Silas

Alone in George’s office, I did the same thing I’d done several times since this bizarre day had started—I closed my eyes and breathed.

George had understandably needed to step out and handle some patients, but he’d assured me he’d get out of here as soon as he could. That we’d figure this out one way or another. He just didn’t want to leave his patients high and dry, and I got that. It was something I’d always adored about him—how he prioritized animals and their safety and comfort.

He’d cleared his schedule as best he could, but there were some patients only he could deal with. The hellhound coming in today was one of them. None of the other vets in the clinic would deal with that violent creature, and George had agreed to become his exclusive provider in exchange for never having to work on another basilisk. A fair trade, I thought, but it meant he couldn’t just leave on a moment’s notice.

Another on-call vet was on her way in, fortunately. Once she was here, and after George had dealt with the hellhound, he’d be able to take off. Then we could try to figure out this bullshit situation.

In the meantime, I hung out in his office and tried to pull my head together. Not that I was having much luck in that department, because what the hell?

Now that I was here, I did feel… Well, I wouldn’t say I felt better. Marginally less panicked, sure, and less like I had to figure this out alone, but also like I’d had yet another rug yanked out from under me. On one hand, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t made the connection that George and I had split up when I’d realized there was no sign of him in the condo. On the other, I still couldn’t process it. When? How? The missing year of my life seemed irretrievably gone now that I realized I’d forgotten something so significant. Breaking up with George? That was something that should have had its own cataclysmic dot on my timeline, but it was just…gone.

We must’ve been amicable, at least. He’d agreed to help me instead of telling me to pound sand, so that had to count for something. But I struggled to imagine how our relationship could’ve soured enough for us to call it quits. Intellectually, I understood people could tap out of relationships after any length of time. Hell, my aunt and uncle split up six months after their fortieth anniversary. It was just hard to imagine us going from blissfully happy to “eh, we’re not right for each other, let’s just be friends” in a matter of months.

Especially since George wasn’t in my contact list anymore.

My blood turned cold. Had our split been amicable? Because I’d stayed friendly with exes in the past, and I still had their contacts even now. We still texted sometimes, or sent each other birthday wishes via social media. It took a lot for me to delete someone out of existence.

And now that I thought about it, George had seemed wary when I’d walked into his office. Even his receptionist had been startled to see me, and when I’d asked to talk to him, she’d given me a look like I’d offered to clean the kennels with my tongue. Not disgusted, just absolutely baffled and wondering what I was smoking.

Shit. Maybe our breakup had been a little more complicated than “we weren’t right for each other.”

I kind of wanted to ask George or go digging through social media for some clues. But I was also still struggling to comprehend that the shoe store across the street from the clinic was now a Dollar Tree, so maybe I wasn’t ready for the Why George and Silas Really Split Up stop on Memory Lane.

Or maybe I was a coward, but under the circumstances, I didn’t feel bad about that.

What I did do was scroll through social media in search of some kind of clue about how I’d wound up in this predicament. A post about a fae who’d been threatening me? An ill-advised visit to a cursed place? I mean, those things happened. One of my college professors had a friend who’d angered the fae and been cursed with bad luck for seven years, which was even worse than it sounded because the friend was a professional gambler. My brother had gone to a cursed cave on a dare when he was a teenager, and the trickster in there had left him speaking gibberish for a week before our dad had pleaded with her for mercy.

I could remember those things clear as day, but I couldn’t remember a single second of the last year of my life. Fucking hell.

Scrolling social media for clues didn’t last long. I made it back in time all of a week before I landed on some photos from what had apparently been an evening out with my friends from work.

Unforgettable Night! Marci had captioned the image.

I laughed bitterly. Unforgettable. Yeah. About that. Especially since, for the life of me, I didn’t actually know who Marci was. From context, I figured she was a coworker, but could I remember meeting her? Working with her? If she was a fun coworker or the kind who stole lunches from the break room fridge? Did she know all the inside jokes and gossip? No. Idea. Hell, I was a year behind on all the inside jokes and gossip myself.

Jesus fucking Christ. Fresh panic bubbled up inside me at the realization of just how much was missing from my life, and I decided social media was way too much right now. I’d lost a year’s worth of context for friends’ posts and even memes and current events. Instead of filling in the gaps, it just made me more disoriented.

I’d try again later. Maybe after I’d gotten my head around a few things, assuming that was even possible.

Beyond the closed door of George’s office, the clinic was suddenly alive with high-pitched angry barking. The sound echoed down the halls as, I assumed, Muffin the Hellhound announced his presence. From all the stories I’d heard about Muffin, this had to be him.

Over the barking and teeth gnashing, George’s gentle voice still carried: “Well, hey, buddy. You ready to get those stitches out?”

More shrill, ear-piercing rage.

“I think that cone is more for your protection than his, Doc,” one of the techs said.

Curiosity got the best of me. I’d been hearing about Muffin for the last couple of years—the last couple I could remember, anyway—and I couldn’t resist finally getting a peek at him.

I opened the door and leaned out of the office as they walked by.

And there he was:

Cradled in the arms of an elderly woman, the tiny speckled chihuahua gnashed its teeth at everyone except its mom, though he did bonk her on the chin with his cone of shame.

“That’s enough of that,” George said with a laugh. He took hold of Muffin behind the cone, prompting even louder protests. When he lifted the dog from the old woman’s arms, Muffin sounded like he was going to literally take someone’s head off.

George glanced at me, and when I arched an eyebrow, he smirked and shrugged.

I rolled my eyes as I ducked back into the office.