Ash laughed, then it hit. She was actually going to meet an honest-to-goodness archangel, a being likely far older than even Race.
Who knew when she left England to search for her birth mother and the origins of her power, she’d discover far more than she expected?
“Race, you’re back!” a woman’s voice rang out.
Ash pivoted as a curvy woman in navy joggers and a gray hoodie hurried toward them. Even with strands of riotous auburn hair escaping a messy braid and sticking to her damp, latte-hued skin, she was stunning.
A man as huge as Race sauntered along behind her, spinning a basketball on one finger. He looked like a fallen deity with his chiseled features and overgrown wheat-blond hair.
His smirking, toffee-brown eyes shifted from her to Race. “Nice haircut. Is lopsided the new norm?”
Race’s mouth curved, all sharp amusement. “Style, Norse. You’d recognize it if you hadn’t let a weed slasher roam through yours.”
The man barked a laugh, revealing slashing masculine dimples.
At their snark with no heat, Ash exhaled in relief. She could only handle so much post-portal stress before her nerves staged a revolt. Then there was her upcoming meeting with Michael.
Christ.Everything seemed to just pour down in torrents.
“What on earth happened to you both?” the woman gasped, coming to a halt, her hazel eyes sweeping over their soot-smudged faces, and grimy, blood-spattered clothes.
“Ash, this is Kira,” Race said, ignoring the woman’s question. “And the wiseass is Týr, her mate. This is Ashaya James.”
“Hullo.” Ash offered a hand and froze, spotting the black grime ground into her fingers. “Oh, wonderful.” She gave a sheepish laugh, pulling back her hand. “I have a bit of soot. Comes from sprinting through blackened slopes, I’m afraid. Quite hard to keep up appearances.”
Oh, crap, I’m babbling.
“She’s English.” Kira grinned, dimples flashing.
“Guilty.” Ash grimaced, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Mum says after studying in California for years, I’ve gone quite feral, learned too many Americanisms…” She caught Race’s amused stare and scrunched her face. “Speaking of which…”
She turned to Kira. “How does one actually manage dragons? Because I’ve loads of questions.”
Kira burst out laughing. “Then you and I will have to figure that out together.”
“Oh, I can help,” Týr cast Race a savage smirk. “Step one, drag the dragon’s scaly ass out of his cave.”
“Shut up, Norse,” Race muttered, refastening his hair.
Týr chuckled. “I’m assuming you’re here for Michael? He’s on a?—”
“Warpath? Yeah, got the memo from Dag,” Race grunted.
Týr’s grin faded into a look of curiosity, one eyebrow lifting. “What happened?”
Race thumbed the strap of her backpack over his shoulder. “Let’s wait for Michael so I don’t have to repeat all this. And Ash is tired.”
“You’re actually talking. In full sentences.” Týr’s eyes gleamed. “Careful, you’ll ruin that brooding dragon image. Damn, this must be something huge.”
“Honey, stop provoking.” Kira grabbed her mate’s arm, tugging him with her. “Come on, you guys, let’s go inside. It’s freezing out here.”
Ash expelled a deep breath as they followed the couple along the snow-covered flagstone toward the castle. Race was right. Her adrenaline was fading, and exhaustion was beginning to take hold.
“Just a little while longer,” he murmured, rubbing slow circles along her back as they climbed the three steps to a terrace decked with a wrought iron table and chairs.
Týr opened the French doors, and Kira led the way inside.
A fire crackled in the little fireplace, its warmth wrapping around Ash. The room was much smaller than she had expected. Dark wood seemed to soak up the last of the daylight, while a thick Persian rug muffled every footfall. Behind a broad L-shaped desk, neat stacks of parchment and books piled the shelves.
