“Huh?” I cock my head. Simp gremlins? Is that … another underborne species?
Then I notice a single tear slipping down his cheek. Ezra blinks hard, swipes it away, and stares at the wetness on his fingertips like he doesn’t understand what it is.
“Nothing, darling,” he says quietly. “Fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever cried before. But the thought of you coming to harm, or worse, makes me feel completely broken inside. It’s thishollow crack in my chest, straight down the middle. It’s quite unpleasant.”
His shadows curl up his chest, one of them slipping against his collarbone, trying to understand. A few tendrils slither along his jaw, almost in awe, memorizing this moment.
“She wasn’t completely alone,” Louie huffs, angrier at herself and her inability to shift than at Ezra.
“My apologies, dear pup, you’re correct. Not completely alone. We have our disagreements, but I know you would protect Aurora with your life,” Ezra says with a sad smile.
Louie responds with a polite nod, which might be the nicest interaction I’ve seen between them.
Ezra vanishes into shadow, then reappears as his Tesem—a hulking, midnight blur of muscle and teeth.
He pads over to Louie, who’s still sniffing at the bag with her human nose, muttering curses under her breath.
When he lowers himself beside her, the size difference is stark. He could rest his head on her shoulder like it’s nothing.
But his movement is careful. Almost tender.
Louie doesn’t flinch at the four-legged nightmare, just offers him the open Ziploc.
In less than five seconds, Ezra lets out a ferocious growl and, in another flash of shadows, reappears in his human form with his lips still curled in a snarl.
The moment he shifts, his shadows slam into the floor, a violent shockwave of rage. They lash out, then curl possessively around my ankles, savage and blood-hungry.
“Shit. That smells like Jameson … and someone else. Something rotten. Decay barely masked with magic.”
Ezra stares down at the mug, brows furrowed.
“I’ve noticed random shit on my porch before. A sleeping bag. A thermos. Weird, but nothing pointed. This?” He gestures dramatically at the “Freak in the Sheets” mug. “This is personal.”
He places both hands on the counter and leans forward, his voice low.
“They didn’t leave it for me. They left it for you.”
He exhales sharply. “And there’s noOrbexilum. No spell residue. No trace of magic at all.”
Ezra chews on his bottom lip and hums.
“This wasn’t a warning, Aurora.”
He looks at me, his eyes dark and full of thunder.
“It was a test. They were watching. To see what you’d do.”
His shadows twitch, eager for an excuse to commit something unspeakably violent.
I spent the last few days in a safe, warm little bubble, thinking nothing could hurt me. But the truth is, I haven’t been safe since the Disciples found me.
“Okay, Poirot, relax,” I mutter. “It’s a mug, not a murder map. What do we do?”
Ezra’s mouth twitches—just barely.
“For the record, Poirot was the superior detective. Sherlock can suck my dick, gag on it, actually, and then cry about it in his violin journal.”
Did he just declare literary war on Sherlock Holmes? Yes. Did it turn me on? Also, yes. The second he picked Christie over Doyle, I couldn’t shake the mental image of him between my legs, recitingThe Murder of Roger Ackroyd.
