Chapter 33

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CAELAN

N erissa, the spellsmith witch, arrives on the scene and, to my discontent, does not laugh out loud at the sight of all the shit in the street. She reeks of dark magic, and the sensation of it prickles against my skin like needles.

"What do you mean, the inn is magic?" Wren asks for the tenth time.

I press the cup of tea I've brought her from her small apartment into her hands. "Drink."

She does as I say, guzzling the hot beverage like her life depends on it.

Good.

"The inn is old fae magic. I don't know how, I don't know what court…" I spread my hands wide. "Hash Beauchamp is a being that… defies everything I know about the Seelie Court."

Boner, who I brought with me and left sleeping in a basket downstairs, hobbles out of his makeshift carrier and lifts a back leg on the nearest potted plant.

"He left you his dog?"

"Yes, and my Boner appears to be leaking," I mutter. "I need to take that animal to a doctor."

"Rosalina is an animal mage," Wren says. "She'll be able to help him."

We stop talking, looking up abruptly as magic begins to roil around Nerissa, a dark cloud of shadow magic. Sparks crackle through the cloud, and the dwarves, stuck as they are in a pile of magicked shit, begin to try to free themselves in earnest.

My fangs lengthen, and I gently nudge Wren behind me, one arm clamped around her waist.

"It's fine, Caelan, this is what she does." A small hand presses into mine, and when I look down, Wren's eyes are the color of a calm sea and I breathe.

She's so perfectly mine, so perfectly her, and seeing her, holding her, makes me feel like everything is going to be alright.

I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

"Look," she says, jerking her chin at the street. "I'm safe. Nerissa wouldn't hurt me, Caelan."

My throat constricts at the thought of her being hurt, my heart throbbing in my chest.

"I expect we deserved that," a red-bearded dwarf calls out, looking suitably ashamed.

I harrumph.

"No one deserves what I did," my Wren says, slipping from my grip and walking towards the now clean dwarf. "I meant to dump water on you, just to shock you into not fighting. I'm so sorry." She shakes her head.

I simply can't believe I've mated to such a soft-hearted, gentle creature.

Soft all over, in all the right ways.

Maybe that's what I need, though. Something to dull the edges honed razor-sharp by a Dark Queen and my centuries in the Underhill.

Wren is exactly the witch to do that. I can't fathom my mate being anyone else.

"No, lass, I owe you an apology," the dwarf continues, a hand balancing on top of his axe.

"Wolf," a chorus of voices cry out.

I hiss, my fangs lengthening.

The largest wolf I've ever seen pads through the cobblestone streets, eyes glowing orange, grey fur coat dappled with white.

The sounds of steel being freed from sheaths ring out as the dwarves advance on the new threat.

"Stop," Wren calls out. I reach for her, but she evades me, running to the black-haired witch. "It's her familiar. It's her familiar."

The wolf pauses, pink tongue lolling out, and Boner limps slowly over to the newcomer. Slowly, the wolf begins to wag its tail and I exhale in relief.

"What kind of fucking witch has a wolf for a familiar?" one of the dwarves yells, and a few nod in agreement.

"A tired one," Nerissa says weakly, and the wolf trots over to her. She buries a hand in the beast's fur, leaning heavily on it. "You're welcome, by the way."

The dwarves are still standing there, weapons drawn, bristling with knives and axes, and in one case, a rusty, spiked morning star.

There's no accounting for taste, I suppose.

"Put your weapons away, you lot," the red-bearded dwarf cries out, waving a hand. "Leave the witch alone. Didn't you learn your lesson in the last shit storm?"

Grumbling, the dwarves do as he asks, and he turns back to Wren.

"I'm Lars Forkstone, of clan Rockhurst. We came to you this morning, our axes in hand, with the intent to apologize for our behavior."

"They want something," I say loudly, walking towards her. Wren gives me a crooked smile that tells me she's already figured that out. Clever witch.

Lars grumbles, then points at me. "Your fae friend is right."

"I'm her mate." The words are filled with menace, and the dwarf raises his eyebrows.

"Well, that is something."

"He's my mate," Wren agrees, and I tug her close, inhaling her lovely scent, living for the way she melts into me.

"Good. We can use both of your help finding the dragon sapphire. We'll split it with you."

"Eighty us, twenty you," I interject.

Lars' ruddy cheeks go red. Redder, at least. "Forty-sixty," he counters.

"Seventy-thirty."

"Oh, stop it you two," Wren says, sighing. "Sixty-forty us."

"Aye, you've a deal." He holds out his big hand, and Wren shakes it.

"And you have to stay at my new inn tonight," I say blandly.

"That's not part of the—" he starts.

"We could do seventy-thirty if you don't want to stay with my mate," Wren tells him, batting her eyelashes.

"You need us to do the digging." Lars' brow furrows.

"You'll have meals prepared as part of your stay, included in the cost of your room," I tell him smoothly, a wicked grin on my face.

"He will?" Wren asks, disbelief widening her eyes. She clears her throat. "He will. You all will, I mean."

"We leave early tomorrow morning, at first light," I say imperiously.

"Aye, and do you know where it is?"

I smooth my hands over my shirt, slowly rolling up my sleeves, well aware our friend Lars is growing more irritated the longer I drag this out.

"As a matter of fact," I say slowly. "I do."

Thanks to Hash Beauchamp's—now my—inn, I do.

That's the funny thing about owning a fae building full of magic like the Old Wild Oaks Inn.

It has a way of knowing exactly what you need, and making sure you get it… eventually.

The shock on Wren's face turns joyous.

I pull her to me, planting a massive kiss against her mouth, claiming her for the whole town to see.

"Tomorrow morning," I tell the dwarf, keeping Wren against me. "We have plans today. I'll see you this evening at the old inn on Weeping Willow Way. You can't miss it."

They won't, either, not with the way the old place looks now: brand-new.