She grins, her mood-ring eyes shifting from brown to green. “I’d love that. When can I set it up?”
“How about now? I’ll help you clean up this mess and we can pull books for the display at the same time.”
She nods and starts sorting through her piles, humming quietly.
A sense of calm settles over me. It takes so little to make her happy, and for reasons I’d prefer not to examine too closely, that makes me happy too.
JULIET
I assume, under normal circumstances, something as mundane as inventory wouldn’t feel intimate. But when you’re alone in the basement with an intriguing and attractive mothman, it’s different. We’re standing side by side in front of a foldable utility table with several boxes on it, each holding a hand scanner, ready to tackle as much as we can.
“I know I said I was okay with the basement as long as it was well lit, but I might be reconsidering that,” I tell him.
It’s less warm-and-cozy storeroom and more along the lines of two-bare-bulbs-and some-tables. It’s not dank, which would be bad for the merchandise, but it’s not a place I want to hang out, either. With its concrete walls and general lack of furniture, the most flattering way to describe it is basic and uninviting. “Just stay focused on the books. The faster we get everything entered into the system, the sooner we’re done. And if that fails, remember that I’m sort of bioluminescent, so you won’t end up in the dark, even if the power goes out. Which it won’t.”
I look up in surprise. “Wait, you are?”
He flutters his wings. “Kinda? I don’t generate my own light, but I absorb the light I’m in and glow in the dark a little. Like a low-powered solar garden lamp.”
I laugh at the comparison. “That’s weirdly reassuring.” I cut open the box of books in front of me and start scanning theminto our system. I pull out a gorgeous, leather-bound book of fairy tales, complete with an embossed cover and gilt edges. “Wow, this is beautiful. I love fairy tales. When I was a kid, I would beg my dad to invent them for me as bedtime stories. The creepier, the better.”
“Really?” He looks bemused. “You don’t strike me as the creepy fae type. Personally, I liked the sweet ones.”
“Like what?”
“The Ugly Ducklingwas always my favorite.”
I giggle. “Seriously? That’s hard to imagine.”
He frowns in mock indignation. “Hey, I have range.”
“Sure. It’s just…fluffy ducks?”
“And a swan.” He shrugs. “What can I say? I guess I liked the theme of transformation. Metamorphosis.”
“Ah,” I say, as understanding dawns. “Makes sense for a mothman. I guess I just assumed you’d been into something, I dunno, more highbrow.”
“As a kid?” He raises his brows.
I set down my scanner and look at him. “Well, yeah. You give off a serious vibe sometimes. I could see you as a studious little mothboy who only wanted to read classic literature or something.”
He bursts out laughing. It’s loud, like a true guffaw. I’ve never seen him so amused. “First of all,The Ugly Ducklingis a classic. It’s not weird that I liked it. Second, I was a normal kid, for the most part. I definitely wasn’t sitting around with textbooks and first editions of Dickens.”
“Nope. Don’t believe you. I narrow my eyes. “I think I’m gonna need proof. A photo album or sworn statement from a parent,” I tease.
His smile fades. “That might be tough. I don’t really have any family.”
I stand up straighter, and turn slightly as my cheeks heat, hoping he can’t see my embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”
“No, it’s okay,” he says gently. “You’ve seen moths in the wild, right? A caterpillar forms a cocoon somewhere and then eventually emerges and flies away to begin a new life.”
“Sure.”
“Well, it’s not so different for people like me. We’re a pretty solitary species and we aren’t raised by our parents. Typically, we find a temporary community of other mothfolk to learn survival basics. And then when we’re old enough, we go out on our own.”
He takes my chin and gently turns my head, watching me closely. I know he can see the sadness on my face. My mental image of him as a studious learner has been transformed into something akin to Oliver Twist. “Hey, don’t look so sad. I didn’t have some tragic childhood. That was normal for me. It’s…nature.”
I nod, my chin still in his hand. “I understand. But it’s hard to get the image of little Spenser, all alone but for a battered copy ofThe Ugly Duckling, out of my head.”
