his fingers and gave Astrid a small shake of his head. He stared at her and with every ounce of his body language tried to urge her to drop it and move on.
She didn’t.
“No, seriously, what is that?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Bridger swept his bag to the floor from where it sat on the chair next to him, and it fell by his feet. He felt around with the toe of his shoe until he found the round object under the fabric. He stepped on the compact, slowly exerted pressure, and, when that didn’t work, he stomped, which accomplished absolutely nothing except to prove to Bridger that his life sucked.
Astrid gave Bridger a look as if he’d grown another head. And another question for Pavel—hydras: real or fiction?
“Okay,” she said, drawing out the o. “Are you—”
“Absolutely sure, Astrid.”
She rolled her eyes and went back to her field hockey friends. He hoped she’d chalk it all up to Bridger’s weird charm.
Leo gave Bridger a small smile and looked adorably confused.
“Anyway,” Bridger said, clearing his throat, “you were saying?”
“Yeah, well, you know—”
The sound intensified. Bridger blew out a loud breath. He did his best to try to ignore the incessant noise from his bag, but with each passing moment it grew louder and louder. The sound, which Bridger could only describe as what he imagined a thousand car alarms would make, only became more intrusive.
He was going to kill Pavel. Okay, lie, but he was going to speak to him in a raised tone of voice about giving Bridger a foghorn.
“Is someone going to answer that?”
And that was from a kid three tables away. Okay, time to… do something.
“I need to go,” Bridger said, slinging his glowing, ringing bag over his shoulder. “I don’t feel great.”
Leo blinked. “Oh, do you need me to—”
“Nope! Thanks, though. See you later.”
Bridger bolted. He didn’t look back. He ran straight for the double doors and, once in the hallway, kept walking. He beelined for the exit and didn’t miss a beat when he passed the school office and strode outside, down the front steps, and out of the building.
He needed a place to hide. He went for the equipment shack. It sat in the middle of the athletic fields. Bridger knew it well from playing soccer and, since he was non-essential field personnel, he was one of the lucky people who had to get out cones and balls and jerseys.
With one hard jerk, the door creaked open, and Bridger ducked inside. The compact had only increased in volume and had started to vibrate. Bridger ripped open his bag, found the glowing makeup case, and flipped it open.
Nia and Bran stared back at him.
“Hello!” Nia said, her purple face taking up all of the small mirror. “I was almost beginning to think you wouldn’t pick up!”
“What the hell!” Bridger shouted, then he remembered he had skipped class and was hiding in a shed. “I mean,” he continued, quieter, “what the hell!”
Bran shouldered in. “Maybe we did break his brain.” He stared at Bridger, then fluttered his wings. “Hi, Bridger,” he said, slowly, “it’s me, Bran, the pixie. We met you last night. Remember?”
Bridger shook with frustration. “I know who you are. What I don’t know is why you are… calling me on a mirror?”
“Because that’s what mirrors are for.” Nia laughed and shoved Bran. “Isn’t he cute? I told you he was cute.”
“I am at school,” Bridger said in a harsh whisper. “You can’t contact me whenever you want. I have a life. I was talking to someone.”
Nia huffed. “It couldn’t have been as important as us.”
“I just met you.”
“So, we’re pixies. We’re always important.”
Bran shrugged. “She speaks the truth.”
“What do you two want?”
“Straight to the point,” Nia said, impressed. “I like that!”
“Me, too. It’s a quality you don’t find often in humans.”
Nia turned to Bran. “You know, you’re right. Humans have a tendency to prattle. Just the other day Pavel was going on and on about sparkling hoof prints—”
It appeared that a pixie’s attention span was in direct proportion to their body weight. “Focus!”
“Oh! Okay,” Nia flicked her hair over her shoulder. “We need a pound of butter, salt, nails, a horseshoe, whipping cream, chocolate—”
“As much chocolate as you can get!” Bran said pushing Nia out of the way and shoving his face into the mirror. “And none of the off-brand stuff because we’ll know.”
Nia pushed her way back in. “Rope soaked in holy water, aconite, garlic, a silver bullet, handcuffs—”
“What is all this stuff for? And where am I going to get a silver bullet? And how am I going to pay for it all?”
