Page 53 of The Curse of Indy Moore
“I hope you do not take offense, Miss Beamy, but I would prefer not to have a tail at all.”
Or ears or this powerful sense of smell. I didn’t understand how dogs tolerated such heightened senses. It was maddening knowing everyone’s bathroom routine.
Slate adjusted his belongings in his nest while giving Mr. Hawthorne the stink eye over his shoulder.
“Why not?” He composed himself enough to take a breath and wipe the tears from his eyes. “The ears and tail suit you, little wolf.”
The tail slackened, then faded. I touched my spine where the tail had previously connected. Nothing remained that would have signaled I had a tail, albeit momentarily, at all.
“How fortunate for you.” Mr. Hawthorne approached. His hand hovered above my back. “May I?”
My heart stuttered at the prospect of his skin on mine.
I nodded because we had to get this done. He settled a gentle hand along my spine. My shirt pulled against his wrist as he examined my back. I told myself that’s all it was, a scientist inspecting his research project, but every moment his fingers prodded my skin felt like so much more.
My breath caught when his fingers traced the base of my spine. His hands were soft. I chanced meeting his attention, caught by the deep hue of his eyes. Westood, silent and motionless. His fingers pressed against my skin. My pulse hummed between my ears.
“There is no wound,” he said, freeing me from his tortuous touch. He returned to his desk, where he scribbled in a notebook. “There is nothing out of the ordinary at all. Tell me, do you feel different?”
I fell into the chair in front of his desk. “No, but I saw Carline last night before I turned. I didn’t have a notebook on me, but I remember what she said. Something right before I passed out surprised me.”
“What was it?” Mr. Hawthorne pushed a notebook across the desk while tapping a pen against his lips.
Accepting them, I took to writing everything down from the start while replying, “That she took a risk going after me. It was odd to say. I don’t understand what she could have meant.”
“Perhaps she meant it has become a risk since you’re seeking help. Regardless, that isn’t what we should be focusing on. Ears, then a tail, I hate to say that this is a fast progression. We’ll have to consider the possibility of your wolf form appearing during the day time,” he said.
Don’t worry about it, I repeated over and over, each one more of a lie than the last. I pressed the pen hard against the notebook where I wrote the recollection of last night’s events.
Mr. Hawthorne combed over his books, pushing them aside without disrupting Miss Beamy. Slate guarded his nest, watching Mr. Hawthorne intently and snapping his beak when an elbow got too close to his precious—stolen—goods.
“I have spent the night researching curses of similarity, ones involving a change or even a timing issue, such as one woman cursed to never speak the truth or a man who had to hop on one leg for an hour each day,” he said.
I realized then how unkempt he was, hair stuck up at odd ends and poorly tied at the nape. He wore the same clothes as yesterday, the shirt ruffled, unbuttoned, and sleeves rolled up unevenly. A brace hugged his right wrist, the one he cradled after I grabbed it the other day. The poor man hadn’t slept, stayed up all night poring overthe books, putting dark bags under his eyes. The typically composed Mr. Hawthorne looked an utter mess, and it added even more to his charm.
The artificer paced, holding a book in either hand. He spoke so enthusiastically, his words jumbled together. “Aubrey Juniper is a centuries-old case that I found most similar to yours. Cursed by a forest demon, she was said to become a tree. Unlike you, she didn’t morph between the two, but as the days went by, her skin became like bark and her limbs fused. By the seventh month, Aubrey fell to her curse entirely.”
“You aren’t very skilled at making someone feel better,” I grumbled while rubbing my wrist.
He dropped the books on the desk to trace his fingers over a passage that he read aloud, “There is also Jay Parkston, cursed by a toad demon to become a fly, and he, similar to you, changed back and forth, but his began with an hour change then two then three, and by the twenty-fourth day, he became a fly entirely.”
My wrist ached from how tightly I squeezed it. “All I’m hearing is that none of these people were spared.”
Miss Beamy hopped from the desk into my lap. I rubbed her head and scratched under her chin, focusing on the sensation of her fur and how her comforting purr vibrated against my chest.
“The solved cases won’t give us as good of an idea of what to expect your timeline to be,” he countered.
“I would like to speak to this expert now.”
“I sent a request to consult with her.” Mr. Hawthorne leaned against the desk. “She hasn’t replied yet. Without an invitation to her summoning circle, we would have to fly, which would take about five days, and then there is the question of whether or not she would let us in the door.”
“Are all artificers an utter pain?”
“We are a peculiar batch, I will admit that.” He circled the desk to open a drawer. “Keep yourself occupied while we wait.”
“Sure, because that is so simple given my predicament.”
“Head into town with Otis.” Mr. Hawthorne tossed a pouch at me.
