4. The Witch

Micah charmed their way past the librarian without needing a student ID. He murmured a joke to the bespectacled woman at the front desk, gesturing vaguely. Andrew took his cue and shuffled around him with his hand around Fionna's shoulder. Fionna's eyes were wide with wonder and glued to Andrew's phone screen as she tapped at colorful pieces of fruit in a game. Most folks would probably think she was just a normal girl, with her hair braided neatly—Andrew was getting quite good at it—and a little sequined sweatshirt over leggings. They'd gotten her a sturdy pair of duck boots (purple, of course, per her request) that helped compensate for her human feet and kept her safer when she was scrambling over snowdrifts and splashing in puddles.

Envy gnawed at Andrew's chest as he listened to the quiet murmur of students and the dry hiss of pages turning in textbooks. This library didn't quite compare to the University of Minnesota, but it still made him miss the simplicity of academia. And the solitude. And the absence of life-threatening magic, even if his fiancé had more of it than their enemies. He suppressed a sigh. If he was ever going to get the chance to get back into academia, he'd probably missed it. Now he had Lilydale to worry about, and Fionna. Not to mention a business he was sorely neglecting.

Andrew glanced down as Micah slipped into step beside him, the smell of mulberries coming with him as Micah's nightshade eyes scanned the crowded library. They leaned into each other; Andrew draped his arm around Micah's shoulders as he steered them further into the space. The best tables in his opinion were near windows furthest from the information desk, so Andrew wanted their search to start there.

After a long sleep and a hot shower at the brownstone, Micah was trying to make himself sit with the discomfort and shame he felt around Chamomile's lecture. That was the worst part about being lectured by a faerie. You knew they weren't exaggerating anything. So to be told off by Chamomile—she was truly more formidable than she had any right to be at four and a half feet tall—meant that Micah had well and truly failed. And that was…uncomfortable, but okay. It meant he was trying, at least.

He hadn't gotten told off much in his life because he was typically busy letting things happen around him. Not making them happen. The positive of Chamomile snarling at him was that it gave Micah quite a bit more direction than he'd had before. Chamomile confirmed what he'd been feeling, but had been reluctant to admit. That the Folk in Lilydale were paying more and more attention to Micah. That his actions held weight, and they were waiting to see what he'd do with it. At least he'd been successful fixing Ingrid's wall, but not without fainting dramatically. Andrew's usual strategy when Micah screwed up was to show him extra kindness and not actually say anything about what transpired. Micah still wasn't sure if that worked for him or not. This wasn't the time to ask him to make an adjustment, but it was going to need to be said sooner or later.

Micah glanced up at Andrew and quickly confirmed to himself that Andrew could do just about anything to him and get away with it. He was particularly attractive in the winter, Micah thought. It was his skin colored pale as the soft insides of fresh bread, his hair back in a bun, the sharp cut of his dark double-breasted pea coat, and the complicated way he tucked his wool scarf into his collar.

Micah used a hushed library voice. "The scarf is an heirloom, right? County…er…county Loud?"

"Close. County Louth. It belonged to my granddad, Phalen."

"Isn't that your middle name?"

Andrew gave him a sidelong smile. "Aye," he said, copying his mum's brogue.

Micah blushed immediately, wishing he could pounce on Andrew right then and there and lap that delicious accent off his tongue. "Are you gonna wear a kilt to our wedding?"

Andrew laughed soft and rough. "No, I've never even been to Ireland."

"Aw." Micah's shoulders sagged.

Andrew grinned and tugged Micah's hat down over his eyes, making him protest and bonk into him. Micah whipped it off with a scowl and fixed his hair.

"Do you smell that magic?" Andrew whispered, peering around a tall bookshelf. Fionna nodded first before Micah' nostrils flared and he pressed his full lips into a line. Most of the library was…dry and lifeless—except for Micah—but something nearby flickered like a dying lightbulb. Andrew sat Fionna in a plush chair under a window. "Fan," he told her, indicating for her to stay in the chair. He pinched her cheek lightly between his fingers.

Fionna gave Andrew a dismissive glance with her golden eyes. "Aye." She pulled her skinny knees up on the seat and stuck her tongue out between her lips as she tapped away at the game on Andrew's phone.

Micah smirked. "So?"

"What?" Andrew looked pointedly away.

"How long before you let her call you Dad?"

Andrew's ears warmed. It wasn't like he hadn't entertained the same thought. He was the first person she answered to, even though she was affectionate with Micah and reverent with Ingrid. She regularly fell asleep in his arms, and her pudgy little hand fit perfectly in his palm. But he deflected. "Does a shapeshifting wolf girl really need a dad?"

