Valentine’s Day.And my 21st birthday.Whoop-de-doo.Just another college day full of classes and more homework than is humanly possible.…until Jason, my best-friend-since-kindergarten, shows up to take me out for the day.Like old times: the two of us on a wacky adventure, playing hooky from real life. With his lopsided grin and tickets to a circus full of misfits and monsters, he introduces me to a whole new world—one full of magic and mystery—and turns my reality upside down.Except nothing goes as planned, and we end up running through the city to find a missing siren before someone brews a love potion with her blood.Sirens and love potions, witches and elves, and Valentine kisses. Nothing will be the same for me again.
Leaving the house to go to school, I had schoolbooks spilling out of one hand, the other holding my place in a Nancy Drew novel, and bunny slippers still on my feet. My mom was a wee bit upset.
I haven't changed much. Still always have a book (or two) in my hand or creating stories in my head, and although I don't have any bunny slippers, I love writing in my jammies and snuggly slipper socks.
When I grow up (maybe a hundred years from now), I'd like to be a superhero, but for now, saving the day, one page at a time, suits me just fine.
With my husband TJ (my own cuddly werewolf), I home-school our three girls, who keep us busy with art, science projects, books to read, dance classes, and walks about the park.
The door swings open, and we step inside. Whoever was on the other side of the peephole, he’s already gone.
Inside, a smoky haze blurs the room, and although it isn’t even five o’clock, every table has somebody hunkered over a bottle of beer or whiskey. A band plays Celtic music, the kind that worms into your feet and makes them dance the jig even if you don’t know how. The strains of the fiddle wrap around the music of the guitar, accordion, and bagpipes and around my heart, and I can’t help but fall in love with the sound.
Bare-chested even in this cold weather, the four musicians (three male and one female . . . yes, even the girl is bare-chested and jiggling nicely) dance on the small stage while still playing instruments and singing, drunker than anybody in the room, and when I look closely, I realize they’re not wearing brown pants but instead fur covers their legs.
Legs that end in hooves.
Three satyrs and a satyress.
Thank goodness for ninth grade English lessons in Greek mythology. Most professors would likely be happy to know that satyresses prance around just as naked as their male counterparts.
Emma smacks the back of my head. “It’s just boobs. Even I have a pair. No reason to stare so hard. Put your eyes back in your head.” She grabs my hand, leading me toward the bar . . . and positions me with my back to the stage.
“But you’ve never shown me yours. Take your shirt off, and I’ll stare at yours instead.”
“You did not just say that.”
“Yeah, I think I did.”
“Men.” She rolls her eyes.