“Go to the apothecary and charge it to Pavel’s account. Actually,” Nia said, tapping her fingers against her bottom lip, “we’ll mirror the owner and give her the list so all you’ll have to do is pick it up!”
“Oh, that’s a great idea, Nia! We should’ve thought of that instead of bothering the human at school while he was talking to someone.” Bran winked.
How was this happening? How was this Bridger’s life? Pixies called him and demanded sweets. He had the urge to throttle said pixies despite the magical consequences.
“Oops, I think we broke him again.”
“It’s the store in the middle of Capitol Street, down the block from the intersection with Second Street. See you later!”
The image of the pair faded, the soft golden glow sparked out, the mirror went blank. Bridger stared at his own astonished expression and yeah, wow, he did look rough. Astrid was not lying. His blond hair hung in limp strands and dark circles ringed his green eyes. His face was pale except for twin spots of angry red on his cheeks, and his lips were bloodless and chapped.
“I look like death warmed over. How stunning.” He tried a smile and shuddered at the ghostly reflection. “That’s horrifying. But he talked to me today and didn’t run in the other direction. He talked to me! He talked to me. He talked to me.”
The door swung open and Bridger jumped. He almost dropped the mirror, but snapped the clamshell shut. A group from a freshman gym class stood in the doorway.
They stared at him.
Bridger smiled. “Practicing,” he said. Fake it until you make it. “For a play. Hamlet, actually. It’s a senior thing. You’ll find out one day.” He flashed a cheeky grin. A few of the girls giggled, and one of the guys blushed. Bridger kept the smile firmly in place and waltzed out through the crowd until…
“Aren’t you the guy Leo saved at the beach?”
Bridger sighed and hung his head all the way back to class.
“When you said you needed a favor for work, this was not what I was expecting,” Astrid said, following Bridger into the small building.
They had barely found the apothecary, wedged as it was between a massive warehouse store and a Starbucks. The parking lot had two spots, and one was already occupied by a car older than Pavel’s, which was impressive. Bridger pushed open the door, and chimes clanged. A shiver passed over him, the same shiver as when he walked through the door of Pavel’s house—a ward.
He was also hit with a wall of fragrance. The bitter and sharp scent of herbs and the sweet smell of flowers mixed to make a pungent experience as he and Astrid entered. Bridger sneezed.
The building had wooden floors and wooden walls, and there were places inside where the wood had been shaped and worn smooth by foot traffic and touch. It looked and felt ancient. Noting the absolutely weird stuff for sale, Bridger carefully walked through the aisles.
Astrid browsed, ducking to look at things on the shelves. “Bridger, what exactly does your boss need with this stuff? What is the purpose of—” She bent down. “—candied blood worms?”
“He helps people. That includes herbal remedies and nontraditional medicine.” Bridger had mastered the art of deflection.
“He’s weird, by the way. This whole job thing is weird.” If only she knew. “He gave you a cell phone so he could call you?”
“That’s not weird. Lots of companies do that.”
“Yeah, companies, not pseudo-therapists who wear awful clothing. And who happen to drive by the exact moment their employee needs help.” Astrid straightened and stared at a clear glass jar of floating hairy things. “He didn’t even hesitate, you know. He walked right into the lake, and Leo followed. I’m glad he found you, but the whole scene was bizarre.”
“Yeah? Try being on the other end of it.” Bridger tapped a clear container. It wiggled. “My leg and ego are still bruised.”
“Speaking of, Leo sat with us today at lunch and flirted with you. How awesome was that? I thought you were going to go all deer-in-headlights, but you pulled it together and managed coherence.”
Bridger blushed; the flush rose quick and hot. “Yeah. So you thought it was flirting?”
“It was totally flirting.”
Bridger beamed. He was a floodlight of joy. Astrid laughed at him and bumped his shoulder with her own.
“You’re an absolute mess,” she said fondly, before wandering to the back of the store.
“I may be a mess, but maybe he likes messes? Does that say more about him or me?”
Astrid rolled her eyes. “Bridge, this jar is labeled tadpole jelly. I think I’m going to be sick.”
“You can wait outside.”
“Not on your life. I want to see who owns this place.”
