by Mia Harlan
Violet
Spell Library, Book One
Mia Harlan
Violet
Copyright © 2020 Mia Harlan
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in any reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the prior written consent of the authors.
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Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Violet
“Ready to open the library, Stacks?”
“Meo-uff!” The fluffy, gray tabby takes off and starts running circles around me.
“You could at least pretend to be a cat,” I tell him.
He pulls to a stop and starts wagging his tail happily in response.
“I can find you a book on how to be a cat,” I suggest.
Stacks starts panting. Like a dog.
“Oh, never mind. It’s not like you’ve got any reason to hide who you are.” I lean on my walker and start to slowly make my way across Spell Library.
My eighty-year-old body disapproves. My hip protests, my joints ache, and I briefly daydream about shifting into someone else: a vampire? A dragon? A chupacabra? I wouldn’t even need to fully shift—just my lower body should do.
Unlike my sister, I can control my chameleon powers—most of the time, anyway. That, and I’ve got old lady clothes on—baggy dress pants paired with an oversized, buttoned up cardigan. I could hide an entire set of angel wings underneath this getup. I could even half-shift into that hairy, scarlet-skinned demon I’ve seen at Jewels Cafe, and no one would ever notice! Well, except maybe for the height difference. Which is why I could just go with the safe choice and half-shift into my twenty-year-old self. Would anyone find out?
I look around the silent, empty library. “Nole’s going to be late again, isn’t he, Stacks?”
The moment I utter those words, I feel butterflies in my stomach. My cheeks flush, and my heart starts to race. Not because I’m thinking of Nolan Barrett, my twenty-year-old bear shifter library assistant. No way, no how. It’s probably just over-exertion from crossing the library.
“I swear the door seems farther and farther away every day,” I mutter, though I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince: myself? Or Stacks?
“Meo-uff!” The cat—who’d gone back to running circles around me—pulls to a stop, sits on his haunches, and wags his tail in agreement.
Should I just shift?
For a split second, I almost convince myself to do it.
The library’s still closed. Nole isn’t here. And it’s not like there’s some Peeping Tom outside one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching old lady Violet shuffle across the faded carpet.
There are a few seniors gathered outside, but they’re either lost in thought or chatting away happily while they wait for the library to open. Betty—the only one who might be paying me any attention, has her back to me. And even if she were to turn around, she always complains her eyesight isn’t what it used to be.
“That only leaves you, doesn’t it, Stacks?” I glance down at the tabby.
Stacks wags his tail happily. I almost expect him to bark. Instead, he lets out another happy “Meo-uff!”
“You’re not secretly a shifter, are you? Our last library cat was, you know. But now he’s happily mated to a snarky vampire now.”
Stacks wags his tail some more.
“I know you’re not like Handkerchief, Stacks.” If you were, I’d be able to shift into you. “When I bought you, Calluna assured me you were a cat, or a dog cursed to look like a cat. Which one are you, Stacks?”
“Meo-uff!”
“That doesn’t really help.” I chuckle. Whatever he is, he’s definitely a pet. Which means he won’t be able to talk... or tell anyone if I shift. Especially not them.
Even the thought of them makes my eighty-year-old heart nearly explode out of my chest.
Shit! The last thing I need is to have a heart attack and die in this body... or be forced to fully shift and get discovered.
I tighten my grip on my walker and try to take deep, steady breaths.
Focus, Violet. You’re just being paranoid, always thinking someone’s watching you. I bet they’re nowhere near Silver Springs. And they definitely don’t know you’re posing as Old Lady Violet. Now, put one foot in front of the other. Open the library. Let the patrons in.
“We’re almost there, Stacks,” I say—more for my own benefit than his—and take another small step. Stacks ignores me and starts sniffing the carpet, which I take as my cue to stop talking and start walking.
An eternity later, I finally make it across the foyer. Okay, fine, not an actual eternity, more like five minutes... but still. I have to pause just inside the double-doors to catch my breath before I finally twist the lock.
“Isn’t it a beautiful morning?” I greet the waiting seniors. “Come in. Come in!”
“Meo-uff!” Stacks cries happily.
“Is that a new library cat I see?” Betty coos, shooting the little guy a warm smile. “If I’d known, I would have brought cat treats!”
“Meo-uff!” Stacks runs over to sniff Betty’s black orthopedic shoes, tail wagging, while the seniors fawn over him.
I beam. “Everyone, meet Stacks. Today’s his first day.”
This earns me a few chuckles before their attention returns to Stacks.
“You can go on in, I’m just going to sit for a minute,” I say, settling down on my walker. Ten points!
I’ve got a mental scoring system for whenever I manage to act or sound old, and this time, I do both. I kind of feel bad for being a total stereotype, but it’s how I’ve managed to keep up my disguise for the past year.
“Let me give this little guy a pet.” Betty hands me her books, followed by her purse, and then, ever so slowly, bends down. Stacks gets a scratch behind the ear, and then a belly rub when he flops over onto his back, tail wagging.
