“Very well.” She leans closer to me. “At least you marked him, too.”
I snap my teeth, and she grins. “I missed you, little thing.”
“Where are the others?” Gareth uses a leather tie to pull his hair back. How can he look handsome with shaggy hair, kempt hair, and pulled-back hair, too? It seems an unfair gift.
“Here, there, who cares. I’m exhausted from carrying those fools through the vale.” Sabine lays down beside me. Before I can say anything else, she’s asleep. Her eyes are wide open, but she slumbers, her breathing long and slow. Witches are strange like that.
“Come, my beloved.” Gareth holds out a hand for me.
I slide out of bed and dress, then go with him to the main gathering room. Silmaran chose a house near the western gate, and soldiers—some of them armed with nothing more than kitchen knives or landscaping blades—lie on cots in the courtyard. The sun will be rising soon, and our scouts have already reported that Cenet’s force should arrive by midday. Despite the fact that calamity is bearing down on us, the city is calm and quiet. Most are gone, fled to the jungle, and those that remain are taking a deep breath before the big plunge. The bull wyvern draped himself over the western gate, a turret under each wing as he snores out sparks.
Silmaran sits at the wide dining table, her gaze on a map of Cranthum and the surrounding terrain. She hasn’t slept.
Rubbing her eyes, she looks up as we enter. “Our scouts to the north haven’t returned.”
“The queen is close.” I whirl as Brannon enters, the dark markings along his skin pulsing and surging.
He clasps arms with Gareth, then takes a seat at the table. “I can feel that queen, her power. She’s coming for blood.” He pops his neck as a hawk soars into the room and changes into Thorn.
Thorn pats himself down. “That witch took my pocket gold when we were in the vale. I’m sure of it.”
“You want to go demand it back from her?” Brannon smirks.
“Definitely not.” Thorn strides to Gareth and clasps forearms. “Congratulations on your mating.”
“Thank you.”
Thorn bows to me, and I laugh. “I’m not that kind of changeling.”
“All the same, we welcome you as Gareth’s mate, may the Ancestors help you with him.”
“He’s not so bad.” I wrap my arms around him from the side.
Thorn peers at his face. “You certainly look different.”
“I could use a shave.” He shrugs.
Thorn points to my mark on Gareth’s neck. “Looks like your changeling is just the bit of wildness you’ve been needing for all these years.”
“Who do we kill?” Grayhail stomps in, his muscled body and warhammer promising destruction. “Congratulations.” He locks forearms with Gareth, his mouth lifting in a grin. “Finally mated.”
I can feel Gareth’s pride through the bond, and I blush knowing that it’s me he’s proud of. I snuggle against him as Ravella and Valen greet him in much the same way. Phin rushes in, Raywen and Parnon behind him. His little piggy hooves tippy-tap on the tile.
Ravella snorts, then starts to laugh so hard she doubles over.
“What?” Grayhail eyes the pig. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, do shut up.” Phin sits in a huff.
Valen, the pale, dark-haired one, points at the pig. “By the Ancestors, it’s Phin.” Ravella’s laugh infects him, then spreads around the room until the entire Phalanx is howling as Phin glares—if a pig can glare, that is.
I try to contain my giggles but can’t. Even Gareth’s lips twitch. Chastain and Silmaran exchange a bemused, if tired, look, and Parnon grunts.
“The trip through the vale was worth it for this alone.” Thorn plops into the chair across from Brannon and wipes away a tear. “I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard. If only Leander could see this.”
“Shut up!” Phin runs at Thorn’s ankle, but Thorn picks him up and sits him on the table. “Now, don’t be a naughty piggy. Be good, and I’ll give you a treat.”
“What do you think Phin bacon will taste like?” Grayhail leans against the wall as the Phalanx snickers. Okay, I snicker, too.
