Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

CAELAN

T he golden witch hands me a twisted bit of fried black dough, the sweet scent of basil tingling my nostrils and the hot grease soaking through the parchment paper wrapper.

I sniff at it, taking a cautious bite.

"Unghf," I tell her, my eyes wide in surprise.

"So good, isn't it?" She takes a bite of her own, dropping a few coins back into the pocket of her dress and tugging me along to the next stall, where a deep red cherry cider simmers on a cauldron over a birch bark fire.

A few more coins exchange hands while I inhale the chocolate dough, a delightful mix of bitter and sweet and herbal flavors, and then Wren's pressing a striped paper cup full of steaming cherry cider into my hand.

"It's got a bit of a bite to it," she warns, then polishes off her dough twist before sipping at her own cider. "It's strong," she says with a cough.

The vendor, a centaur with a deep chestnut hide and an overly friendly smile, chuckles. "Sorry, about that. This one fermented at a different level."

"It's delicious," she says, and his grin turns slightly predatory as she takes another drink.

"Do you live around here, then?" the centaur asks, his red-brown tail flicking behind him.

"We do," I answer for her, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her close.

She stiffens slightly at my touch, but the centaur just raises an eyebrow, some of his smile disappearing.

Good.

"Thank you so much," I tell him, and he steps back a bit when my fangs appear.

As for Wren, she sips her spiked cider with raised eyebrows. Sighing, I detach my arm from her waist and offer her my elbow again.

Unfortunately, now that I know what she feels like in my arms, I fear my dreams will be even more vivid.

"What was that about?" she asks, her lovely lips pursed.

"I didn't like how he was leering at you."

"He wasn't leering," she says with a laugh.

"He was, and he would have followed you home if you said you had a carrot for him," I continue. "Not even a sugar cube. A lowly carrot, and he would have been eating out of your hand. Though I'm sure he was much more interested in eating what's between your legs."

" Caelan ," she whispers my name in a completely scandalized tone, and I rake my hand through my hair in annoyance at myself.

I don't want her sounding like that when she whispers my name. I want her to sound like she's unraveling, coming undone, with my mouth and only my mouth between her legs, feasting on her.

Fuck.

Is this what I've become? From one of the highest courtiers of the Dark Queen to a dissolute elf topside, craving the taste of a mortal witch?

How the mighty have fallen.

I glance over at her, though, and there's no denying my growing attraction to her. Her cheeks are bright pink, whether from my tasteless comment or the chill in the air, I'm not sure, but I want to run the pads of my fingers across her skin and test their warmth.

I want to lick at the chocolate crumb stuck to her lower lip, to see what the spiced cherry cider tastes like on her tongue, and the foolish, stupid piece of me that guesses what she could be would risk it all for that chance.

A witch. A fucking witch.

"Don't look at me like that," she says, patting at her snarled hair. Snarled, and in desperate need of a comb.

" Why are you sad?" I ask her, surprising us both with the question.

"Why are you sad?" she repeats, glaring at me.

I snort a laugh, and she half-smiles.

"You said you were an outcast too," I press, looking for an advantage. It wouldn't do to become entangled long-term with a witch, of course… but maybe I can whet my appetite for her in other ways.

I nearly nod to myself, but catch the movement at the last minute.

"Is that why you're sad?" I ask.

"Do fae usually ask such blunt questions?"

"Do witches usually avoid them?" I counter.

She comes to a standstill in front of a strange little building. Deep blue plaster flakes in several places, and a small sign simply boasts an etching of stars.

I sniff in disdain.

"I was rejected from a business organization I would like to be a part of."

My mouth drops open in surprise. "Your work is exquisite."

It's not a lie, either. The few moments I took this evening watching her work, studying the pieces on display in the window, proved her to be nothing short of a master of her craft, possessing both goldsmith and lapidary skills at a level I didn't know mortals were even capable of.

"Oh," she says, her eyes widening, a fresh wave of rosy pink washing across her cheeks. "You don't have to say that."

"It's true," I tell her. I need her to know that—it's the least she deserves.

"This is Nerissa's home," she says, turning away, pleased and embarrassed at my praise.

I like the way she looks right now.

I'll have to lavish kind words upon her.

I wonder if she's that susceptible to praise in bed, as well.

"Nerissa," I repeat, my annoyance at the centaur dissolving at the idea of her coming around my cock while I tell her what a good job she's doing.

"She is a spellsmith," Wren tells me. "Best I've ever met, and in the city—" Her voice breaks, and she looks down at her shoes.

A bit threadbare for my tastes. I should find her something more suitable.

"In the city that cast you out?" I guess, mining for information the same way a dwarf would sniff out a vein of precious ore.

"Not the city, so much." A lopsided grin curves up half her mouth. "The coven I was in, however, they did the casting out. And now the guild I need on my side to find clients, you know, their shining endorsement on my door so people don't think their wrists and fingers are going to turn green or worse, that their dicks are going to shrivel and fall off."

"Shrivel and fall off?" I repeat, pulling a pained face. "Why would you make someone's dick shrivel and fall off? Is that the type of spellwork you're doing on those things?"

She barks a laugh, the humor shining on her face and transforming her from merely pretty to the stunning creature I saw when she first breezed into my life.

There's no chance my cock's going to be anything but hard when she's around.

And now she's offered up exactly what it is she wants: the guild, delivered to her on a silver platter. A coven of sister witches.

Wren the golden witch wants a home, and she wants a business, and I'm liable to do just about whatever it takes to make all her wishes come true.

For a price.