by F. T. Lukens
“I’m good.”
Her thin lips lifted into a grin. “Liar.”
“Always,” he said. “How are you doing today, Grandma Alice?”
“Old.”
“You? Never.”
She laughed, a grating painful sound. “Liar,” she said again.
With strength that belied her twig-like arms, she hefted the crate onto the counter, then mounted her step stool.
“Now, you tell those nasty little pixies that I need at least a month to scrounge up more black blister beetles. I don’t know what they are using them for and I don’t care. But they better ration this jar.”
Bridger shivered. “Yes, Grandma Alice. I’ll let them know.”
“And they need to return the empty jars, or I’ll start sending them in iron pots.”
“Forest pixies,” Bridger said, shaking his head. “Iron will hurt them. I’ll get them to return the empties next time.”
“You’ve been studying. Good boy.” She squinted, violet eyes sharp and assessing. She took his hand; her rough callouses scuffed over his skin. “Your aura is sour. What’s the matter?”
Bridger shrugged. “I’m having a couple of bad days. Nothing to worry about.”
She hmphed. “When will you learn you can’t lie to me.” She patted his hand. “I have a tea that will help and a honey I harvested when I went on vacation last year. You’ll take both.”
Bridger’s eyebrows went into his hairline. “You went on vacation?”
She bustled around the counter and shuffled down the rows of shelves while Bridger followed, careful not to tread on the trail of her red dress. “Of course. I can’t work all the time.”
“No, I guess not.”
She grabbed a jar and held it close to her face. Nodding, she plunked it into his hand and scanned the shelf once more. She snatched a bag and pushed it into his chest.
“Have Intermediary Chudinov brew the tea and add the honey. Don’t do it yourself. I want you to come back, not scorch the earth. Understand?”
Bridger gulped. “Yes, Grandma Alice.”
“Good boy. Smart boy. Loved boy.”
She stepped around him and went back to her step stool behind the counter.
“Loved boy?”
She sniffed. “Of course. Seeped into your marrow.”
“Grandma Alice, are you looking deeper than you should?” Bridger shook his head, remembering how she’d peered into his being, weighed his heart, measured his character, saw his beginning and end, drew out his self and shoved it back in within the space of a blink. She hadn’t done that since, not on subsequent visits, because Bridger had politely asked her not to. “We talked about that.”
“No.” She gave him a crooked grin and took his hand, cradled it palm up, and traced one sharp, broken nail over the lines. “I don’t have to look deep to know.” She shook her gnarled bent finger at him. “Drink the tea.”
“I’ll have Pavel—”
She suddenly stilled, and her attention snapped from Bridger to the door, and her whole demeanor changed from a warm, gentle teasing to a frigid, stiff stance in seconds flat. She dropped Bridger’s hand as if burned her.
The door opened. Summer Lore waltzed in with Matt the cameraman on her heels, and Bridger groaned. He ran a hand over his brow. His pulse ticked up, and everything good about his day vanished. Nausea swept over him, and his school lunch threatened a reappearance on Grandma Alice’s nice hardwood floor. It was amazing how the atmosphere could change from jovial to pressure cooker in a matter of moments.
“My,” Summer said, eyeing the shelves lined with jars full of things that probably shouldn’t be in jars. “This is quaint.”
Bridger rolled his eyes. “This is stalking.”
“This is a public establishment,” she countered.
“This is bordering on harassment. Are you following me now? What next? The school bathroom? Are you going to crash my graduation?”
She shook her head. “You have a wild imagination and—” Her reaction the moment she caught sight of Grandma Alice would forever be seared into Bridger’s brain. She let out a squeal, and her mouth dropped open, and her expression shifted through emotions so fast it was difficult to discern what they were, but Bridger was certain he caught horror, then disgust, wrapped in a burrito of recognition.
“You!” Eyes wide, she pointed a shaking finger at Grandma Alice, and Bridger reveled in the way her complexion drained of color and all professional pretense vanished. He propped an elbow on the counter and relaxed to enjoy the show.