"Maybe not a normal dad," said Micah. "But definitely a ‘you' kind of dad. She seems to fit into our world."

Cheeks burning, Andrew gazed down at Micah with the overwhelming sense that everything was exactly as it should be. Micah had fixed his hair in such a way that a few strands fell across his forehead like blades of grass, his eyes vibrant as summer lilacs despite the cold outside. The girl with the vanilla-scented magic was somewhere in here, but she wasn't going anywhere—at least not so quickly that Andrew couldn't spare a minute to crush his mouth to Micah's.

When they receded into the shadows of a secluded aisle of books, Andrew pushed Micah by his hips against the bookshelf. Micah's eyebrows rose in bewilderment and then hitched lower, tilting back his head to rest against the shelf where Andrew braced himself. Grasping Micah's chin, Andrew brought their faces close so they almost kissed, but he stopped short before their lips touched, hovering over him and grinning when Micah opened one silver-bright eye to glare at him. Enjoying the torment, Andrew ghosted his teeth against the hinge of Micah's jaw, his lips brushing slightly against the apple of Micah's throat, where a barely audible growl vibrated. Micah wound an arm tightly around Andrew's waist, pulling him into his chest, nosing Andrew's cheek until their lips finally connected in a kiss that still wasn't as firm as Micah wanted. He teased open Andrew's lips with his tongue, but then Andrew pulled away, his laughter deep and rumbling as Micah gave a whine of protest.

"Yas, boys. Love is love."

They both turned sharply as a young student gave them a peace sign at the end of the aisle, the half of their hair that wasn't buzzed colored lime green, large black aviator glasses perched on their nose. The student scurried off as soon as they were seen.

Micah cocked his head. He looked back at Andrew, who was still watching the end of the aisle with embarrassed color on his cheeks making his freckles stand out. Since he was distracted, Micah pushed onto his toes and planted a kiss on him, catching his face between his hands so he couldn't pull away. Andrew finally gave in, mouth opening to allow Micah's tongue to flick against his, offering him a musical moaning sigh. Micah let him go with a smirk of satisfaction, slipping his hand under Andrew's jacket to pinch the soft skin of his navel and forcing him to surrender another sigh-moan.

Ochre eyes glowing like embers, Andrew's gaze roved hungrily over Micah. "God, you'd have tanked my GPA."

"Why?" Micah looked offended. "I was a great…er…I was an average student."

A crinkle creased the skin under his eye. "I'd never do any homework. Just you. All right, back on that vanilla trail."

Far in the back corner of the library at a table by a window, a brunette lifted her head when the couple appeared from an aisle of history books. Her gray eyes bugged. Diana slammed her book closed and started to stand up until Micah lowered himself silently into the seat across from her. Andrew leaned casually against the edge of the table, giving her a brittle smile, rolling his polished agate between the fingers of his left hand.

She sagged back into her chair, her complexion paling. "Shit. You guys, I don't want any trou…"

"Hush," ordered Micah.

Obedient, or charmed, she clamped her mouth shut. No scent rolled off Micah, leading Andrew to believe she acquiesced voluntarily. The girl who kissed his fiancé was a pretty young woman with round cheeks and a narrow chin, and she stared up at Andrew like she wanted to crawl out of her skin and die. Diana's hair was loose around her shoulders under a white beanie. She had dark eyeliner on and a mauve sweatshirt.

"Your little coven has pissed us off up in Lilydale," Micah told her, elbow on the table and chin in his hand. He wasn't masking his eyes anymore, Andrew noted; they were nightshade-purple now as he gazed coldly at Diana.

"My—" Diana's brow furrowed. "I haven't seen any of those women since…since…"

Micah narrowed his eyes. "Say it."

"Since I helped them try to kill you." She swiped her fingers across her wet lashes. "Micah, I wish I hadn't—"

He shook his head to silence her. "I don't care what you wish. It was insightful for me, honestly. And you all would have been disappointed anyway, because I'm half-human. If you'd tried to…make yourselves immortal, or something, you'd probably just have gotten indigestion."

"Oh." Diana blinked. "That explains a lot."

Micah glared at her.

"N-not in a bad way!"

Carrying on, Micah said casually, "Well, it's too bad you've fallen out of contact with those witches. It makes your job a lot harder now."

"My…my job?"

"Yeah." Micah lowered his hand and leaned toward her. "You're going to get us some information. You're going to find out which of your nasty little witch friends attacked Lilydale last night."

Her eyes widened. "Lilydale was attacked? Are you okay?"

Micah leaned back sharply, quizzical, thrown off by the empathy of her question. "Wh…what do you care? I fixed it, if you must know."