Bridger laughed. He could guess the image that Astrid had in her mind about the owner of the fine establishment, and when Bridger tapped the bell on the counter and a little old woman appeared, he was not disappointed.
In fact, she met every cliché, and Bridger gleefully exchanged a look with Astrid as he drummed his fingers against the counter.
The woman was ancient. If Pavel was old, and Bridger would need to ask about that because Pavel’s image shifted on occasion, then she was from the beginning of time. She shuffled forward, her form bent with age, the hem of her long purple dress trailing behind her. She had thin, stringy white hair that fell to her waist. Her skin was paper-thin and spotted with age. She stepped onto a wooden box behind the counter, lifted her head, and stared straight at Bridger with sharp violet eyes.
All his joy, his happiness, and his humor at the situation shriveled up and died at the force and knowledge behind her gaze. His internal organs rearranged to make room for her fierce glare as it pierced him and swept up and down his body. She reached in, pulled out every one of his flaws, judged them, and put them back in the mere moment she eyed him. Somehow, she knew him, down to his marrow, from the moment he was born until the moment he would die. Gauging him, she set his heart on a scale and read the weight of his character. She terrified him, but comforted him, and Bridger couldn’t decide if he needed to run far away or curl into a ball.
This was no frail woman. This was power draped in human form.
“Who are you?” she snapped. “Other than trouble and a liar.”
Bridger shivered.
Her eyes wide, Astrid took a step back. That earned the woman’s attention, and her gaze snapped to Astrid. “You don’t belong here,” she said with a sniff. “Get out. And don’t come back until you learn.”
Bridger and Astrid had been friends for a very long time and, normally, in a situation like this, Astrid would cock her hip, glare at the person, and bite out scathing comments in rapid-fire until the other person didn’t know which way was up. Bridger held his breath, because this could turn bad. Oh, this could be so bad. But Astrid took another step back, and nodded once.
“You’re on your own, Bridge. I’ll be outside.”
“Don’t leave me,” he whispered sharply, reaching for her hand but keeping his eyes on the not-funny crone.
“Nope,” she answered, then turned on her heel and was gone.
The owner turned her terrifying visage back to Bridger. “Answer the question, who are you?”
“I’m here to pick up Pavel’s order.”
“That’s what you’re here to do, not who you are.”
“I’m his assistant?” Wow, and that came out way too high.
“Are you sure?” She smiled, and it was a mean thing, a malicious stretch of her lips.
“Yes?” Bridger cleared his throat. “Yes. I am his assistant. I believe you spoke to Nia and Bran.”
She spat on the floor. “Pixies,” she said. “No better than leeches.”
Bridger glanced where the spit fell to make sure it didn’t burn a hole in the floor. It did not, but that did not make Bridger feel any better.
“Intermediary Chudinov.” The way she said Pavel’s last name sounded like a curse, though there was reverence attached to the title. “His predecessor was better, but at least the new one is pretty.” She turned and hefted a crate of items and slammed it on the counter. “You tell him to stop letting the pixies in the mirrors. I don’t like them and I don’t get to see his face if they call instead of him.”
Bridger nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And you—” She pointed a gnarled finger at him. “—don’t give any of them your name. If you don’t have the title attached, it’s dangerous. Names are powerful, and the myths will use them against you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And don’t call me, ma’am. I’m not that old.”
Bridger didn’t argue. “What should I call you then?”
At the question, her entire body language changed, her stern expression softened. “You can call me Grandma Alice.”
“Okay, Grandma Alice.”
Bridger wrapped his fingers around the crate handles. She patted his hand, then grabbed his wrist in a grip of steel. “You be careful, boy. Chudinov doesn’t have all the answers. Magic and myth are troublesome things, unpredictable, but so are you. You could get hurt if you’re not careful. Trust your gut when dealing with myths. Knowledge is open to interpretation.”
She let go.
Bridger stuttered a breath. “Yes, Grandma Alice.”
She regarded him, violet eyes squinted. “Well. Ask.”