“Oh my. He’s an odd one, isn’t he?” she asks.
A few of the others nod in agreement.
“The poor dear”—five points—”thinks he’s a dog,” I say like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Here in Silver Springs, it is. Cats who think they’re dogs. Bunnies with uncontrollable hairballs. Guinea pigs who lose all their fur during a full moon. Just not twenty-year-olds who spend a year pretending to be eighty—well, except me.
“Is Stacks cursed?” Betty asks, since so many of the pets Calluna finds are.
I nod.
“Poor pussy.”
I nearly choke. If I’d been drinking something, there’d be no stopping it. I struggle not to laugh as I wait for one of the seniors to explain. No one does.
Do I tell her? When I’m supposedly so old that I’ve spent half my life calling cats pussies w
ith the best of them?
“I heard Magnolia’s pup started pooping glitter,” an older gentleman chimes in, effectively moving on to a different subject.
The supes in the group murmur in sympathy, while the one human among them shrugs, already having forgotten the entire conversation. The wards in place throughout Silver Springs make sure of it.
“Stacks sure is more friendly than your last library cat, though, isn’t he?” Betty chuckles. “How is Handkerchief getting along with Sapphire?”
I could totally use ‘pussy’ in a sentence right now—it would be worth at least twenty points—but I don’t think I could do it with a straight face.
“I ran into them on my way home last week. Or was it two weeks ago?” I frown dramatically, even though I know for a fact that it was last Thursday. Ten points. “Sapphire and her young men looked very happy together.” Another five points for young men, and not a pussy in sight. Go Violet!
“Well, that’s all that matters, isn’t it, dear?” Betty nods sagely and turns back to Stacks.
The pussy gets more belly rubs, plus a bunch of compliments about his thick, shiny coat. When everyone looks like they’re just about done lavishing him with attention, I slowly get to my feet.
“Let’s go back inside, Stacks,” I tell the tabby. He doesn’t pay me any attention. Luckily, the seniors do and start shuffling past me.
“Is your hip paining you today, Violet?” Betty asks as she uses my walker to propel herself back to her feet.
“No more than usual,” I tell the older lady, handing back her books.
Technically, I’m the older lady, I remind myself. My body is ten years Betty’s senior, even if she is actually fifty years older than I am. Not that any of that matters when it comes to our friendship. These days, almost everyone in my life has gray hair—or in Betty’s case, gray with one fading pink stripe.
“Weren’t you going to get your hair done today, Betty, dear?”—Five points—I ask as we head inside. Stacks takes off, tail wagging, and races ahead of us. The seniors follow—though at a much more leisurely pace—chuckling when the tabby starts chasing his tail.
Betty pats her shag—which is what she insists on calling her short, messy haircut—and smiles. “Liam’s giving me a lift. He should be here at noon.”
“You have the sweetest grandson,” I tell her. She hasn’t had a chance to introduce us yet, but from what she said, he’s been doing everything from grocery shopping to cooking and cleaning so she wouldn’t have to—plus driving her all the way to Scarborough just to get her hair cut. “I’m so glad he decided to move back to Silver Springs, Betty.”
“So am I.” She smiles wistfully. “He reminds me so much of his grandfather.”
“Does he?” I ask, wondering if Liam took after Betty or her late husband. I try to picture the sweet, five foot nothing old lady married to a troll—or giving birth to a troll—and shake the mental image away.
“Martin used to work for the police force, too, you know,” Betty adds. Which might mean her grandson is human after all, and they just have similar personalities.
I wait, hoping she’ll elaborate, because it’s not like I can outright ask if her grandson is a troll. She doesn’t.
“Betty, dear, did you say Liam is picking you up at noon?” I ask, pretending to have forgotten already. Fifteen points—five for the ‘dear’ and another ten for the memory loss.
Betty nods.
“Well then, that should give you plenty of time to find something new to read.”
“Oh my, yes!” She perks up, hugging her large-print romance novels more tightly against her chest.
We make our way to the front desk where seniors are dropping off library materials of all shapes and sizes: paperbacks, large-print books, audiobooks, magazines, DVDs, you name it. The regulars know to leave their items on the counter for me, instead of using the book drop, which Nole won’t be emptying until he eventually shows up for his shift. That could be anytime between now and lunch—not that I mind, since he always stays late to make up for it.
“Come along, Stacks!” I call out, patting the top of the counter. Handkerchief used to curl up there every morning, keeping me company, but Stacks looks at me like I’m crazy. Then he takes off toward the romance section. Library cat, indeed.
“He’s got good taste in books,” Betty says.
“That he does.” I nod. “Now, where are my reading glasses?” Ten points.
“Around your neck, dear,” Betty says. I mentally give her five points as I perch the cat-eye frames on my nose and start scanning in the returns.
I have to wait for the computer to beep after each item’s done, which is crazy inefficient. At my college campus, you could check in large stacks of books all at once, but Spell is a small-town library with an even smaller budget. Plus, checking in the returns gives me a chance to chat with Betty.
