Unlike other wrakhs, who use bones, tea, or blood, Iain’s gift is in his hands.
But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. The second his fingers skim over her ass, my shadows coil tight, snarling withoutsound. Iain hums in amusement, a low, knowing sound just for me.
Then, without even glancing my way, he flips me the middle finger.
The wrakh has always been a fucking mongrel.
“So that’s how it is, then? Ezra, you ancient motherfucker, you’ve gone and gotten yourself a little human girlfriend. Wait …”
Iain leans down, buries his face in Aurora’s neck, and sniffs, then continues.
“Not human, but human. Christ, girly, aren’t you a fucking walking paradox?”
The wrakh takes another moment to study Aurora before he turns back to me.
“What’s this then? You here for some kind of supernatural abortion? ‘Cause I tell ya now, prices’ve gone to shite. Government cunts think they can tell us what to do with our own bodies. Fuckin’ disgrace!”
Iain’s unfocused rage spreads across the house like a dark plague, popping light bulbs and wilting plants. If I don’t calm him, this outburst will consume him for weeks.
But, before I can speak, Aurora steps forward, cocks her head and asks, “Are you a fan of Tool? The band? I only ask because I noticed the artwork from their albums on your wall. And the song you were listening to when we showed up. ‘The Pot,’ right? Do you have their new album on vinyl? It’s so freaking expensive, but I’d love to listen to it if you have it. I’ve only ever listened on Spotify.”
Aurora smiles sweetly at Iain, hiding her hands behind her back and playfully rocking on her heels.
The black cloud of rage threatening to consume Iain’s home pulls back almost immediately. With only a few sentences, Aurora has calmed the warrior wrakh.
Iain clears his throat and picks at the dirt under his nails.
“Oh, aye, little blackbird. Got the new Tool album on vinyl. Want me to throw it on while we talk?”
Iain’s voice has a strange hint of hope woven into his question.
“Really? That would be wonderful! I’d love to hear your take on the album when we finish chatting.”
Aurora leans forward and gives him a conspiratorial wink. The air thickens, charged, like something just moved.
Iain blinks. His sneer falters and his posture softens.
And then … he blushes.
The wrakh clears his throat, mutters something, and immediately turns to find the record.
I gently wrap a hand around Aurora’s arm and pull her to me.
She’s in some sort of dreamy daze, and wait—wait.
Is that … kettle corn?
Everyone’s magic carries a scent, so I wonder if this is hers.
I hook my finger under her chin, then angle her face toward me.
“Aurora, are you okay? What just happened? I smell … your magic, I think? How did you do that?”
It certainly wasn’t Iain’s. His smells like fish and burnt plastic.
Her magic is sweet, pleasant … good.
Aurora doesn’t blink. Her gaze stays distant, her eyes glassing over before the tears rise. Something hums beneath her skin, a living chord that reverberates through me.
