13

Violet Miller and the Whole Sweater Thing

Violet couldn’t get used to the world dissolving around her and sharpening into a different scene. The ground disappeared, and for a split second, it felt like she was falling.

When she was steady enough to not scream, Violet realized she was gripping tight handfuls of Doom’s shirt. It was his low, pained grunt that made her drop her grip and step back. Her elbow hit a wall and a ball of yarn tumbled off a shelf beside her.

Mor—he’d claimed his name was—was facing her, standing remarkably still. Violet blinked the rush of teleporting away and shrieked when she realized why he wasn’t moving a muscle.

A dozen sharp knitting needle points were aimed at the back of his neck. A small crowd of women held them, and for the life of her, Violet couldn’t figure out why they all looked ready to stab. Behind them was a wide, storefront-like space covered in pastel-coloured wallpaper and filled with hundreds of baskets of yarn.

“Doom…” Violet rasped and pointed toward the women. “There’s a bunch of ladies behind you. I think they want your attention.”

“I’m aware,” Mor said. And then, “Doom?”

“Master of Doom. That’s what I’m going to call you in my article,” she said, swallowing. She pointed back to the women with needles. “Now, um… maybe you should—”

Mor turned and the women armed with needles crouched as though taking a defensive stance. Like they thought Mor was going to attack them.

“I’m in need of a sweater,” Mor’s deep voice declared to the room.

“For you?” one of the women asked in disgust—an older lady with gray hair. The only one who still sat knitting on a couch. “Never,” she stated.

“Not for me, you foolish females. For her.” Mor nodded back toward Violet.

Some of the women leaned to peek around Mor. They studied Violet standing there, plastered against the wall.

“I already have a fairy goddaughter. I don’t need another,” the old woman said from the couch as she wound pale blue yarn around a long needle. “Toss him out.”

The rest of the women reached for Mor. Mor sighed and shoved their needles away from his neck. “Forget it, then. I’ll find one myself.” He seemed about to leave but the old woman piped up again.

“If you learned the ways of the yarn, Assassin, you could make your human lover a sweater yourself,” she said, and Violet felt a pinch of warmth on her cheeks.

Mor snarled. “She’s not my—”

“That’s what it smells like from here. She stenches like she’s wearing your faeborn clothes—flowers, dirt, Shadow blood, and… dandelions.” Her gaze darted up to Mor for a moment at the last one. “Now, don’t ever airslip in here again. It’s against the rules we made with your brothers.” The woman slid her needle out and held up her work—a single thick blue mitten.

Violet watched a muscle feather in Mor’s jaw. He seemed to think better about leaving. “If you didn’t want us to visit, then why did you move your foul-smelling faeborn store right across the street from our café?” he growled.

A younger woman with a long red braid snorted. “To make sure you stay in line. And especially to make sure you don’t blow our cover, you faeborn fool,” she said as she twirled her long needle over her fingers.

“And to watch over Kate, of course.” The old woman began unwinding a fresh strand of blue yarn. “I don’t have an ounce of faith in you male assassins to keep her safe. That Prince of yours is an idiot.”

Mor took a threatening step toward the old woman, forcing all the needles to return to his throat. “Watch your tongue—”

“We stayed hidden here for more faeborn years than I care to remember now, and the first chance the North Prince got, he started an online cooking show,” the old woman cut him off again and snorted. “Queensbane, if I thought my fairy goddaughter would listen to me, I never would have allowed her to get betrothed to that wicked fairy who killed so many of my sisters as we fled.”

Mor released a heavy breath and unclenched his fists. He turned toward Violet and grabbed her by her sleeve-covered shoulder. “I think we’ve had enough. Forget the faeborn sweater.”

He guided Violet to the door, reaching to shove it open in front of her, and he pushed her out into the warm street. Cars puttered by and faint chatter drifted from nearby places. The door slammed shut behind them.

“Where in the world did you just take me?” Violet asked as Mor guided her down the sidewalk.

“A knitting club of pompous, crabby females. That’s all you need to know,” he grumbled.

Violet looked back toward the store. A pink sign hung out front that said: YARN STITCH.

“They’re giving me an extra-icy shoulder because I hid an enchanted cricket in their store a while back. It chirped for seventeen days without ceasing. It nearly drove them faeborn mad when they couldn’t find it.” A shadow of a smile crossed his face, seeming to ease his mood.

“I actually can’t tell if you’re joking,” Violet admitted.

“It’s not a joke. They moved in across the street, and we didn’t like it. And despite our asking politely, they wouldn’t move away, so I hid the cricket,” was all he said to explain. “And now that you know what I’m capable of, Human, perhaps you should consider showing some respect to your new boss?” He cast her a look with a brow raised.

