On the road, Siobhan straightened up and Cleo made introductions. Ian’s eyes kept flickering to the rear view mirror until Cleo rested her hand on his arm.
“You met Weirdo Doug, right, Cleo?” Siobhan asked.
“Who’s that?” Ian asked.
“My mom’s current boyfriend. Siobhan categorizes all of them. Helped us keep track when we were younger. You know: Weirdo Doug, Creepy David, Functional Alcoholic Derek, Non-Functional Alcoholic Other Derek.”
“Your mom only dates guys whose name starts with D? I’m glad mine starts with an I, then.”
“You’re also not an asshole,” Siobhan said, “I think.”
“Thanks,” Ian said drily.
“Should this guy be classified, then, as Asshole Doug or Weirdo Doug?” Cleo clarified.
Siobhan chewed on her lip. “Weirdo. I couldn’t stay in the house anymore.”
Cleo had a million questions, mostly about how the curse was manifesting in Orlaith this time, but Siobhan didn’t believe in the curse. She didn’t believe in magic or witchery. She believed in quantifiable determinations of reality. A green witch sister didn’t come into play.
Cleo sipped her thermos of tea, trying to figure out how to respond to that. She’d added ice in the hope she’d be able to fool herself it was just another iced tea, but nope. The flavor hadn’t toned itself down at all. She choked down another mouthful.
Ian seemed unaffected by the tension in the car. Cleo envied him.
Back at Cleo’s house, Ian gently lifted Siobhan’s backpack off her shoulder, but she nudged him aside. “I’ve got this,” she said, “but you can get the boxes in the back.”
“Planning your escape for a while, sis?”
Ian popped the trunk and called Cleo over. “You might want to see this.”
At the trunk, Cleo’s throat closed a second time today, this time from gratitude.
“I told her she shouldn’t throw them,” Siobhan explained. “When Orlaith dumped them in the trash, I fished them out before the garbage truck arrived.”
Cleo hugged her sister, a rare enough gesture that Siobhan froze before awkwardly twining her arms around Cleo’s back. Siobhan patted Cleo a little, then stepped back.
Siobhan cleared her throat. “They’re yours, anyway.”
They were all there. All of them. Maybe smelling a little worse than before, but otherwise whole and perfect. Cleo blinked back tears.
“Thank you,” Cleo said. Siobhan edged towards the house, looking uncomfortable.
“I’m just gonna… yeah.” Siobhan said and fled into the house.
Cleo took another pull of tea, this time for reasons that had nothing to do with the curse, and everything about pulling herself together. She dug through the trunk, looking for the one book she needed today. It was, obviously, at the bottom of the pile.
One she found it, she waved it triumphantly over her head.
Ian carefully set down the heavy pile of books he’d taken without complaint from her back into the trunk.
“That’s the book?” he asked incredulously.
“Just because it’s pulp doesn’t mean it can’t be true,” Cleo insisted. It wasn’t her fault if he was narrow-minded.
A square-jawed man with a tattered shirt chased a screaming woman. Her mouth was open, her red hair streaming behind her. Her wedding dress was ripped, her pale thighs marred by long scratches. “MARRIED to THE WOLF-MAN” screamed the title. A snarling wolf’s face was hung behind everything, framing the picture. The cover was crumbling around the edges, the pages yellow and soft. The spine had been creased so many times it was a solid bar of white lines. It didn’t look like it could hold on much longer, but it’d looked like that for years. Kind of like Nan in that way, Cleo thought.
“Choices were made with this book,” Ian laughed. His eyes crinkled.
“You haven’t even read it yet,” Cleo said.
It hadn’t been her favorite book as a kid, but she suspected it must’ve been one of Nan’s. Or maybe Nan had bought it so beat-up looking at a second-hand store, Cleo wasn’t sure.
Like all of the books Nan had collected, Cleo would have to sift out the garbage to find the true things. This one had a particularly high amount of garbage, but Cleo could work with that.
“I read some pulp in when I was younger,” Ian said. “If you ignore the sexism and racism, the adventure part of them was really fun.”
“What made you stop reading them?”
Ian considered that. “Couldn’t ignore the ignorant bits. I grew up, maybe. Caught some… teasing, I guess, about it. I started reading other things.”
Cleo thought of what she’d seen in Ian’s house, the rows of bookshelves in the living room, the stacks of books on various tables and any flat surfaces, really. His e-reader’s leather cover was dark in the places where his long fingers had held it. Another thing to like about, Ian, then. She added it to the list.
“But since this is for science, can I read this after you? So I know what you’ve learned, too?”
“Yes, for science. One must read pulp… for our magical scientific knowledge.”
Ian smiled down at her. “Precisely.”
Cleo swallowed. He was nice, it was unnerving. She made her way into her little house, and Ian followed her.
Siobhan was already eating something in the kitchen. Or about to, given the clanking sounds of utensils and the fridge opening and closing. Good. Siobhan was a wonderful cook, given time and ingredients.
Cleo walked into the room she used as her small office. In the living room, Siobhan would hear everything they said. The bedroom was right out.
She cleared a pile of gardening books off a chair in the corner. Ian settled his weight on it carefully.
“You need better chairs,” Ian said.
Cleo snorted. “Yes, with all my money I’ll upgrade my chairs.” She looked at him. “And you, Mister Woodworker, do not get to make me any.”
His jaw firmed. “Can if I want to.”
“Can’t.”
“Can.”
They both started