Grandma Alice became downright gleeful. Her violet eyes sparkled. “Me,” she agreed.
“You’re the Witch of the Woods.”
Grandma Alice waved her hand, scoffing at the moniker. “I’m not a witch. I’m an apothecary. And I was on vacation.”
“You chased me through the woods while screaming.”
Grandma Alice’s laugh bordered on maniacal. Bridger couldn’t decide if he should run or grin, because the sound sent a shudder down his spine, but Grandma Alice was clearly having the time of her life.
“You interrupted me, jabbering on about witches, scaring away all the good beetles and moths. How am I to catch frogs with you crunching through the leaves? Hmm? Were you going to grind blood worms to dust for my customers?”
Summer gagged. “Certainly not!”
“Then you shouldn’t have been out there making a ruckus. And as I understand,” she said with a huff, while her thin shoulders shook with suppressed giggles, “it was your best-rated episode. You should thank me.”
“You watch TV?” Bridger asked.
Grandma Alice shrugged. “I’m old, not dead.”
Wrinkling her nose, Summer pressed her lips together before acquiescing. “You’re not wrong. It was our most-watched episode of all time. But I do not owe you. If anything, I should sue you for emotional distress.”
Cackling, Grandma Alice shook her head and waved away the threat. “You don’t belong here, missy. Move along and don’t bother my favorite customer.” She ran a gnarled hand through Bridger’s hair. “Or I’ll have to hex you.” She cackled again, stepped from her stool, and toddled off to the back of the shop with the hem of her dress dragging behind her.
“Is that a threat?” Summer called after her. Grandma Alice didn’t respond and left Bridger with his crate of supplies and Summer standing in his way to the door. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Of course, you’d be her favorite customer. Bridger Whitt. Friend of ghosts and crones and black owls. Is there anything creepy not drawn to you?”
“It’s part of my charm,” Bridger said.
“I wouldn’t call it charm.” She placed her hand on Bridger’s arm. The pink of her nails clashed with the blue flannel he wore. “I’ll figure you out sooner or later, Bridger. Might as well mitigate the damage and give me an interview. Tell me what you know about what else is out there terrorizing Midden, and I’ll make sure your reputation stays intact. It’d be awful if your friend and boyfriend decide to ditch you because of a silly TV show.”
Bridger yanked his arm away. His skin prickled with sweat. Annoyance tinged with fear welled like a tide, but he swallowed it down. She was trying to get him to crack. He’d faced down a literal hag. He could deal with a figurative one. “Lady, you are bent. And you’re blocking my exit.” He hefted the crate. The jars rattled. “Unless you want black blister beetle all over your dress, move out of my way. And I wouldn’t ignore Grandma Alice’s warning. She doesn’t play around.”
Summer stepped to the side, bowed slightly, and opened her arm. “Of course. After you.”
He wasn’t expecting Summer to follow him out, but she did. Matt was on her heels with his camera firmly aimed at Bridger’s back. He fished his phone out of his pocket and with one hand shot Astrid a text to come pick him up. He tacked on a hurry.
> “What’s with the crate of supplies? Summoning a demon? What about that black dog that came to your rescue the other day? Was that one of your creatures as well?”
Bridger bit his lip. He didn’t respond, but every atom of his body trembled with anger and frustration and annoyance.
“I saw that cute picture of you and your boyfriend in the school paper. There was one floating around the baseball field while I caught a snippet of practice today. I heard there are some very important school games coming up including possibly the state tournament, all because of him. He’s an outstanding player. Good catch.”
Bridger tamped down on all his impulsive instincts, because “good catch” was a bad romantic baseball pun, and he needed to say something. But instead he turned away. She was trying to get a rise out of him. That was all. He needed to ignore her.
“Prom’s coming up, huh? I know Luke used the money from his interview to be able to ask out your best friend. That must sting, the interconnectedness of it all.”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Bridger clutched the crate.
She shrugged. “I could be interviewing a few more of your friends. They were so eager to talk about you and your boyfriend.”
