I groan. “This man is probably the least notable or controversial person who has ever existed. Why would anyone want him dead?”
He rubs a hand over his mouth. “Maybe they didn’t. Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Unlucky bastard. But if whoever did this chose Adam randomly, how do we find the killer?”
“Tell me again what my father told you.”
I recite the verse again for him. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, the one you seek isn’toneat all, but he whose crown is in his bones, and they whose hunger has grown and grown, and she whose hatred is cast in stone. Blood shed by one is blood shed by all.”
“Hmm. That mirror, mirror part could refer to the passage to Shadowvale.”
“I thought so too.”
“He whose crown is in his bones sounds like Vissevel, but the bone fairy is dead.”
“Any ideas on the rest of it?”
He looks out over the water, then shakes his head. “Not a clue. I have an entire library of books on the unseelie though. I’ll do some research.”
I move in closer and run my hands up his chest. “I can come by tonight to help.”
He heaves a beleaguered sigh. “Can’t. We have somewhat of a crisis on our hands at Lucky Enterprises. I need to put out a few fires, and after all this”—he holds up the folder he still needs to share with Godmother—“I have a long night ahead of me.”
“Crisis? What’s going on?”
He smiles and tugs on the cuff of his shirt. “Nothing interesting enough to talk about. A supply chain issue. How about tomorrow night?”
I check my phone. “I’m supposed to meet Penelope for dinner and drinks.”
Seven’s eyes turn a brighter shade of green, and his lips curl into a wolfish grin. “Excellent. I’ll take advantage of your drunken and lecherous state.”
“I’m Penelope’s night away from the kids. It will be late and my parents will definitely be suspicious if I stay out all night. Rain check?”
He steps in closer, the electric current between us building. “I waited for you for sixteen years, Sophia. What’s a few more days?”
* * *
Late Tuesday afternoon,I get the call that River is finally being delivered to the safe house. After the week I’ve had, it’s a breath of fresh air. Seven and I keep missing each other, and there hasn’t been a single new clue on the case. We made a date for seven o’clock tonight at his place though. I can’t wait.
The safe house is a simple but relatively large log cabin nestled in the woods in a remote section of the Appalachians on the border of Devashire. It took me over an hour to drive here, and the closest neighboring house is fifteen miles away. I scoop the groceries I brought for River from the back of Arden’s Kia and think again that I need to get myself a car. I shuffle to the door and give it two hard knocks with my knee. When it opens, I almost drop the groceries. Instead, I close my eyes.
“River! Why are you naked?” Satyrs in their natural form have hooves and a shaggy coat of hair from the waist down that does an excellent job of concealing their, um, considerable members, but they can shift to look human. That includes the ability to mask their horns. For practical reasons though, such as ease of finding appropriate clothing, keeping their fur groomed, et cetera, most choose to appear as River does now, human from the neck down, satyr from the neck up. Which means that before I closed my eyes, I got a clear view of the full monty, and River’s monty is incredibly, er, full.
Eyes still closed, I jerk when the groceries lift from my grip and he says, “I just got out of the shower. I was trying to find a towel. Does it bother you?” He sounds genuinely surprised.
I open one eye to see he’s in the kitchen, his bare ass mooning me as he sets down the groceries. I avert my eyes, but they catch on his wet hair and the way droplets of water stream in rivulets down his spine. I refuse to follow them and instead fasten my gaze on the tattoo of a phoenix on his left shoulder. I never knew he had a tattoo. “Um, I know it’s common for satyrs to embrace nudity, but I’d prefer if you—”
He turns around to look at me, exposing himself again. I wince on behalf of all his former lovers. Every single one of them must have left River’s bed with a limp.
My eyes flick toward the ceiling. “Pants, River! Could you put some pants on?”
“Sure. All you had to do was ask.” He sounds as if the thought never occurred to him before now. I hear him walk from the room, and a moment later he returns in board shorts and a T-shirt.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” He looks me in the eye and then at the groceries on the counter, and his expression grows serious.
River is an imposing presence, at least six foot four inches of corded muscle just shy of bulky. Horns of impressive size curl like a ram’s from the sides of his head. Usually his cheerful disposition acts to balance out his hulking exterior, but when his face morphs like it does right now, I almost take a step back.