Sensing Micah falter, Andrew crossed his arms and asked Diana, "If you've parted from that coven, why do you still feel like magic?"

Diana glanced up at Andrew, her expression growing thoughtful. "That…that noble faerie only has me on oath not to practice dark magic. So now I just…make intention jars, show gratitude for trees, watch the moon and stuff." She raised a brow slightly and asked, "You can feel that?"

Andrew responded with stony silence.

Diana wilted and looked away from him.

Micah said, "Who else do you know? There's the dead witch. And there's the witch with the long hair, the one who ran away."

"After you broke her arm." Diana's eyes narrowed, a storm of fury darkening her features as she continued, "That's Sophie. And Caty might have stabbed you, but you killed her. Sweet tea shop manager Micah, all smiles and tenderness. You killed someone. How does your conscience feel about that?"

Micah just stared at her, expressionless. His stomach clenched, the birchwood cuff shivering on his wrist as the memory assaulted him. Andrew had to actively resist the urge to take his hand.

Diana's resolve grew; she straightened in her seat. "And how did your faerie friends feel finding out you killed a witch? Faeries and witches have feuded since the dawn of time." Diana scoffed. "I can't believe you're half-faerie with how clueless you seem. That's why you seem so human, isn't it? You have no idea what it means to be Fae."

Andrew slapped his hand down on her closed book. He leaned close to the younger woman's face and said softly, "Watch it." Diana flinched. She inched away from him, swallowing, mercifully quiet.

Throat bobbing, Micah raced to collect himself while Andrew gave him this blessed moment to do so. Almost done. They could almost leave. Micah finally told her in a voice that did not betray his feelings, "Send a text to Sophie. Tell her you want to get dinner with her Friday night. Red Rabbit, six P.M."

Diana gave him an incredulous look. "No."

Micah invited the birchwood cuff to help him get his point across. It crawled into his palm and started to grow into a branch sharp as barbed wire, stretching across the table until its jagged end pressed into Diana's sternum with an acid-green light. She caught her breath, lips parting, shoulders stiffening. Micah said in a quiet voice eerily unlike himself, higher and musical and void of feeling, "Go on then."

Diana tried to scoot her chair back to get the staff off her chest, but Andrew stuck his boot out and wedged it against the leg of the chair to hold her in place. She whispered weakly, "Okay. Okay. Understood. Sirs." Hands trembling, she picked up her phone and showed them as she pulled up an empty text message and started typing Sophie's name.

Satisfied, Micah called the staff back into his hand. It scuffed the table as it slithered across to him, wrapping around his wrist and settling with the whisper of leaves in a breeze.

Diana stared at the cuff for another moment before tapping into the messages screen on her phone while Andrew leaned over her shoulder, watching her.

The send noise whooshed on Diana's phone, and she swallowed visibly as she looked up.

"Who doesn't silence their phone in a library?" Andrew asked with disgust.

Diana paused with her thumbs hovering over the screen, giving Andrew an odd look out of the corner of her eye.

Micah held out his hand for her phone.

Diana moved to give it to him and then jolted when she saw the twining band of his engagement ring. "O-oh. Um. Congratulations?"

As if Micah needed her congratulations. His whole relationship almost ended because of her. Silent, Micah beckoned for her phone until she set it in his palm.

"Good girl," said Micah, and handed it back. "I'll pick you up at quarter to. Just to make sure there's no funny business." He smiled, but the expression didn't warm his eyes.

Biting her lip, Diana said urgently, "Micah, there's no reason to—"

"Bye then." He stood abruptly, thrust his hands into his coat pockets, and turned from the table. Andrew fell into step with him, hand firmly on the small of his back. He cast a single hard glance over his shoulder at the woman, who watched them leave and hunched her shoulders when she fell under his glare.

Fionna unfolded herself from the chair by the window and wedged herself between them, holding Andrew's phone between her teeth. Making a face, Andrew gently pried it free and wiped it on his coat. The three of them walked without speaking to Micah's car on the curb a block away. Micah's gaze stayed on the snowy tracks in the pavement. The clouds of his breath were staccato puffs.

Fionna glanced up at him, and then at Andrew. She dug her hand into Micah's pocket and joined their fingers, making him jump before a soft smile spread on his lips. He bumped her lightly with his hip.

A moment later, he shook his head slightly and looked up at Andrew. "You know I actually forgot I broke some random girl's arm? Just…slipped my mind. Not important, I guess." He returned his gaze to the ground.

"Adrenaline interferes with memory storage," Andrew told him softly.

