I'd just settled into the battered armchair, trying not to let the cider go straight to my head, when Maeve materialized beside me. "Tash. Walk with me a sec?”
There was no "please." No smile.
I followed her, mug in hand, down the short hall off the side of the living room, where one of the big windows overlooked valley. Maeve closed the door behind us, killing the laughter from the board game in the next room.
She didn't waste time. "I need to fix your clothes."
That scrambled my brain. "Is that a fashion critique, or?—?"
She cut me off. "No. Remember, I did it for Fifi."
I tried for humor. "Okay, but I don't want to end up in teenager clothes."
Maeve rolled her eyes, then motioned for me to hold out my arm.
I did as I was told.
She braced my wrist, fingers surprisingly strong. With her other hand, she pinched my sleeve between her thumb and forefinger and started tracing loops.
The pattern wasn't random. It moved. It spiraled, then branched, sometimes flicking back on itself. Each time her nail hit the fabric, it left a faint shimmer, as if light had been braided into the thread. She murmured as she worked, but none of the words sounded remotely familiar. They were soft, almost like a lullaby, but the tune swung from sharp to sweet and back again.
After a minute, she switched arms, repeating the same circuit. Shoulder, elbow, wrist. The pattern stacked, then vanished, leaving nothing but regular, off-the-rack cloth.
She finished with a flick of her fingers, then breathed a puff of air onto the seam.
The fabric glittered. Just for a heartbeat, then nothing.
Maeve let go, took a step back, eyed her handiwork like a chef waiting for critique. "There. Should hold against a full-body shift, no matter how wild it gets. I even reinforced the knees. Don't ask why, you'll thank me later."
I flexed my arm and checked the sleeve. It looked and felt totally normal.
"Is it done?" I asked, still expecting a punchline.
"Try it. Partial shift first." She crossed her arms, mouth twitching with challenge.
I drew a breath and pictured the magic crawling up my spine. Taryn sat ready, but I only pushed enough to change my arm.
My nails stretched, then hardened. My skin shimmered, rainbow and copper, but the sleeve disappeared into the scales. The fabric stretched, flowed, and contoured right to the new shape like it had been painted on.
I flexed a claw, half expecting a seam to give.
Nothing.
And when I pulled the magic back, the fabric snapped back, no baggy elbows, no scarring. Like it had never been tested.
Maeve smirked. "Told you. It'll hold through anything, even a dragon-sized meltdown."
When we went back into the living room, Livia stood at the head of the dining table, posture perfect, as if she was bracing for gunfire.
Chance leaned against the mantle again. Damon sat ramrod straight, one hand wrapped around his mug. The twins stayed at their spot on the rug. Maeve drifted closer to the snack tray, probably because nerves required carbohydrates.
Livia didn't start right away. She took three slow breaths. When she finally spoke, her voice was steady, but the words had to muscle their way past a boulder.
"I need to tell you all something. It's been a long time coming, but I believe this is the time." She glanced at each of us, then fixed on Chance.
"After your father died, I made decisions. Some to keep this family alive. Others were less clear-cut." Her hands trembled, just a little, so she locked them together, white-knuckled.
"The Hollow Order still operates throughout the world. You all know that. What you don't know is that not all hunters are the same. Many are fanatics, yes. But there's a faction, a not inconsiderable group, who believe their purpose is to fight only what's truly dangerous. Demons. Out-of-control shifters. Vampiresand dark witches. The creatures out there who hurt humans for sport. Not us."
