The Rules and Regulations for Mediating Myths & Magic

by F. T. Lukens

  Sincerely,

  Drowsy, Annoyed, and Armed.

  Wow, that was fairly hostile. Must have been a hell of a loud dog. Was Elena the writer, or was it her dog going nuts a few nights ago? Bridger’s money was on the dog owner, simply because the writer seemed to have a planned solution if the howling started again.

  Bridger heard a soft knock and the door creaked open. His mom poked her head in.

  “I got called in. I’ll see you in the morning as long as there aren’t any more interstate problems.”

  A pang of disappointment hit Bridger in the chest, but he ignored it as usual and smiled. “Okay, Mom. Have a good night.”

  “You too, kid. And don’t stay up too late. Okay?”

  Bridger nodded and checked the clock on his nightstand. He closed his laptop. “Night, Mom.”

  “Night, Bridge. Love you.”

  “Love you, too,” he called to her as she closed his door. He fell back on his pillows and sprawled there listening as his mom left for work—the sound of the door closing, the rumble of the engine as she started the car, the sound of the tires on the asphalt as she backed up and pulled away—all of it replaced by the deafening silence of being alone.

  As he drifted on the edge of sleep, he thought he wouldn’t have minded a little howling.

  Chapter 3

  Bridger endured a day of school with a golf-ball-sized hole in the bottom of his shoe. He lasted through English class, in which he mooned over Leo and Astrid laughed at him when he was called on to read. Polonius was no Rosencrantz or Guildenstern, so he flubbed through the words and his cheeks burned. He kept his head down when he left, and the blush didn’t diminish until after the final bell of the day rang hours later.

  Bridger hitched a ride with Astrid and she dropped him off at work. She said, with a raised eyebrow, “Seriously? Could this house be any more adult Wednesday Adams chic?”

  “You’re just jealous.”

  “Oh, yeah. Totes.”

  Bridger climbed out of the car and low-key flipped her off as he walked up the sidewalk. He heard Astrid laughing as she pulled away.

  He pushed open the front door and stepped in, hoping the slime had been taken care of. He let out a relieved sigh. The foyer was indeed clean. The burns on the floor had been erased, and the wall was spotless, as if there had never been acidic goop at all.

  The foyer was also occupied by someone other than Mindy or Pavel.

  On the bench along the wall sat a woman—a gorgeous woman—dressed in a tight red dress, with her legs crossed at the knees. Long, thick brown hair tumbled in waves over her shoulders and down her back. She had light brown eyes that caught the sunlight to glint amber, and full dark red lips that stretched into an inviting smile when she spotted him.

  “Oh,” she said, setting the magazine she had been reading on her lap. She tilted her chin up and inhaled deeply, lashes fluttering. She furrowed her brow. “What are you?”

  “I’m a high school student?” Bridger said. It came out more a squeaky question than a statement. He straightened his flannel shirt and grimaced at the smear of chocolate pudding, courtesy of Astrid, across the leg of his jeans. First impressions—not his strong suit.

  “No, I mean—” She pointed at the door. “—you crossed the threshold.”

  Bridger cast the entrance a critical glance. “What the hell is it with that door?”

  She cocked her head like an inquisitive puppy and batted her eyelashes. “It’s warded.”

  “What does that even mean? A security system?” Bridger shot a look to Mindy who was obviously playing solitaire on her computer. “Is that why you made me climb the side of this house? Because of an alarm?”

  Mindy, dressed in a sparkly green blazer with random purple sequins, didn’t answer, clearly apathetic to Bridger’s confusion and to the conversation between him and the mystery woman. Seriously, how did she keep the job? Sure, she knew how to dispose of vaguely threatening flowers and how to hire clueless teenagers, but what really was her skill set?

  The woman stood, and Bridger’s attention snapped back to her, and his pulse thudded in his ears like bass drums. His cheeks flushed with heat, and sweat rolled down his back. His heart pounded, sending blood and adrenaline rushing through him, and that was weird because these days he was experiencing an existential crisis in that realm of his life, but she was so pretty.