Bridger swallowed.
“We could shoot more background shots. But I think I will go back inside and talk to your Grandma Alice a little bit more.”
“I wouldn’t. She’s frightening on a good day. I’d hate to see her annoyed.”
“She doesn’t scare me. Plus, she’s old. She’ll let something interesting slip.”
Bridger exploded. “What is your problem? Huh? What happened to you? Your first season was great, despite the low production values. You gave an actual shit. But now? You stalk high school students? You make fun of people? You exploit them? And for what? Another season of cable ratings and a lackluster paycheck?” He set the crate at his feet, hard enough for the glass to wobble and clink together. “It’s hard enough being me; I don’t need you breathing down my neck too. So get on with it.” He spread his arms. “Bring it. Film me. Mock me. Threaten me. Ask me questions to which I have no answers. Get it over with, Summer. Because I have prom to worry about. And a research paper. And graduation. And a dad I haven’t talked to in a decade wants to have dinner with me.”
Summer didn’t move. Her jaw worked, and her face went red to her hairline.
“Well?” Bridger demanded. “Come on! Matt, are you rolling? Did we lose the light? What’s stopping you?”
Summer’s teeth ground together. “You heard him, Matt. Grab my microphone out of the van before he backs out and runs away.”
Oh, no. What had he done? Shit. Shit. Fucking shit.
Of course, that’s when Bridger heard the distinctive sound of a tear in space-time and thanked his lucky stars.
Pavel appeared from around a fence near the corner of the parking lot in a flurry of his long coat and with the crunch of gravel beneath his shoes. He stalked, black hair wind-whipped, clothes smelling of ozone. The portal. Pavel had used the portal. Bridger wondered how urgent the toaster had sounded. Pavel’s expression was fierce: lips in a thin line, eyes glittering with annoyance. It was as if Bridger’s discomfort summoned a dour angel. Pavel was Azriphale. All he lacked was wings and a flaming sword. He had the vengeance though. His back was straight, there was not a stutter in his step, and the usually confident Summer shuffled away from Bridger when Pavel wedged between them.
Pavel crossed his arms. “What’s going on here?”
She raised her eyebrows. “And who are you? Are you the dad? The one that’s been missing for a decade? Is your son’s obsession with cryptids and folklore a cry for attention due to your abandonment of him?”
“I’m not his father. I’m his boss.”
“Wait.” Summer peered at Pavel the way someone would if they realized they knew the person from somewhere but couldn’t place them. She snapped her fingers. “You’re the man from the beach. I saw your picture.” She pointed at Bridger. “You saved him. You pulled him from the water.”
“I did.”
She smiled sweetly. Her attitude changed from obnoxious to sultry in a blink. She pressed her hand to Pavel’s lapel; her fingernail slid under the fabric of his collar.
“You must really care for him, to risk your life. Diving into a lake filled with creatures to save your favorite employee. Strong too.” She squeezed his bicep. “To pull a waterlogged teen from the lake and provide first aid. You rescued him. He’s alive because of your bravery.”
Bridger rolled his eyes so hard they almost fell out of his head.
“Others assisted.”
“Yes, but you, you are the true hero. Would you consent to interview? Would you be willing to talk about that day and gush about your employee?”
Bridger bent his head and covered his eyes with his hands to avoid the oncoming train wreck. This was not good. Pavel was going to go all weak-kneed and blush at the physical contact. Summer was touching him and flirting with him. Who knew what Pavel would do? Stutter? Flush? Age backwards into a hormone-fueled mess ala Bridger himself?
“Stay away from him.”
Snapping his head up, Bridger stared with wide eyes. Pavel’s voice was steely; his accent was deep and harsh. His hand clasped Summer’s wrist and held it away from his body.
“What?”
“Stay away from him. Please.”
She wrenched out of his grasp.
