Chapter 11

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Now, remember, kids. Do drugs; stay in cults.

I dreamed again last night. But no dreamboy appeared.

And, obviously, I'm not disappointed.

For the record, I am also sane.

Stress crocheting numerous tiny succulents in my brief snatches of down time is—at its core—a healthy coping mechanism.

After giving Willow's invitation a lot of thought throughout all last evening and during school this morning, I have made an executive decision. I will go, regardless of what Pollux says. I will use his response as a telltale sign. When he says he can't make it, I will talk to Willow's husband myself. With a pepper spray in my back pocket. Just in case.

Once I've uncovered the treachery of her husband, Willow will join my cause, and—since she gives off unflappable energy—I'm sure she will be successful in helping me rescue Andromeda from her evil father's clutches, shank said evil father, and get off utterly scot-free.

It's the perfect plan.

And step one begins now.

What is step one, you ask?

Well.

Standing in front of Pollux's house, I take a deep breath and march.

The thunder of the knocker vibrates in my ears as I wait for Alexios to show up and ask for my soul again, or something.

Because my entire world is crazy.

And I am the last fortress of sanity standing between reason and anarchy.

One way or another, I will put everything all back into place. I will line each fragment up, repaint my sky blue, and make sure everything is okay again. Even if I have to do it alone.

The door creaks as a man bigger than Alexios opens it.

My heart responds, unwittingly, to the sight of Pollux, and things I still haven't completely bleached out of my brain reappear in neon technicolor. My resolve shivers.

I tell it to pull on its big girl panties as I bring a smile to my face. "Good evening."

He stares at me. After much too long a time, he blinks out of an apparent daze and echos, "Good evening."

Fantastic.

He's probably drunk.

Good thing I'm driving.

"Do you have time to get a coffee and talk for a minute?" I say, not at all implying that I need to be in a public location for the conversation I'd like to have. Just in case he goes ballistic when he realizes how onto him I happen to be.

Actually, since CPS still can't seem to find his house even when I send them a map with a big red X, maybe I should push every button this guy has and get the cops to grab him while we're out? Then I can come back and kidnap Andromeda before he sweet-talks or buys his way out of prison.

The plan is practically perfect in every way.

"Coffee." Lifting a hand, Pollux rubs the back of his neck and glances at the sky. "Isn't it a little late for stimulants?"

He's not going to stand here, drunk, and say that to me. I just know he isn't. Must be imagining it.

Nevertheless, I link my hands behind my back and lean fully into my sweet elementary school teacher robes. "We can get decaf, or herbal tea. I know a nice little place nearby."

He steps outside, closes the door behind him, and says, "Decaffeinated coffee in this country retains approximately three percent of the caffeine content. You have to go to Europe in order to get truly decaffeinated coffee, since they require ninety-nine point nine percent of the caffeine to be removed in order to consider it decaf." His fingers flex at his sides, and he clears his throat. "Do you want to go to Europe?"

I think he's making fun of me, but I am genuinely unsure. "That's all right. I can handle three percent. Or I'll get herbal tea. That doesn't have any caffeine in it, right?" I could not care less about drinking caffeine at this hour. I still have lesson plans to adjust for Riley and Josh when I get home. Might as well order it straight and put it in an IV bag.

"Usually, no. However, tea leaves that contain caffeine do actually have a higher percentage per milligram than unbrewed coffee beans. Depending on how you brew, that means…" He blinks at me. "I'm sensing I've missed the point."

I'm sensing I've stopped smiling. Is this guy actually a scientist of some kind who, somehow, legally cooks up drugs in his basement? Let's cross our fingers on that one. After all, I will gladly accept being wrong about everything. I just really need some solid evidence to untick all the horrible red flag boxes first.

At the very least, when he tucks his giant frame into my less-than-giant car, he doesn't smell like alcohol. Just. Coconut and chai.

Which brings up memories from two nights ago yet again.

I put on some music to drown out the impeccable silence as I head toward my go-to cafe.