Violet released a grunt. “Because of a little cricket?”

The Master of Doom’s lip curled. “I can do far worse things than hide a cricket, Violet Miller. It’s best you know that.” He turned his attention ahead as they crossed the street.

Violet glanced back at Mor when he wasn’t looking, considering that. She rubbed her temples, feeling like it was all too much to take in at once—the job, the knitting club, literal talk of enchanted crickets. The fact that Mor said she wouldn’t survive the next twenty-four hours if she couldn’t get rid of his scent. She wanted to go home, drink tea, and take a bath full of fresh rose petals and peppermint leaves so she could think everything through.

Mor stopped before a quaint café with a purple awning. He finally released her shoulder when he opened the door, and a flood of chatter told Violet the café was packed full.

Her gaze fell on a pair of pointed ears inside the café, and Violet stopped walking, causing Mor to bump into her back. He leapt away before their skin could brush.

An athletic-looking guy—the one with the pointed ears along with a styled sweep of pure white hair—turned toward them at the sound of the bell. His face broke into a wide, stunningly attractive smile that made Violet forget where she was.

He was another one of them—this guy with nice hair and a smile for days. He was like Mor.

Mor nudged Violet into the café, and she staggered forward on her heels. She pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear when the white-haired guy came over. A burgundy apron hugged his torso.

“Nice haircut,” Mor muttered at him. “Looks like you forgot to leave enough fur to cover your faeborn ears.”

“If it isn’t our brother who disowned us,” the white-haired guy said, beaming. He looked around quickly, then reached for something on a nearby table.

“I’d never be so lucky,” Mor returned.

“Who’s this?” the white-haired guy asked as he extended a golden-topped butter tart to Violet on a flat hand. “For you, pretty human,” he said. Violet fought a strange smile and reached to take it, a thank you on the tip of her tongue.

“She’s my secretary.” Mor smacked the white-haired guy’s hand and the tart tumbled to the floor in a tasty looking heap. “And don’t you dare feed her the butter tarts, you fool. I’m warning you, Shayne.”

Violet’s jaw dropped as she stared at the ruined dessert. She turned to scold Mor, but the white-haired guy—Shayne—spoke first.

“I’m just trying to make sure she comes back here.” He winked at Violet. “Don’t keep her all to yourself, you greedy hogbeast,” he said to Mor.

Shouting lifted from the back of the café, and Violet’s gaze darted to a tall, turquoise-eyed guy behind the counter. He was going on about a wedding cake, talking over everyone else in the room.

“Don’t mind him. He got betrothed a few months ago and he’s transformed into an absolute bridezilla,” Mor said to Violet as he pushed past her and Shayne.

Violet stayed by the door and watched Mor approach the counter.

As soon as the turquoise-eyed guy saw Mor there, his face went from moderately perturbed to shocked, then to cold, wild, and demanding. Violet thought Mor might get into a fist fight right in the middle of the café after everything else that had already happened in the last hour. A few low words were exchanged, but Violet couldn’t hear what they said over the chatter in the café, even when she strained to listen.

The turquoise-eyed guy reached below the counter and drew out a pink sweater. He threw it at Mor. Mor took it without another word and carried it back through the tables, making a few coffee-drinking-girls lift their heads to stare. Violet snorted a laugh. Those girls would probably run away screaming if they knew what Mor was.

Mor stole memories. Mor ruined lives. Mor—

Shayne sauntered into Violet’s vision, bringing her attention to his pointed ears. “You’re pretty,” he stated. A mischievous look entered his blue eyes, and his smiling mouth twisted to the side. “How about a kiss, pretty Human?” he offered, and Violet blinked.

“What?”

Mor was close enough to have heard. Shayne stole a look at him like he was waiting to see his reaction. But Mor appeared unfazed as he reached Violet. The Master of Doom even released a grunt-laugh.

“Please do,” he said, and Violet’s jaw dropped. “I would love to see how that goes for you,” he added.

Shayne studied Mor for a moment, but he didn’t try kissing anyone. Another guy emerged from a narrow hall and stood beside Shayne. He had auburn hair, thick arms, and wore oven mitts. He was also scowling and didn’t bother to say hi or introduce himself like Shayne had.

Mor handed Violet the pink sweater. “Put this on,” he instructed.

“Right now? In this summer heat?” Violet looked at him like he was crazy. “I’ll die in that.”

“You’re far less likely to die in this than out of it,” Mor said back. “It’s fairy yarn. Any fairy who comes near you will smell the Sisterhood of Assassins and know to stay away, lest they risk the wrath of the Sisterhood. It’s like armour.”

Violet took the sweater. The material was extremely soft, the kind you’d want to snuggle up in on a blustery winter day to keep warm. The complete opposite of what anyone would want to wear mid-summer.