Micah rolled his eyes, just slightly, just briefly, before he seemed to catch himself. He blinked hard and glared at the pavement.

Andrew's brows lowered. "What was that for?"

"Nothing," he muttered. Then he sighed heavily. "No, it's not nothing. I…I need you to tell me that I fucked up."

"Fucked up," echoed Fionna.

Indignant, Andrew replied, "What? No, thank you."

"You told me to tell Ingrid about the doll," Micah said with more heat. "I didn't listen because I thought I could handle shit myself. You get all nice, and you get all quiet, but that makes me deeply paranoid that you think I'm a hopeless idiot."

Andrew stopped on the sidewalk next to the car. "Micah, I get quiet because I know there's no possible way I could understand the position you're in."

"Yeah, but—"

"You're straddling two wildly different worlds. All I can do is observe." Andrew shrugged. "I'm just a guy. I have no grounds to tell you what to do or what I think of what you're doing for your people in Lilydale. I'm not one of them."

Keeping a wary eye on them, Fionna climbed onto the hood of the car, pulling her knees up to her chest.

Micah stepped into the snow, falling against the side of the car with his arms crossed. He didn't speak right away, a muscle rolling in his jaw. "But Diana said exactly what you said a month ago. Maybe I'm getting a bit more magical, but I have no idea how to manage anything about being Fae. I've spent forty years making sure that I think, act, and feel like a human."

"So are you saying being human isn't good enough?" Andrew blurted. He knew that wasn't what Micah meant, but his pounding heart spoke for him.

"No!" Micah said, impatient. He shut his eyes and said more gently, "No. Of course not."

"Here's the thing," said Andrew. "You get to choose what being Fae means. There's no one else like you. Not even Ingrid, even though you share the Redwood Queen in common. You are bound to be different from her. This is your path."

Micah's eyes were deep merlot under the powder blue winter sky. Catching his lip between his teeth, he searched Andrew's face with a slight shake of his head. He could tell by the look in Andrew's eyes, turned to that wonderful shade of antique gold under the winter sun, that Andrew believed in Micah's path with every fiber of his being. But…how could he be so confident in something Micah was so confused about?

Micah admitted softly, "But I don't know what my path is."

Andrew stepped closer to him and touched Micah's chin between his fingers. "That's okay. You're not walking it alone. And it's not a straight path."

Micah's lips screwed together and twitched as he suppressed a smirk. Losing the battle, he hiccuped, "Clearly it's not."

Andrew blinked and cocked his head.

Micah slapped a hand over his mouth and fell into a fit of giggles.

"Oh good god. Just had to get the gay joke in there, eh?"

Relaxing, Fionna slid silently off the hood of the car and started rummaging through Andrew's pockets looking for his phone. She found it easily and snapped at his fingers when he tried to intercept her. She shuffled back onto the hood, ankles hooked over each other as she tried to figure out how to get past his lock screen.

Still giggling, Micah waved his hand and said hoarsely, "Sorry. I'm sorry. Low-hanging fruit. I think this is all making me giddy, you know? Like, in a bad way."

Kissing the tip of his nose, Andrew nodded and said, "Yes. I get that. All I want to add is that the most important thing I need from you is that you not hide anything."

"Andrew, I don't think my face is capable of hiding anything from you."

"Yeah, that's true," he agreed, using the pad of his thumb to trace the curve of the dimple in Micah's cheek. Andrew grazed his lips against Micah's throat, twining his arm around his neck. He said into the smooth skin behind his ear, "I can read your face as easily as my favorite book."

Micah shut his eyes and held onto Andrew's waist as the taller man leaned over him against the car and tilted his head lightly to the side. Andrew kissed his way to Micah's mouth and nipped his lower lip.

Then with their lips still faintly touching, Andrew murmured with his eyes closed, "But if you want some feedback, what if we consider not Ostara for our wedding? Litha, for example. Just to give us a bit more time."

Micah growled into Andrew's mouth, "We're not doing Litha. Midsummer is trash." He moved back slightly and eyed Andrew through hooded lids. "People would think we're doing some bullshit nod to Shakespeare, and before you know it, this would all be a dream."

Andrew tilted his head. "Would they though?"

Micah scowled. "No Litha."

"Everyone loves Beltane…"

Micah drooped against the car and went limp with a mournful cry of, "You don't think we can do it!"

"So dramatic." Andrew pulled Micah off the car with his arms around his shoulders. "I think we can do anything. But if you're really set on Ostara—like, thirty-five days away—then we have a lot of work to do." Andrew kissed each of Micah's temples. "And I might go gray."

"I'm willing to chance it, Andrew the Gray."