“Should I do it?” Bridger didn’t know where the question came from. He didn’t have a question until it tumbled out of him at her one-word command. But now he couldn’t stop. “I’ve been thinking about pixies and trolls and mermaids all day, and I can’t get the sensation of magic out of my skin. It’s amazing and terrifying. And I’m all muddled up as it is. So is it worth it? Knowing about it all?”
“Of course it’s worth it,” she snapped. Then her expression morphed into something awed and wistful. “The world of myth is wonderful. It changes you. It opens your ability to perceive the world on a level others only dream of. It’s magic and power and beauty. But it’s not easy.”
Bridger had already experienced how it wasn’t easy, but that hadn’t stopped him from sneaking out of his house last night and demanding answers. It hadn’t stopped him from considering how he could fit into Pavel’s world. Being privy to a secret as massive as the existence of myths allowed Bridger to be special. He liked the feeling.
“What if I’m not the person for the job?” A lump formed in his throat, and his stomach ached. Huh. He was more attached to the idea than he’d thought.
“Then you wouldn’t be here.”
Bridger furrowed his brow. “What? That wasn’t an answer.”
“Go along,” she said, waving him away. “Those pixies want their chocolate and butter. Nasty creatures.”
The worry eased with her dismissal, and Bridger bit back a laugh as he walked to the door. After juggling the crate, he opened the door and turned to thank her.
She was gone.
“Well, that’s unnerving.”
Bridger left the building. He loaded the supplies into Astrid’s car, then slid into the passenger’s seat.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Don’t ask me to help you with work again if you’re not going to tell me the truth.”
Bridger blinked. “What?”
She pinned him with a glare. “She called you a liar.”
“She just met me!” Bridger said, throwing his hands up. “She doesn’t know anything about me.”
Astrid narrowed her eyes. “You’re not lying to me about something?”
“No, of course not.” Lie. Lie. Lie. “What would I lie about? You know everything already. And you know me, Astrid. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut about the whole Leo thing for half a day.”
“Truth.”
“And that woman had tadpole jelly. And petrified leeches. Can you really trust a woman who would candy a bloodworm?”
Astrid nodded, considering. She shifted into reverse. “Okay, you’re right. She got to me. What a weird person—like what I was expecting and totally not what I was expecting.”
“Right?” Bridger slumped in the seat. Bullet dodged, now to deflect. “Hey, if anyone has a right to be mad, you ditched me! You left me in there with things floating in jars. Some friend you are, Bucky.”
Astrid smiled. “Yeah, I did. She terrified me. Uncanny old people are my limit. But I bet as soon as I left she offered you candy and tea.”
Bridger bit his lip to keep from smiling.
“She did, didn’t she?” Astrid pulled into traffic. “Oh, my God, you charmed the creepy old lady.”
“No, no she didn’t. She did ask me to call her Grandma Alice, though.”
“I hate you,” she said.
Bridger laughed.
They talked and listened to the radio while she drove him to work, but Bridger couldn’t get Grandma Alice’s words out of his head. He’d heard from Pavel about not giving out his name. But the other—Pavel doesn’t know everything?
Myths are unpredictable. Magic is troublesome.
From the little he had experienced, he had to agree.
Hefting the crate, Bridger closed the door with his foot. “Next time you send me to the creepy grocery store, please warn me about the magical crone. Okay? Okay.”
Pavel looked up from a stack of newspapers where he stood near Mindy’s desk. Mindy did not acknowledge him, but did straighten one of her bobbleheads and push her glasses back in place. She had apparently bathed in pink for the day.
Pavel furrowed his brow. “I didn’t send you to the apothecary,” he said, in his soft, lilting accent. “She hates me.”
“Au contraire, boss man. She thinks you’re pretty.”
Bridger lugged the supplies to the bench along the wall and put it down loudly. The glass jars rattled, and something began to smell. Bridger wrinkled his nose.
Raising an eyebrow, Pavel considered the crate. He sighed. “Bran and Nia, I suppose.”
“They mirrored me at school. I was… in class.”
“I’ll tell them not to bother you again.”
“Thanks. Also, Grandma Alice said, if you want to order from her, she wants to see your pretty face and not the nasty pixies.”
The corner of Pavel’s mouth lifted. “Good to know.”
“Is he here?” Nia screeched, dive bombing down the stairs. Bran was a second behind.