  She walked toward him, but it wasn’t a walk, it was a slink. Yes, a stalk, sensual and feral, and she inhaled again. She licked her lips.

  Bridger dropped his bag.

  She pressed a hand to his body below his collarbone—her fingers spread, her nails sharp and red, matching her lipstick—and Bridger stepped backward until his shoulder blades hit the wall.

  The brown of her eyes flashed in the light, and her breath was hot and quick on the skin of Bridger’s neck.

  “Do you have a name, high school student?” It came out throaty and deep, and Bridger shivered.

  “I… um… would you believe that… I actually don’t know it right now…” he stammered, voice cracking. He really wanted to tell her his name, but intuition told him he shouldn’t. He didn’t know. He was confused, so confused, but also a livewire as his body reacted to her presence in a chemical way. Heat radiated from the places her fingertips pressed into his chest in little points of perfect pain.

  “Elena! Stop!”

  Pavel’s voice rang out from the stairs and sliced through the haze that clouded Bridger’s senses. He swore he heard a growl and then the rapid footsteps of Pavel flying down the stairs.

  “Elena,” he said again, his accent fierce and clipped. “Stop. Let him go.”

  She blinked and shook her head. With a horrified expression, she snatched her hand off Bridger’s chest as if he was a wildfire.

  He did feel like one, burning up from the inside.

  Pavel stepped between them, which forced Elena to step back, and Bridger could breathe again. He shook, his hands trembled, his heart fluttered, the flood of adrenaline receded, and he sank back against the wall.

  “I’m so sorry.” She swallowed, her throat working. “I told you something was wrong. That was why I needed to come see you. It’s waning, Pavel.”

  “I know.” Pavel placed his hand on her shoulder and turned her toward the stairs. “Go up to my office. I have tea waiting for you.”

  “Thank you.” She brushed her hair back from her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said, addressing Bridger. “I’m not normally so… aggressive.”

  “Totally fine,” he replied, breathless and embarrassed. His chest heaved, and sweat was drying, clammy and cold, on his skin.

  “Go on up,” Pavel pushed her gently. “I’ll take care of this.”

  She left, her hips swinging, but the threat was gone. Maybe Bridger had imagined it? Maybe Bridger had imagined everything that had happened since he had gotten the job? This all had to be a hallucination from the dust in the library, or from pollen in the weird flowers. It had to be, because Bridger was a firm believer in Occam’s razor, and a reasonable explanation had to exist for acidic green goo, shrill voices in walls, and gorgeous women who hit on teenagers.

  “Are you okay?” Pavel asked.

  Bridger rubbed his chest and felt the imprint of her nails. “What the hell? That was Elena? The woman with the dog that barks?”

  Pavel lifted an eyebrow. “A dog that barks,” he repeated, softly. “Oh. The disturbance.”

  “Yeah, I looked it up in the paper. Is she a little off? I feel like she might need help. I think. I’m not sure.” Bridger grasped for the correct way to say things. Astrid would smack him for not being sensitive, but all thought had left his head when she had touched him. “Is there an… uh… addiction there?”

  Pavel laughed, throwing his head back.

  Bridger crossed his arms and scowled.

&nb
sp; After a moment, Pavel composed himself. “You think Elena is a sex addict?” he asked, then snickered.

  Bridger threw up his hands. “I don’t know! I still don’t know what the hell you do to help people!”

  Pavel smiled, his eyes crinkling. “No, she’s not a sex addict. But you aren’t wrong, she does need help.” He put his hands in the pockets of his awful plaid pants. And on a side note—who allowed him to dress that badly? He was a thrift shop horror story, wearing a vest that looked as though it was part of a steampunk cosplay over a light blue button-up shirt with a flared seventies collar. “Are you all right? You’re flushed. Do you need to… talk?” Pavel made a face that Bridger could only describe as a mixture of embarrassment and concern—the same face his mom made when she tried to talk to him about bodily functions and… oh, no.

  “No! Oh, my God, no!” Mortified, Bridger picked up his bag and stuck out his chin. “I’m going to go finish organizing your library.”

