Page 53 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

The guard knocks on the window with a knuckle. Rory dutifully rolls it down, taking in the additional weapons strapped to his belt: a wooden stake, freshly sharpened, and a neat row of vials carrying various poisons.

Rory tries to smile amiably, even as he avoids looking directly at the guard, in case he recognizes him. “Isthere a problem?”

The guard shakes his head, his tawny hair rustling in the breeze. “New security precautions.” His voice is rough, unfriendly. “What’s your business in Lyon’s Cross?”

“Apothecary.” Rory tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

“How long are you staying?”

“Just the day. We’ll be gone by nightfall.”

“ID?”

Rory pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and hands him a warped driver’s license, plastic peeling apart at the corners. The photo on it is real; the name—Rory Smith—is false.

The guard looks at it with scrutiny, eyes darting up to compare the picture with the face in front of him. There is a tense moment. Rory is hyper aware of the guard’s body, his proximity to the car, the way his hips are angled so that the gun and stake are ridiculously obvious.

Then, he hands the ID back, nodding toward Calliope. “And yours?”

Calliope’s wallet is in the glove box, and Rory’s glad he left it there the night she was shot. She pulls out her driver’s license and reaches across Rory to hand it to the guard. Rory can see her hand shaking slightly. The guard takes her identification, scrutinizing it in the same way he had Rory’s. He hands it back. “Mayor has enacted a curfew effective at nine. See thatyou’re out of town limits before then.”

“Will do. Thank you.”

The guard pats the top of the car twice with an open palm and steps back, waving a hand at the gate. The iron structure unlatches in the middle, the gates swinging back with a loud squeal. Rory pulls through, nodding tightly at the guard as they pass.

“What was that about?” wonders Calliope, looking through the back window at the receding figure of the vampire.

Rory grimaces. “No clue. But it can’t be good.”

They continue, the car bouncing along the dirt road. The trees on either side lean toward each other creating a tunnel. The roots have been intruding upon the dirt path for a century at least, and Rory hopes vaguely that they don’t get a flat tire.

And then the trees clear and the town of Lyon’s Cross lies before them, spreading out all the way to the sea, which can be seen in the distance if he squints, a flash of diamond waves against the horizon. The window is still rolled down and the smell of the sea wafts around them as Rory navigates the car onto the cobbled road that winds down the short hill and into the city. The interaction with the guard is pushed to the back of their minds as they find themselves in the town center. The circular courtyard is lined with various shops and businesses, each with their own style of architecture, a haphazard mash-up of centuries and colors and textures. Out of the corner of his eye, hecan see Calliope craning her neck to read the hand painted wooden signs hanging from the iron hooks on the storefronts they pass.

In the center of the courtyard is a fountain crowned by a lion. A seagull lands on top of the lion’s head, only to be rudely shaken off as the statue moves, the sound of grinding stone lost to the seagull’s outcry.

The lion resumes his pose, a sentry standing stoically as passersby file past. And there are several people that walk by—vampires, Fae, and witches milling about and chatting and laughing. Whatever the reason for the curfew, the town doesn’t seem too worried.

Rory finds a parking space down a side street just off the courtyard. It’s at least ten degrees cooler in the damp shadows of the buildings on either side. At both ends of the alleyway, though, the summer sun is high in the sky, and he can just see the air vibrating with heat. He grabs his baseball cap from the backseat and pulls it low over his eyes.

Calliope does the same with her sunhat, tucking her hair up inside so it’s no longer covering her back. “Do you know where we’re going?”

He’s only been to Lyon’s Cross a handful of times, the last time being more than a decade ago. He runs a hand over his chin. “We can start at the courtyard and make our way down each side street. I’m sure there’s a ton of apothecaries here. We’ll stumble across one soon enough.”

They make their way back out into the sun, andRory squints at the signs. They head south, passing by a cafe and a general store. There’s an ice cream parlor and a candy store, with a group of teenagers congregating outside. Rory skirts the crowd with a scowl. One of the kids breaks apart from the group to look Calliope up and down with a smirk. Rory narrows his eyes and the youth blanches, holding his hands up in front of his chest in a vague apology.

Calliope shakes her head with an amused laugh before linking her arm with his, pulling him down the closest side street, a smirk tucked into the corner of her cheek. She seems recovered from his psychic intrusion, or at least, not permanently harmed. He’s still mildly in shock at finding his entire consciousness pulled into her thought-structure. It was an odd sensation. He was still aware of his own body, but otherwise, he could feel the sun on his shoulders, smell the dirt and greenness of it all. It was raw and intimate and exhilarating to be so close to her, to feel her magic. He actually felt warm—not like when the sun shines down on him, but inside of his chest, right down to the marrow of his bones.

And her Hunger…well, he’s not sure what to think about that just yet.One thing at a time.

Something he is willing to indulge in, however, is the feeling of her at his side now, hand nestled in the crook of his elbow. They walk briskly on the shadowed side of the path, passing by a bookstore and a handful of boutiques selling brightly coloreddresses and scarves in the window. One store front is covered with brooms and appears to sell nothing else. Another claims to be the home of Lyon’s Cross’s only legitimate psychic with a ninety-nine-point-nine percent accuracy rate.

Calliope scoffs. “That’s impossible. The best psychic can get it wrong much more often and still be a legitimate psychic.”

They continue, Calliope’s pointy boots sharp and precise against the cobblestone path. Her hips sway with her walk, the skirt of her dress brushing against his jeans. They leave the shadow of the alleyway and find themselves at the boardwalk, the sea stretching beyond into teal nothingness. The seagulls are louder here, and the waves break against the shore sending out a salty mist that hangs in the air.

In the distance, they can see white dots of boats coming and going. Sloping down from the boardwalk is a strip of white sandy beach populated with reclining figures underneath striped umbrellas and children splashing in the water. Even from the boardwalk, Rory can tell that none of the people on the beach are entirely human—all of them smell of magic and even a few of them look it, with pointy ears and long limbs that speak of Fae heritage. A couple comes up behind them, arms heavy with beach chairs and tote bags filled with towels. Rory and Calliope dart out of the way with mumbled apologies, which brings them fully out of the alleyway and onto the wooden plankthoroughfare of the boardwalk.

“Oh, look.” Calliope points at the chipped gold letters painted on the window of the nearest storefront. “We found one.”

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