“I smell butter. He better be.”
They descended on the crate without so much as a thank you. Nia tore into the butter and, sighing and mumbling, smashed her face into it. Bran ripped open the bag of chocolates and shoved pieces into his mouth until his cheeks bulged. They chomped happily.
“You’re gross,” Bridger said.
“Thank you,” Nia said, room-temperature butter oozing from the sides of her mouth. “It’s so good. So good.”
Bridger made a face. Pavel pointed to the stairs. “Take it and go. You’re both a disgrace.”
“We’re pixies. Deal.” Chocolate stained Bran’s face, and he had managed to smear it into his hair.
“Go. Please. You’re off-putting.”
Nia huffed, but dropped the butter back into the box. She grabbed one end, and Bran grabbed the other. They flew off, the crate between them.
“How did you find them? And what exactly do they do here?”
Pavel rubbed his eyes. “They came with the job. And they’re supposed to help but honestly… pixies.” He dropped his hand and shrugged.
“Great! No wonder you needed an assistant. Speaking of,” Bridger said, following Pavel back to the newspapers. “Please, don’t tell me you want me to continue to sort your scrolls.”
“No.”
“Great, that is so great. I have been thinking since the pixies and the mermaids and the trolls and I talked with Grandma Alice. I want to help. At first, my mind was kind of—” Bridger made a noise and threw up his hands “—blown, you know? But I’ve thought about it, and there is a whole other world—a world I knew nothing about. And I don’t like not knowing. So, I want to know more, even if it’s dangerous. Because the less I know the more dangerous it is. Right? So teach me. I’m ready. Be my Obi-Wan Kenobi.”
“Who?”
“Seriously? Everyone knows Star Wars.”
Pavel shook his head slowly. “Is that a historical event? Or a band?”
“It’s a religion. Okay, a movie… you know what, never mind. I want to learn.”
Pavel smiled. “That’s fantastic. That’s good to hear.”
“Awesome,” Bridger said, smiling. He clapped his hands. “So, what’s first, boss? Should we coax that troll out from under the interstate? Or how about luring those mermaids away from the beach?”
“I need you,” Pavel said, tapping his long fingers over the yellowed newspapers, “to look through these and note any unusual weather patterns, particularly cold snaps.”
“What?”
“And,” he said, raising a finger and jogging into the library. He remerged carrying a leather-bound book, “I need you to memorize everything in this book.” Bridger took it and let his arm flop by his side; he was unenthusiastic in every way imaginable.
“Be careful,” Pavel said, taking the book back. “It’s very old and it’s very important.”
Bridger sighed and read the gold, flowing script across the front.
The Rules and Regulations for Mediating Myths and Magic: A Comprehensive Guide to All Documented Myths and Cryptids and the Rules and Regulations for Intermediary Interaction.
“The title is a little redundant.”
“Yes, and not as comprehensive as The Complete Guide to Rules and Regulations et cetera, but this one is much more portable.”
“I have to be honest, Pavel. This isn’t quite what I imagined the job was going to look like from this point forward.”
Pavel slapped Bridger on the upper arm. “Jobs rarely meet our expectations, but I promise you, this is important. How’s your leg?”
“It hurts. Point taken. Cold weather and the driest book in history. I’m on it.”
“Great.” Pavel’s smile was bright. He obviously didn’t hear the sarcasm or, if he did, he chose to completely ignore it. “I’ll be upstairs.”
Hours later, Bridger’s vision blurred and his back was sore from hunching over old newspapers and writing down dates of unseasonably cold weather. His phone beeped, alerting him it was time to go home, and he carefully folded the newspapers. He shoved the book into his bag.
He left the library and waved to Mindy, who was shutting down her computer.
“Later, Mindy.”
“Stop,” she said. She pointed to a small jar on her desk. “From the pixies. For your wound.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. I just work here.”
Barely, Bridger didn’t say. He picked up the jar. The cream inside sparkled. On the outside, in small cramped script, were instructions.
Use only at night. On your wounds. Only once. Maybe twice. Five is right out.
Thank you for the butter and the chocolate.
Bridger smiled. He shoved the cream in his pocket and walked out the front door; the ward tingled over his skin.