Apparently feeling Violet had been thinking too long, Mor stole the auburn-haired guy’s oven mitts and put them on. He grabbed the sweater back from Violet and used his lobster-mitt hands to take her arm and wrangle her into it.

“Ow!” Violet complained as he stuffed her hands down the sleeves.

The two guys behind Mor just watched. Shayne winced a little. He leaned over with a cupped hand to whisper to the auburn-haired guy. “He’s like an infant trying to rip the legs off an insect,” he said way too loudly.

The auburn-haired guy nodded, straight faced.

When Mor’s sweater attack was successful and Violet was well snuggled into it, the Master of Doom put his hands on her shoulders. “Shall I take you home with me, rebellious secretary?” he asked. “Or would you like to sleep here for the next day or two until I can solve your scent problem?”

Violet raised an eyebrow. “Are you joking?”

“Not at all,” he stated. “You have two options. Make a choice.”

Shayne raised a hand behind him. “I vote she stays here. If you let me kiss her, I can even make sure she stays here forever.”

“I’ll cut out your tongue if you try feeding her anything, Shayne, including your mouth,” Mor warned. He looked back at Violet, glancing back and forth between her eyes, waiting for her decision. A decision Violet would never make in a million years when Zorah was still back at the garden house.

A second later, Shayne mumbled, “I can still kiss her without a tongue. Won’t be quite as good but—”

“I’m not going to stay in your creepy cathedral,” Violet blurted at Mor. “And don’t get any ideas about holding me hostage again, you heartless vampire!”

Shayne slapped a hand over his mouth, failing to hide a laugh. The auburn-haired guy’s solemn mouth twitched, too.

“Well, you can’t go back to your human home now that it’s been fairy tricked. Anything you touch will alert the Shadow Fairy that you’re there, even nudging a single pebble,” Mor said. He released her shoulders and dragged the oven mitts off.

Shayne and the auburn-haired fairy exchanged a look.

“Is this the same Shadow Fairy you refuse to tell us about, Mor?” the auburn-haired guy asked in a deep voice. Shayne smacked the auburn-haired guy in the stomach like he’d given away a secret.

“So much for not letting Mor know that we know about that. No fairy match prize for you,” Shayne whispered through his teeth.

Mor’s expression fell a little. He didn’t reply to the question. Instead, he turned back to Violet, and he waited for her to give him an answer; the brief, sad look in his gaze dissolving in an instant like it had never been there.

Across the café, the turquoise-eyed guy pinned Violet with his stare as he sauntered around the counter and walked toward them. There was a certain coldness to his eyes that made Violet shift her footing when he reached the group. Mor passed him the oven mitts, and the turquoise-eyed guy yanked them to himself like Mor had violated them with his touch.

“I’m not going to hide away in that cathedral,” Violet stated, deciding once and for all.

Mor nodded. He walked around her and shoved her toward Shayne—she shrieked, barely catching herself on her heels.

“Keep her, then. For now,” Mor said to the other guys.

Violet turned and cast him a disbelieving, accusatory look. “I have a house!” she objected. “And an aunt who’s probably worried sick about me!”

Mor seemed doubtful. “That human woman is not your aunt,” he stated, and Violet blanched.

“How… How did you know…”

Mor spoke over her to the guys, looking especially at Shayne. “If you want to help me, keep her here even if she protests. Don’t let her leave. I’ll come back tomorrow to pick her up for work.”

“What?! Don’t you dare leave me here!” Violet demanded.

Mor slid his phone out of his pocket and tossed it to her. She almost didn’t catch it. “Take my calls,” he said. He turned and headed for the door, pushing out without another word.

Violet tried to step after him, but the auburn-haired guy’s hand flashed out and took her arm, keeping her in place. He instantly tore his fingers back and gawked.

“What is wrong with your skin, Human?! It hurts!” he said through a growl.

“Ah. No wonder Mor wanted to see me kiss her at first. Sneaky fool.” Shayne grinned.

Mor glanced back through the windows with a satisfied smile that implied he’d not only heard Shayne’s comment through the glass, but also assured Shayne that was exactly what he’d hoped for.

Shayne shook his head with a smirk as he went to the café door and turned, folding his arms and leaning back against it, blocking the whole thing with his body. Violet didn’t have to be a genius to see she’d never get past him.

As though he could read her thoughts, Shayne winked.

“What about my aunt?” Violet tried, scanning the café for alternate exits.

“Mor didn’t tell us to guard her, pretty Human. Just you,” Shayne said. “And I’ve been waiting exactly two faeborn months and eighteen days for Mor to show up here. So, I’m not going to screw this up.”