“All right, I’ll go.” Fancypants yawned again and stretched his wings.
I slid on my coat and boots. I was wearing a pair of leather pants, a cold shoulder turtleneck, and a low-slung silver belt. I pulled Bran’s beanie—it was black, with sparkles—over my ears, then slid on my gloves.
“Let’s get going.” I opened the door and, with Fancypants flying behind me, stepped out onto the porch. Bran had added it during the summer, extending the patio so we still had a place to barbecue. But now we had a porch swing, and rocking chairs and everything felt cozy.
The snow was coming down in a shower of thick flakes—big and wet, and piling up quickly. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the icy air. The chill cleared my head, and I walked over to the porch swing and sat down on it, staring out at the falling snow.
“It’s so beautiful,” I whispered.
“Truly, it is, but I think I’ve changed my mind. Although I do need to do my business,” Fancypants said, reluctantly flying around the edge of the house. He could use a litter box when the need arose, but we all preferred that he take advantage of the great outdoors for relieving himself. Dragon poo wasn’t the most pleasant of smells and, for such a small creature, Fancypants digested a lot of food—and the results added up.
I leaned back against the seat, grateful for my coat. It was thick and warm, and each winter I reluctantly traded in my leather jacket for the warmth of a poly-blend walking coat. Calf-length, it was lined to keep the heat in and the air out. Of course, it was in black—my signature color—and it had a row of double buttons down to the hip, where it opened to the knee.
As I sat there, the wind whipped up, sending the snowflakes into a flurry—a vortex in white.
“Is something bothering you?” Fancypants asked, returning to my side. “You seem lost in thought.”
I held out my arms and he flew into them, leaning for a quick snuggle before perching on my shoulder. He was heavy enough, but he also knew how to keep himself from throwing my back out of joint. Being around him made me light up, and though we were tied by the magical bond between us, I was just fine with that.
I couldn’t imagine losing him. If either of us died, the bond would break, but if someone attempt to re-bond an already bonded dragonette, it could drive us both mad. And it wouldn’t work. Dragonettes could vanish into another dimension when necessary—the same realm where unicorns and pegasi and other Cryptos hid when threatened. Called Sescernaht, the secret night, the realm was only accessible to cryptos and those they chose to shelter.
“Last night, Bree called me,” I said.
Fancypants wasn’t an animal, he was an intelligent creature who was far smarter than most humans and Otherkin. Dragonettes learned extraordinarily quickly and were able to pick up languages and other skills with ease.
“What’s wrong?”
“Faron was removed from his position as king of his Pack. And his wife was found dead—run off the road.” I let out a long sigh.
“How horrid. Will he be coming here?”
I glanced at Fancypants. “Bran wants me to extend an invitation.” While I wasn’t in the habit of discussing my love life—or anybody’s love life—with my dragonette, Fancypants knew very well that Faron and I had been a couple, and that the breakup had been hard on me.
“Then you should,” Fancypants said. “He’ll need his friends.”
“That’s what Bran said. I guess…I’ll call him after I make the brownies. After all, he’s free to say no, or to refuse to talk to me if he chooses. And Bran and Faron are friends. We’ve had enough dinners together to know it’s not just them being polite to each other.” I shivered, the cold suddenly hitting me. Or maybe it was something else. Either way, I returned to the house, Fancypants following behind me.
Twenty minutes later, the brownies were in the oven. As I pulled out my phone, it rang. I glanced at the caller ID. It was Faron.
“Hey, I was just about to call you,” I said, answering, but Faron interrupted me.
“Elphyra, I’ve no right to ask for your help,” Faron said. “But I’m in trouble.”
“I heard—the Pack…you’re no longer king?” I asked, not sure how to word it without sounding rude.
“It’s more than that,” he said. “Lucretia—my wife—she’s dead. And I’m afraid the sheriff might believe that I killed her. But I didn’t. Please, can you help me? For the first time in my life, I don’t know what to do.”
With that, all my hesitation slid away. Faron’s voice, begging for help, hit me to the core.
“Of course. Tell me where you are and Bran and I’ll be there as soon as we can.”
Faron hesitated, then said, “I’m at the old Carlton farmstead. I’m hiding in the basement. Elphyra, I swear, I had nothing to do with Lucretia’s death. On my word, on my honor.”
“I believe you,” I said. “We’ll be there as soon as we can. Just keep your wits about you and don’t do anything stupid.” I hung up, then turned off the oven, yanked the brownies out and set them on the stovetop, and hurried to the bedroom to talk to Bran.
CHAPTER THREE
As soon as I hung up, I hurried into the bedroom. Bran was up and getting dressed. He’d taken a shower—the steamy mist drifted out of the bathroom—and he was pulling on his jeans and a sweater.