  He turned and headed toward the door, but Pavel’s voice stopped him. “Good instincts, by the way. Never give your name, especially when they ask.”

  “Sure. Great. Makes sense,” Bridger muttered. “Weirdo.”

  Pavel jogged up the stairs. Bridger huffed and ducked into the library.

  Mindy whooped; she must have won her solitaire game.

  Bridger checked the clock and made sure to finish with plenty of time to get home for Jeopardy. His mom was supposed to be off work, and he wouldn’t mind hanging out with her for a while before falling headfirst into bed. He gathered the note cards he was using and put them on the bookshelf by the door. He might be able to finish the task in the next few days, strange encounters aside.

  He closed the library door and passed Mindy’s desk.

  “Wait,” she said, looking up from the game on her phone, where she had been matching candies. She held up a wad of cash. “From petty cash.”

  Bridger approached warily. “What for?”

  “For your shoe.”

  “It’s hush money, isn’t it? Don’t want me talking about the experimental goo that can burn holes in a variety of materials?”

  Mindy rolled her eyes. “Pavel wants to pay for your shoe. It was ruined on the job, so it’s his responsibility to replace it.” She put the money on the edge of her desk. “Take it or don’t. Doesn’t matter to me either way.”

  Well, that makes sense. He picked up the folded bills and slipped them into his pocket without counting. He wasn’t going to be rude. “Thanks. Have a good weekend.”

  Mindy went back to her phone. “See you Monday after school.”

  Bridger waved and walked to the bus stop. It was still a little early, and the Meijer was on the route home. They stocked everything. He thumbed the edge of the money in his pocket. New shoes it was.

  Friday. Blessed Friday. He’d made it through the weird-ass week and now he could relax. Bridger dropped his bag and slipped off his brand-new sneakers. He wiggled his toes in his socks and slumped against the door.

  He looked forward to a weekend of nothing. Absolutely nothing. Okay, not completely nothing. He needed to catch up on school work and he needed to do laundry and clean his room to find the source of the mysterious smell. He may have fallen asleep eating a banana the other night. He wasn’t sure, since he had been so exhausted yet so hungry and unable to decide if he should sleep or eat. Sleep had won, but not without a price. A piece of the banana may have fallen under the bed and died. Yeah, gross.

  Bridger sighed and knocked his head against the door.

  “Mom?” he called. The car was in the driveway, so she hadn’t picked up the extra shift she had mentioned as a possibility that morning. “You home?”

  Dragging his bag by the strap, he pushed himself away from the door. The doorbell rang.

  Bridger clutched a hand over his shirt and whipped around, heart in his throat.

  Holy hell, he was jumpy.

  He wasn’t completely over the incident in the office with Elena. Whatever that had been, it felt weird and dangerous. Menace had dripped from her—not literally, he thought, remembering the goo—but she had emanated threat, and Bridger’s adrenal gland had gone into overdrive. Though that could have been because she was so pretty. Gorgeous. Sublime. Like looking directly into the sun and knowing you were burning your optic nerve into dust but you couldn’t look away.

  Someone knocked.

  Oh, right, the door. Man, Bridger was more rattled than he’d thought. “I got it, Mom!” he called, even though he wasn’t even sure she was in the house. He opened it a crack and peeked around the frame.

  His breath left him in a whoosh.

  Leo.

  Leo raised his hand and waved. “Hey, Bridger,” he said, as the sleeve of his hoodie slipped down his forearm—his muscular, beautiful forearm—revealing smooth dark skin.

  Bridger swallowed, his throat tight. He opened the door wider and went for a nonchalant lean in the doorway.

  He missed. Completely.

  He slammed his shoulder into the wall, tripped over his bag, and barely managed to right himself by grabbing onto the only thing he could reach—Leo’s shirt.

  Leo laughed and wrapped his hands around Bridger’s wrists to help steady him. “You okay?” he asked, voice warm and light, and, oh, God, Bridger would never, ever be smooth.

  “I’m good,” he said, righting himself. He kicked his bag hard enough to send it flying behind the door.

  “You sure?” Leo asked.

