“You know one version of the truth. Honestly, I’m surprised. I never thought Moira MacNamara would blindly believe everything she was told.” Trying a derisive chuckle, I only manage a strange bark. I blame that subtly enticing scent. It’s choking me.
“You’re wrong,” she snarls.
Even though we’re in the middle of growling at each other, I experience an odd spark of relief.
Finally, I know what happened to make the selkie turn cold on me.
When I returned to Folk Haven just over a year ago, I didn’t know what my reception in town would be. I’d spent my high school years here, making a handful of casual friends, and then went north for college. But when I decided to open a business, this town—a mythical sanctuary—seemed like the perfect spot. So, I returned, bracing for the monster distrust I’d experienced in small bursts when I was younger.
When I met my realtor at the first address she’d sent me, my mind was focused on finding a home. Then, she stepped out of the front door, moved in close to shake my hand, told me to call her Moira, and gifted me with a welcoming smile that should appear on all advertisements for Folk Haven. In that moment, I didn’t care if she showed me a mold-covered shack, infested with palmetto bugs and copperheads. I was sold.
Instead, Moira walked me through two modern, comfortable houses, pointing out all the amenities while offering jokes and sassy grins along the way. I think I said words back, ones that made her laugh and her eyes sparkle. The gods must have gifted me with those sentences because I can’t recall anything other than wanting to bury my face in her neck to breathe her scent in deeper. Every surface she ran her fingers over had me imagining her touch on my bare skin. When she pointed out the granite countertops, I couldn’t stop fantasizing about bending her over the cool surface and tearing the pencil skirt off her shapely thighs before kneeling to taste her.
I’d never felt such a strong, immediate attraction, but I kept that longing to myself when she mentioned a boyfriend.
A short time after, I heard through the relentless Folk Haven gossip mill that the pair had split up. I planned to ask her out. But when I next saw Moira in Coffee & Claws and offered her a warm greeting, the selkie’s expression was harder than the countertops in my new kitchen. The shift in personality jarred me, and I struggled to figure out what I might have done wrong. Every interaction after that was the same until I realized what the truth must be.
When I had been a customer, Moira had dialed up her saleswoman persona to get me to buy a house. Once the papers had been signed, she went back to her normal dislike of monsters. Prejudice, just like plenty of other mythics.
I wanted to rage and roar, furious that she hated me without knowing me.
But wouldn’t that reaction make me the monster she believed me to be?
Maybe not.
Turns out, I got it wrong. Moira’s grudge was born from a lie. All her animosity is unfounded, which would be encouraging if I didn’t just piss her off for an entirely new reason.
Fucking great.
In my frustration, I can’t help pushing her.
“The moon is made of cheese,” I taunt. “Witches are selling winning lottery tickets.” I keep going with the preposterous, made-up facts, enjoying how each one has Moira’s cheeks flushing a deeper shade of crimson. “Bigfoot grows cannabis in Canada. Merpeople fart fairy dust.”
“No, we don’t.”
Moira and I both whip around to spot Carl, a sergeant on the police force and one of the mermen of Lake Galen, watching us with a bemused expression.
And instead of calming down when faced with my ridiculousness, I lean in. “There you have it!” Great, I’m shouting about sparkly farts in public. “A secondary source! Guess we can cross that off my list of facts that are totally true.”
Moira draws a veil of respectability over herself with a deep inhale. The sight only has me wanting to get her riled up again. Some public figure I am.
“Hi, Carl. Council Member Abadi and I are having a debate about research.” She presents him a friendly politician smile.
The merman glances between us again before offering a hesitant nod that conveys he doesn’t believe a word of what she said. But he heads inside, leaving us to our strange argument.
“Fine.” The snap of the one word draws my attention back to Moira’s face, where her fury has reemerged. The switch-flipping might scare me if I wasn’t so impressed. “You need another source? I’ll get one.”
“Really? You’re planning to fly to the Mediterranean to track down my father?” At least, I believe that’s the ocean he chose to go to with it being the closest to his home. But his letter didn’t specify. It also didn’t give a return date.
I could tell Moira what the letter said. Tell her that I’m not refusing to speak to my father to be petty.
But I keep the information to myself.
“No.” She brushes her hands down the front of her dress, straightening wrinkles that aren’t there. “I’ll consult the closest thing mythics have to historians.” Moira plants her fists on her hips, hitting me with a power pose. “Sirens. A leviathan stealing the pelt of a selkie is a grand tale. They have to have a song about it.”
Curse the gods, her snarky smirk does strange things to my chest. I long to wipe that expression off her face. With my mouth.
That’s called kissing, and remember, you don’t want to do that with her. She’s infuriating, not infatuating.
Keep getting those wires crossed...
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