She’s in the process of telling me about yet another book she read—a romantic comedy set in a small town—when shoes squeak loudly against the library floor.
Betty and I both turn in time to watch Nole saunter in. The tall, broad-shouldered bear shifter looks like he stepped out of a magazine—or a girl’s wet dream—gone wrong. Or maybe entirely too right.
His large body is stuffed into a suit that’s several sizes too small. His pants end just below his knees and cup him in a way that can’t possibly be decent.
Can’t possibly be decent. I almost chuckle. If I’d said that out loud, that would have been a solid twenty points. Should I still count it, when I’m starting to think like a senior? Well, minus the way I’m drooling over Nole.
My eyes drift down to his huge feet. They’re stuffed into white flip-flops that bring out his tan and somehow only make him look hotter.
“Sorry I’m late, Violet,” Nole says huskily, his breath coming out in pants.
My eyes snap up, and his quickly rising and falling chest nearly makes my heart stop. Nole’s white dress shirt stretches around his muscular frame, emphasizing strong biceps and pecs. The seams look ready to burst, and I hold my breath as I wait to see if any of the buttons will pop. To my disappointment—and relief—they don’t.
But they might... my hopeful twenty-year-old brain argues. Look how heavily he’s breathing! Did he run all the way to work dressed like that? Holy hell.
My cheeks flush, and for a split second, I feel my magic flare to life. Do not shift, Violet! You are in control!
I take a deep breath and try to slow my racing heart. It’s not healthy at my age—or my body’s age—never mind that it’s completely inappropriate. Imagine if one of the seniors saw their gray-haired, old lady librarian lusting after a twenty-year-old. Never mind that he’s a bear shifter and hot as hell. He’s practically a kid in their eyes... and I look sixty years his senior.
“Suit like that needs to be dry cleaned, Nole. You can’t just put it in the wash,” Betty reprimands him. At least one of us is acting her age, though I’m not sure why she’s bringing up how to do laundry.
I glance at her, but her eyes are glued to Nole’s chest, and suddenly I’m right back to drooling over him.
“I didn’t put it in the wash, ma’am.” Nole looks confused.
And his use of the word ‘ma’am’ is a stark reminder that no matter how close we’ve grown over the past year, I’m just another little old lady as far as he’s concerned.
“The suit didn’t shrink,” Nole adds, and it finally hits me why Betty mentioned dry cleaning.
Then the bear shifter glances down at himself, and my brain short-circuits. With the morning light streaming through the windows, I can almost make out his hard abs beneath the fabric of his dress shirt. A shirt that stretches around him with each word.
“I borrowed this from my older brother.”
It takes a second for his words to sink in, and my eyes widen in surprise. “Wes is home? I thought he moved in with Amber? Are they fighting?”
I know I’m not supposed to care, since Amber a
nd I are strangers in everyone’s eyes, but I can’t help it. I need to know!
And Nole can’t possibly be referring to his other brothers, since they’re technically the same age as him. Yes, Neal came first—and he never lets his brothers forget it—but I haven’t heard Nole refer to him as older before. Plus, the triplets are identical in height, while Wes is almost a head shorter, which would explain the suit.
“Wes hasn’t been by in a while,” Nole grumbles. “This was the only thing he had left in his closet.”
“But why did you need to wear a suit today? Are you going somewhere?” I frown. Wherever it is, he would have been better off in his usual jeans and t-shirt.
“No, I... um...” Nole runs a hand through his thick, sun bleached shoulder-length hair. Hair that’s still soaking wet and dripping onto his dress shirt. Then he gives me a sheepish smile. “It was all Neal and Nyle’s fault.”
“What did they do this time?” I ask, feeling outraged on his behalf—that and dying from curiosity.
“They threw all my clothes in the lake.”
“They did what?” My eyes widen.
Betty coughs. “I’ll just leave you two to talk,” she says, heading toward the romance section, where Stacks disappeared earlier.
Nole rounds the desk to join me, and my pulse starts to race.
“Do you have anything you can change into? Something...” less attractive, I think. “Work appropriate,” I say instead. Because I’m not sure I’d be able to work beside him for the rest of the day with him looking like this. Not without having a heart attack—or accidentally shifting—first.
Nole’s cheeks flush. “Oh, um... I think I have some gym clothes in my locker. Let me go look.”
Chapter 2
Violet
Nole changes into basketball shorts and a sleeveless shirt, which honestly isn’t any better than the too-small suit. His tanned, muscular arms are on full display, and I swear the bear shifter somehow looks even taller than he did earlier.
I feel my heart skip a beat every time he looks at me—or I look at him—which really can’t be too healthy at my age. Cause of death: drooling over hot, young man.
When Nole moves to the adjacent computer terminal and gets to work, I forget to breathe. I try not to stare, but I can’t help it. His muscles bulge every time he grabs a book from the stack of returns, rippling as he flips it over, scans it in, and then sets it down on a book truck.
