by F. T. Lukens
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.
Chapter 6
A week later and Bridger’s leg was completely healed. The pixie’s concoction had worked within a day, but Bridger kept the bandage in place, just in case anyone noticed the miraculous recovery. He hadn’t lived down the whole incident, but at least the rumors had diminished.
As for work, Bridger was about three pages into the book Pavel gave him. It was boring and dry, and Bridger had schoolwork to keep up with, so memorizing had taken a back seat. It’s not as though it mattered. Since the mermaids and the apothecary, Bridger had been relegated to newspapers and books and other boring things. Nia and Bran aside, the closest Bridger had come to a myth was in writing, and he had a sneaking suspicion that Pavel was keeping it that way.
There was a lot Bridger didn’t know, but he was an observer of others by nature, and he could see the exhaustion in Pavel’s expressions and the tension in his shoulders. There was more going on than Pavel let on, but Bridger was new to the team and hadn’t found his footing. He needed to work on that.
Contrary to popular belief, Bridger rarely did anything he cared about halfway. Yes, okay, he sucked at soccer, but that was because he didn’t have an undying love for the sport. He did have an undying love of knowledge, thus the many nights of Jeopardy watching. Facts were his hobby, and, while the myth guide book was mind-numbing, being in the presence of Nia and Bran and Elena was… well, it was surreal. The tingle of magic over his skin when he walked through the ward was like nothing he’d ever felt. There was a whole other world he had no experience with, and he wanted that experience. He wanted that experience so much.
