Page 7 of The Librarian’s Familiar

August glanced at his cup. “Should I be concerned?”

“Please, I wouldn’t spit in your coffee. I’d spit in your face. If I was going to, I mean, I think they’d run me out of town if I did that to the local hero.” Sinclair’s voice was laced with sarcasm.

At least they agreed on that.

“I’m not a hero.” He sipped his coffee, wanting to leave and enjoy his coffee and cookies as he walked around the town to see how much it had changed. That had been his big plan for the morning. Then he thought he might grab lunch and hike up to the lake. He probably shouldn’t do both things in one day, or there would be nothing left to do tomorrow.

Though he could go to the library.

“You’re famous here. They’re probably planning to build a statue in your honor.”

August rolled his eyes.

“I’m serious. Everyone watches your games.”

“Great, and then they all saw me get hit in the face with a puck.”

Sinclair grinned. “Some of us were cheering for the puck.”

He was beginning to see why the witch wasn’t interested in Sinclair, and it wasn’t because he was like his older brother. “You’re a delight.”

“Aww, thank you.” He grinned. “Want me to introduce you to the witch?”

“No,” August said a bit too gruffly.

Sinclair lowered his voice. “It wasn’t only curiosity I smelled.”

“I’ve just remembered why I prefer living among humans.” And he wasn’t joking.

“Not denying it. Interesting.” He winked at August. “I can keep a secret,” he whispered as he sauntered over to the till to take the next order, bell jangling in his pocket.

“There is no secret.” Fucking foxes.

“If you say so, cutie.” He returned his attention to the customer.

August would’ve snarled, but he was so used to biting it back around humans that it never left his throat. He should’ve stepped over the bell and left instead of doing the right thing and picking it up, but now he’d learned the witch worked at the library.

He should probably avoid it. Besides, he had plans for this morning.

Three hours later, he had walked around town and spoken to more people than he wanted to—they had all acted as though him returning home was like Jesus returning. They all thought he was staying forever, and they all wanted to know what he was going to do now he was back, like they expected him to get a nine to five.

They didn’t seem to understand that he could buy this town several times over, including the hospital and airstrip. There was a part of him that felt as though he should donate money to the school so it could get some new classrooms and equipment, but they’d probably name it after him, which was embarrassing.

He’d chased a biscuit around the ice and slammed into people and got paid far too much money to do it. It was so fucking bizarre now that he was on the other side of it. That was probably the other reason why he hadn’t come back very often—it made him question everything.

He couldn’t ask questions when he needed to react before thinking, be part of a cohesive team, and all of them. Questions slowed him down. They created fractures. Questions and doubts were buried in the same place as his secrets.

What was it about Claw Lake that made them sprout to the surface?

His feet had taken him back to the city square, which was a small park with a few garden beds and a rather ugly modern sculpture that hadn’t been there five years ago.

On one side of the square was the historic church, on the other the community hall and library. Shops lined the other two sides, marking out the main commercial area. While there were plenty of houses in town, more than he remembered, plenty of people lived further out, either in the foothills of the mountain, or out past the river the lake fed.

His parents had always lived close to town because they ran the hardware store. As a kid, it seemed like an easy job; now he understood the logistical nightmare of making sure there were enough of the right supplies and getting the right supplies in after a storm or a fire.

His older brother now ran the store, and his parents did a lot of babysitting of the grandkids. Which is what he remembered growing up. It was his grandparents, on both sides, who’d been there after school, making sure he did his homework.

He was pretty sure it was his grandmother on his mother’s side who’d taught him how to skate. He certainly remembered playing hockey both with and against her friends. You’d think it would be easy for a bunch of ten-year-olds to beat some nanas on skates, but those women, fox and bear, had been savage. There’d been no mercy. It was like the only time they got to cut loose was when they took the kids out to play.