  Breathless and glowing as red as a tomato, Bridger nodded. He still had his fists clenched on Leo’s shirt. He couldn’t get any more embarrassed. He let go and winced at the wrinkles. Bridger smoothed them; his palms ghosted over Leo’s chest. Holy God, he was touching Leo inappropriately.

  He snatched his hands back and shoved them into his jean pockets.

  Leo smiled—and talk about blinding. His brown eyes crinkled at the corners and he rocked back on his heels, thumbs hooked in his pockets. His jeans were ripped at the knees, and not artfully, but frayed as if they were his favorites. His dark hair was shaved on the sides and then swooped up in the middle, as if he had stepped off a page from a magazine. He was the guy who made cool look effortless, even though everyone knew hair didn’t style itself. Though with the week Bridger’d had, he didn’t count out the possibility. If there was a chance that anyone in his school had magic hairstyling power, it would be Leo.

  Bridger stared; his mouth dropped open. How did this guy exist? How was he even real?

  Leo shrugged and toed the broken brick on the front stoop. “So,” he said, drawing out the vowel.

  Oh, oh shit. Bridger shook his head and snapped back to himself. He had to salvage this situation.

  “Anyway,” Bridger said, “what’s up?”

  “Yeah, so, are you doing anything tomorrow?”

  Bridger’s brain officially went offline.

  “I… um… no? I mean, no. I am not doing anything tomorrow except probably laundry.”

  “Awesome. A bunch of us are going to the lake. A last swim before it gets too cold. Do you wanna come?”

  “Wow. Seriously? Me? Wouldn’t that break a cool-kid code?” Bridger asked, tugging on the end of his sleeves. “I’d hate to get you thrown out of the club.”

  Leo scrunched his nose. “I don’t think so, but I haven’t read all the bylaws. Shhh, don’t tell anyone.” When Bridger didn’t answer, Leo rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to come, but I thought it would be fun.”

  “I’d love to... Uh... I mean… that’s… wow. I mean, cool.” Bridger scratched the back of his neck, while his brain screamed at him to form a complete sentence.

  “You can bring Astrid.”

  It was amazing how disappointment could slam into a person in a real, corporeal way. It was also amazing how it could make all the fluttery awkwardness of an inte
raction wrench to a stop and turn something flirty and graceless into a normal conversation. The mention of Bridger’s best friend was a complete ice bucket, and the excited nervousness Bridger felt shriveled into a cold, wet ball.

  “Oh, yeah. I could ask her,” Bridger said in a tone similar to the way he’d talk to his teacher about the weather or weekend brunch plans.

  “Awesome!” Leo then proceeded to throw out finger guns.

  Bridger raised an eyebrow, and Leo flushed brilliantly and stared in horror at his hands, as if they had betrayed him.

  “Anyway,” he continued, voice weak, “tomorrow after lunch at Lighthouse Beach?”

  “I’ll check my very busy schedule of household chores and homework, but I’m pretty sure we can make it.”

  “Great! I look forward to it, seeing you and Astrid outside of school.”

  Wow! Leo was floundering. He must really like her.

  Bridger could totally relate. He threw Leo a life raft and shot out his own pair of finger guns. Empathy was a strange beast.

  Leo laughed, took a step back off the porch, and flailed when he lost his balance.

  “Be careful. I can’t have the football team coming after me because the star player injured himself on my lawn.”

  Leo laughed again and ducked his head. “I promise not to tell the truth if I happen to twist my ankle on the short walk back to my house.”

  “See that you don’t. I’m unpopular enough as it is.”

  At that, Leo lifted his head and made eye contact. “Nah, plenty of people like you, Bridger. And being different isn’t a bad thing. A lot of people like… different.”

  Ugh. Why did he have to be so endearing? And hot? At the same time?

  The kid was a hazard.

  And Bridger needed him off the lawn or he was going to do something rash or stupid… well, more stupid than he’d already been.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Bridger grabbed the doorknob behind him lest he accidentally use finger guns again. One incidence was enough.

  Leo smiled, this time soft and fond, as if he was staring at GIFs of kittens. “See you tomorrow, Bridger.”