The stragglers in the rustic shop—a handful of students on laptops, mostly—all pause the second Pollux strides in. They look up, frozen. Mouths fall open. Eyes follow his steps. And, okay, it's not the kind of validation I was expecting, but I do appreciate the solid proof I'm not a terrible person for dreaming about him in an intimate setting.

He is pretty.

Very pretty.

I'm watching him a little too intensely while he takes in the large menu posted behind the counter.

Dark eyes. Dark hair. Dark clothes.

He's a large shadow with the bone structure of an old, Grecian statue. There's something uniquely beautiful about the way he stands, confident and calm. In control. Like he can stop the very breaths of the people around him. But instead of that awareness making him cocky…it just seems to make him careful.

After all, every breath in this place is caught right now, and if the people don't remember to breathe again soon, they'll suffocate.

"These names are complicated," he murmurs as he drops his attention to me. "I'm sorry, dearest. I have no idea what many of these things are."

I shake myself out of the blinding stupid that is my infatuation and smile as though, in the back of my twisted mind, dearest isn't whispering against my skin from monster-Pollux's soft lips. "Don't normally come to places like this, do you?"

"I generally only ever go through the self-checkout at Martyn's Grocery Mart, and only because of Meda."

Oh? The front door bell chimes, so I make a horrible mistake of touching Pollux's arm and drawing him away from the counter so the person who just came in can go in front of us.

Solid.

Solid muscle.

Hot dang.

Regaining myself, I tuck my hand behind me and grip my skirt. "Because of Meda?" I prompt.

"Unfortunately, she has developed a taste for processed foods. She's obsessed with pockets."

Okay. So she's just like any woman, really. I ask, "Pockets?"

"The no-crust sandwiches. The tiny pizza rolls. Ravioli. Burritos. Anything with a gluten-based exterior and filling." He smiles, gently, and my heart thuds. "Basically, the sorts of things that take time to make from scratch. What a little monster." His eyes find me, and he tucks his smile away. "Sorry. I'm delaying because I don't know what to get. Would you mind ordering for me?"

"Sure, no problem." I push a few loose curls back and resist the urge to redo my messy bun. "Do you prefer sweeter things? Spiced? Is caffeine an issue, or will the fact you work as late as you do make that irrelevant?" Not that I'm fishing for details about your work, or anything.

"Stimulants don't do anything for me, so caffeine is fine. It doesn't need to be sweet. I wouldn't mind having whatever you like."

I tilt my head and smile like a silly, lost, little teacher. "Stimulants don't do anything for you?"

His attention drifts elsewhere, catches the eye of a student, and makes them jolt their attention back down to their work. "Some…brains function differently when exposed to certain stimuli. The chemicals in caffeine that interact with a nervous system in order to heighten releases of cortisol and adrenaline in some people can have an alternate effect in others. People with dopamine deficiencies, for example, can often wind up either tired after intake or more level than spiked."

I'm a little fascinated, and trying not to be. "So you have a dopamine deficiency?"

He chuckles, humorlessly. "Something like that."

I order us both chais and let Pollux grab them at the window while I pick a seat in the corner of the cramped lobby. It takes the man all of three steps to cross the entirety of the room and reach me. He sets my cup down and tucks himself the best he can into the chair across from me. Beneath the table, our legs brush as he stretches to fit.

The heat from my cup does not help the situation as I grasp it between my hands. "Thank y—"

Pollux's eyes launch up off a slim piece of paper my brain didn't so much as compute he was reading until one second ago.

"—ou…"

He closes his eyes, crumples the paper, and tosses it onto the table between us before grunting.

I shift in my seat. "If you don't mind me asking, what's with the no thanking rule…?"

"Meda's told you."

"Right. But…"

"We believe in the fae."

Oh. Okay. Uh.

My entire brain narrative trips on that pebble and goes tumbling face-first into traffic. Every idea I've had in my head thus far grinds to a miraculous halt while the idea picks gravel out of its skin and reformulates.

They believe in the fae.

They head out for a decent part of the night.

They are not the sole members acting absolutely bonkers in this town.

Am I dealing with…a cult?

