“You are so strong, little lupine. So much stronger than me. Louie and I will keep you safe, and we will help you find the peace and power that was stolen from you.
“The wrakh who lives here will help us with at least one of our problems. He’s not exactly pleasant but will do just about anything for the right price,” I explain, not wanting her to be shocked by Iain’s grumpy demeanor.
“He?” Aurora asks, sounding slightly shocked.
Aurora may be part underborne, but her stereotypes are pure human.
“Yes, Aurora, he. A wrakh can be any gender. This one just happens to be a horrible bastard.”
Aurora looks less than convinced as I pull her toward the house.
“What about Louie?”
She turns toward her car, where the hellhound’s head is hanging out of the passenger window. Her wet, black nose twitches as she scans the woods for any sign of danger.
I hate to admit it, but Louie doesn’t fuck around when it comes to Aurora.
“Iain will immediately know what Louie is, and it’s not exactly good manners to stroll into someone’s house with a hellhound in tow. We must ask if she can set foot on the property. Chances are this old fucker has protection spells all over the place that target beasts like her.”
Turning back toward the house, I take a deep breath.
I hate dealing with other supernatural creatures, especially the volatile, barely house-trained kind like Iain.
But I don’t tell Aurora that. I keep my expression perfectly neutral as I lead her toward the doorstep of what is essentially a magically booby-trapped crack den.
Calling Iain’s place a shithole is an insult to shitholes everywhere. The porch roof sags, one good gust away from collapse, and looks like it’s held together by sheer spite and magic.
Crammed onto the front porch are several flea-ridden couches, two washers, three refrigerators, and, for some reason, a toilet. The paint peels away from every inch of the wood siding in huge ruddy chunks, and the entire house seems to lean slightly to the left.
A song I don’t recognize blasts through the house, shaking the rotten walls and rattling the windows. I knock with more force than necessary, and a dusting of old paint rains down at my feet.
For once, I’m thankful for my immortality because I’m almost certain those paint chips are 90% lead.
Aurora hums along with the song blaring through the house, and when she notices Iain’s ridiculous rubber duck wreath, she lets out a smoky little giggle.
Something in my chest becomes uncomfortably warm as I watch the little goddess enjoy a moment of well-deserved peace.
A crash echoes from inside.
Then another.
Something glass shatters.
Then, from deep within the house, a voice thick with an Irish lilt and slurred like a man three pints past good decisions, roars, “Jaysus FUCK, what fresh shite is this now?”
The door swings open, and my shadows flinch.
Not out of fear, but recognition.
The wrakh’s magic lingers in the doorway, foul and acrid, crackling along the threshold.
My instincts snarl, and my shadows pulse, but I force them to stay still.
No point in picking a fight … yet.
And then Iain steps into view.
A savage fucking sight.
