Papa snorted. “Don’t judge a man too harshly unless you’ve walked in his shoes. I still think love is going to hit that one right upside his head someday.”
We finished our meal, talking about nothing important—the best donut in town, whether or not Oscar could learn to play chess, what time I should show up at the MC for the ceremony. As we were walking out, Pearl caught Papa at the bar and wanted to discuss a few things about the ceremony. I was just about dancing with the urge to potty, so I excused myself to the lady’s room.
“I’ll just be a sec,” I told him. “Nature calls.” He leaned back and looked down the hall towards the restrooms like he was checking for predators.
“There and back,” he ordered.
I handed him my bag, Oscar safely in tow, gave him a mock salute and headed that way.
The women’s restroom was down a narrow hall lined with black-and-white photos of Dairyville’s early days. Inside, it was the usual: two stalls, a two-sink vanity, and a mirror that made everyone look haunted.
I did my business, washed my hands, and stared at my reflection. The bite mark on my shoulder was half-hidden by my dress, but I could feel it pulsing with every heartbeat. I traced it gently with my finger, the memory of last night’s passion still burning under my skin.
“Nice mark,” said a voice behind me.
I spun around. A woman I’d never seen stood at the door, face pale and angular, her hair in a perfect twist. She wore aconservative navy dress that looked twenty years out of date, but her lipstick was red as blood.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You know, some wounds never really heal.”
I turned off the faucet, dried my hands, and edged toward the door.
She stepped in front of me, blocking my way. When she looked at me, her eyes went completely white—no iris, no pupil, just a film of milky frost.
“You can run,” she said, her voice suddenly deeper, older, “but there’s no hiding. I’ve found you, and I’m coming for you. No wolf in the world can stop me.”
The air went cold. The lights flickered, shadows twisting on the tile. The smell of roses and rot filled the tiny room.
I staggered backward, clutching the edge of the sink.
The woman’s lips curled. “That’s right, Aspen. The Wyrdmother always gets what she’s after.”
I bumped the woman’s shoulder as I tried to get to the door. She blinked, and her eyes turned normal again, but she looked confused, like she had no idea where she was.
I finally ducked past her and ran out of the women’s restroom and straight into a wall of muscle and leather. My first thought was that the Wyrdmother’s assassin had followed me out of the restroom, but when I looked up, I saw Arsenal’s stony face staring back at me, eyes sharp as razors.
He grabbed my arms hard enough to hurt. “What happened?”
I tried to push past him. “Let go—”
He didn’t. “You’re shaking. What happened?”
I couldn’t catch my breath. The hallway was too small, the lights too bright, the air tasted like bleach and old secrets. I was going to scream if he didn’t let go.
“Hey!” Papa’s voice boomed from the bar. He was on us in three steps, shoving Arsenal’s hands off my shoulders with a growl.
“Let her go. Now.” His tone was pure wolf, and for a second, I thought Arsenal would fight him right there in the hallway.
I twisted free, stumbling into Papa’s arms. He held me tight, so tight I could barely breathe, but I didn’t care. I needed something real to hold on to.
Arsenal stood there, arms crossed, jaw clenched. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
Papa ran a hand through my hair. “Sunshine, tell me.”
I tried. “There was a woman. In the bathroom. I—she—” My teeth were chattering, my whole body shaking.
Papa knelt to look me in the eye, gentle but relentless. “Start from the beginning.”