My own smile goes so wide it hurts my face, but I am really, really uncertain right now whether or not this is better or worse. Cults are, you know, cults. They have terrible rules. Some demand pain and sacrifices to prove fealty. Others are run by awful, awful men who abuse every woman in his reach. They give themselves elevated titles…

Like prince.

And…

Everyone must abide by their rules, above all else. If they don't approve of something, that something isn't allowed…

And, you know, like a cult, I bet they meet each Thursday. To prepare for a party in the woods. Every third Tuesday. That kids aren't allowed at.

Just spit-balling, here, really.

Oh, heavens. Please let it be a nice cult that is very respectful of their children. Please let it just feel like a hardcore bunch of LARPers. And please, please, please don't let Zahra join it…

Pollux's dark brows lower. "What…just happened in your brain?"

"Huh? Nothing. Probably the caffeine, right?"

He flicks his gaze to my cup, then back up. "You…haven't taken a sip yet."

I tilt my head. "Do the fumes alone not do anything?"

His mouth opens and hangs there a moment. Wetting his lips, he says, "You're a teacher. Shouldn't you know the answer to that?" He scrubs a hand over his mouth. "True, scents can impact taste. Scent accounts for a high percentage of taste, but caffeine would need to be powderized in high concentrations for it to take effect solely through the olfactory organs."

His brain…it's…beautiful.

Shaking that thought from my head, I take a sip of my chai and realize ordering it was a horrible choice. As the spices invade, all I can picture tasting is him. It paints a sequel to my dream in my dirty little garbage brain, adding tongues and teeth and…

I need to stop.

"I wanted to talk to you about something," I say in a valiant effort to get my mind back on track.

"Right. Yes. You did. Something. Not caffeine."

"No, not caffeine. But the facts are interesting."

His expression softens as he lifts his cup to his lips.

I try to contain myself in response to the way he's watching me over the rim of the lid. It's more difficult than I want to admit. So I distract myself with the point. "I was at the library the other day, and I saw Willow."

He chokes and coughs, adjusting his position in such a way that our knees bump.

A shock goes soaring up my spine.

"Willow?" he croaks. "And…her cat?"

"Oddly, yes. I didn't know cats were allowed in the library."

Pollux swears. "Some libraries have cats as companions for the staff and patrons. He's not a library cat."

Good to…know. Why does Pollux know something like that? Why does he have a textbook knowledge about caffeine? Why does he have a miniature working guillotine in his kitchen? I suppose I could go on. Anyway… "Apparently there are movie nights every Thursday at eight at her house? And, I don't know, when I was by your house recently, work seemed to start at ten. She invited me. Or, really, all three of us. You, me, Meda… Two hours should be enough time to catch a movie before work, right?"

He exhales, meets my eyes beneath a lowered brow, and grumbles, "Is it important to you?"

"Is it important to me that I go to a movie night with you guys?" And, possibly, a handful of cult members? "Yes." I've just decided. "It is important to me."

Pollux sighs. "Very well. I suppose I've been putting this event off for long enough."

"You've been invited to Willow's movie night before?"

Looking utterly exhausted, Pollux rubs his temple. "Many times."

"But you've never gone?" That's not faithful cult member behavior. Are the movie nights with Willow independent of cult activity? Are there two cults? One run by Willow and one run by Cael??

"It's an interesting dynamic."

I dare push further. "Would Cael not approve?"

"Cael understands why I did what I did. It's Zylus and Willow who may not." Combing his fingers back through his hair, he says, "I will do what I can in order to ensure things go smoothly. Would you accept waiting until next week's movie night? I'm in the middle of a…project right now. It's taking up a lot of my time and mental energy."

On the one hand, giving him time to prepare seems like it could defeat the purpose. On the other…he's seemed anything but bad tonight. He's seemed almost entirely like a normal, tired father. Maybe he's stuck in a weird cult. Maybe Andromeda isn't the only one who needs rescuing.

"Next week works for me," I say.

"I appreciate it."

I smile. And for the first time in a long time, I don't think I'm faking…