It’s silly, but the feel of his long fingers fills me with pride, since Lev’s true hands are on the smaller side. Perhaps I’m notthattawdry a spellcaster.
He waits until I’m seated before lowering his backside onto the wooden cask beside mine. The sound of a seam ripping, followed by a muttered curse, spurs an uncontrollable giggle from my throat.
He stretches out his legs. “At least now, they’re relatively comfortable.”
Another bubble of laughter escapes me. And, yes, it attracts stares, but most diners were already gawping anyway. “What should we order,muzha?”
The word husband makes him arch a brow, but then he’s leaning over, flicking aside a lock of the blonde, shoulder-lengthbob I gave myself, and dropping a whisper into the crook of my ear.
“I wouldn’t even order a pitcher of water in here,xhina.” When he sits back, his mouth is crooked into a sneer he barely manages to wipe off his face by the time the barkeep approaches to take our order.
Lev asks for only two shots of vodka, which thins the half-blood’s mouth, so I request a full bottle.
The second he’s out of earshot, my companion leans over. “If the one served at the Lodge last night didn’t appeal to you, you’ll positively loathe this one.”
I turn to murmur back, “Just giving him some business. I don’tactuallyplan on drinking it.”
His nose drags over my cheek as he moves his lips to my lobe. “Good, because I’m pretty sure human-made vodka can blind even a Crow.”
Sure enough, just the odor of the liquor set down before us a moment later makes my eyes water.
“Can I get ya any food to go with yer drinks?” The tavernkeeper wipes his swollen fingers down his stained apron.
Lev fills my glass, then his. “Thank you, but we’ve already?—”
“We’ll take two bowls of…” I peer into the earthenware dishes around me to see what’s being served. I go with the umbrella term: “stew.”
“Good choice.” His short locks are so gray they shine like foil in the sandy light. “Me daughter made it with real whale meat. I hear it’s her best seafood goulash yet.”
My stomach flops at the news that the stew is made from a creature as majestic as the one that carved up the bay earlier today. Hypocritical of me, given that I’m not a vegetarian.
As the tavern owner marches off toward the kitchen, the young man across from us drops his spoon into his empty bowl,then proceeds to use his pinkie’s overly-long fingernail to fish a morsel from between his front teeth. “Where you two from?”
“The capital,” Lev answers, sitting up straighter, as though to make himself appear larger. He’s already broader than most males here, thanks to my spell.
“That explains yer accent.” He drags his gaze across Lev’s hair, the length of which I altered to fit the look of Glacin half-bloods. I was tempted to pretend Lev and I were both from Luce, where non-magical beings are free to grow out their locks, but Lev insisted on shoulder-length locks.
“We sailed over to work one of the carnival stands,” I explain.
“You ain’t afraid of them Serpents, then?”
I seize my shot glass of vodka and carry it to my nose to block the smell wafting past the man’s yellowed teeth. “They were perfectly friendly.”
The man seated to the other side of me screws up his veined nose. “Good thing our oceans are too icy for them beasts.”
“A shame our air ain’t too icy for them birds,” someone quips.
Lev shifts in his seat. I believe it’s nerves until he slips his arm around my waist and tugs me nearer. Could the beast-bashing be making him anxious for my safety? Or is he worried for the antimorphs’ safety? I may be hiding in plain sight, but if my neighbor tries anything, I’ll have zero qualms about giving him a taste of my talons.
I squeeze Lev’s knee, hoping my calmness will mitigate his unease. The Glacins around us have probably never interacted with a shifter in their life, so their opinion skips off me like flat rocks over placid surf.
“What do you think of the Shabbins?” I ask our voluble tablemates.
My human neighbor crosses his arms. “What doyouthink of the blood-drinkers, girl?”
I’m tempted to tell him that this reputation of drinking blood is unmerited, but I want to avoid suspicion, not garner it, so I lean over conspiratorially. “I think Pink-eyes should go back to Shabbe. And stay there. I think it’s a shame the wards fell. I hear one of the royals tried to stop it from happening, but she got caught.”
The tavern grows so quiet that I can hear the blood whoosh through Lev’s veins as he scrutinizes my tiny glass. At first, I think he’s checking whether I drank the vodka, but then I catch his gaze skimming over my painted nails, hunting for talons.