“Or you’ll what?” She lifted her chin and crossed her arms. “Call the cops? We both know you don’t want that. You don’t want the attention, or your name and picture would have been in the paper when they wrote up the beach event. But it wasn’t. You vanished. Oh, yeah,” she said with a nod, calculating Pavel’s expression. “I’ve talked with a few of the kids. You showed up. Walked straight into the water with the little boyfriend. Pulled your assistant out, then disappeared minutes later, before the ambulances arrived. Sounds fishy to me.”
Another pun. Oh, she was pushing every one of Bridger’s buttons. Maybe use of bad puns was one of her strategies to get Bridger to break. Well, it worked. And she was not wrong. He kept forgetting she was an investigative reporter. She’d looked this shit up.
Pavel’s jaw worked. The air around him dropped a few degrees, and Bridger grasped the sleeve of Pavel’s coat to ground him, to remind him that he couldn’t allow his anger and frustration to show in his expression, or, well, his whole being. Pavel’s appearance shifted on occasion and revealed the turmoil beneath his usual placid veneer, and this was the exact wrong time for that to happen.
Glancing to his side, Pavel gave Bridger a nod.
“I’ve asked nicely.”
She huffed. “And what? You’ve said ‘please,’ so I’m supposed to drop everything and leave? Yeah, right.”
“Leave my assistant alone.” His tone brooked no argument. “Leave his friends alone.”
“You’ve yet to provide any consequences to me if I don’t.”
Pavel smiled, a mean little twist of his mouth. “I won’t threaten you, but I am warning you.”
“You think you’re intimidating.” Summer huffed. “You’re nothing. You think I’ve gotten this far by playing nice? You aren’t the first two guys who haven’t wanted me around and you certainly won’t be the last. But in the end, I always get the story. This will be no different. Whatever you’re hiding will be brought to light even if it’s just an affinity for black blister beetles.” She kicked the crate at Bridger’s feet.
Bridger shivered and gripped the fabric between his fingers tighter.
Pavel shook his head, and black hair fell across his eyes. He sighed heavily. “Fair enough, Ms. Lore. But remember, I did warn you.”
For some reason, that brought Summer up short. Her self-assured persona wavered, and her bravado dimmed. Her crossed arms went from a defiant position to a defensi
ve one. “Noted.”
Pavel turned on his heel and strode across the parking lot and toward the street. “Come along, Bridger.”
Hefting the crate, Bridger scrambled after Pavel. He cast a glance over his shoulder at Summer. Mouth turned down, she watched him. She tapped her jawline, considering Bridger with a pinched look.
Ducking his head, he focused forward, because the last thing he needed was to trip or run into something and break bottles of who-knows-what all over the concrete. He turned a corner and found Pavel in front of the portal—a shimmering oval of magic, which blended into the landscape and was only visible to those familiar with it.
“Pavel, what just happened? I don’t get it.”
Pavel gestured for Bridger to hand over the supplies, and he did so.
“I need to talk with my mentor. Go home now. I’ll mirror you tomorrow.”
“What? Pavel? No. I’m sorry, okay. I lost my cool. I know this is all my fault. I should’ve stayed away from her like you said. Okay? I know that now. I’m sorry.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, but don’t fire me, okay? Let me fix it.”
Pavel’s forehead crinkled. “Bridger, calm down.”
“No, I can’t. She literally said she’s going to keep looking into everything. I fucked up. Please let me help you.”
“Bridger, I’m not mad at you. And I’m not firing you. I promise.” Pavel nudged Bridger with his elbow. “I will include you in any plan that I make. But I must confirm Intermediary Guidelines in this case. I will talk with you tomorrow. Until then, go home. Relax.”
Bridger sucked in a breath. Relax? Yeah, right. “Okay,” he said, chin dipping to his chest. “Okay.”
Pavel waited with Bridger until Astrid arrived, which Bridger was grateful for, but which also made him feel he was back in kindergarten and couldn’t be left without adult supervision. But he was an adult, technically. He didn’t feel like one.
Astrid didn’t say anything when he slid into the car empty-handed and Pavel disappeared in an ooze of light and sound. Bridger studied his hands as she drove.
“Want to talk about it, Cap?”
