Well.
That’s notsuperhelpful.
But the little nudge of sensation in the center of my chest doesn’t ease up.
“Do you know who would? Got any wizened old wielders who might tell me about—”
“Seren,” Gavin says, resigned this time. “If I knew you’d only invited me here to pump me for—”
“Who says I did? Maybe I was just as excited about this date as—”
“Absolutely not a date.”
Gavin’s expression hardens. Not harsh, exactly, but like he’s allowed just about as much of my bullshit as he has patience for.
I let out a breath. “Fine. Not a date.”
“Figured,” he says good-naturedly, despite the confirmation that I am, indeed, here to pump him for information. “All you coven witches have never cared much to fraternize with wielders.”
“Not a coven witch,” I point out, irrationally irritated by the remark.
He’s not wrong.
Witches, particularly coven witches, and wielders have always been like oil and water. Maybe it’s our different approaches and ethos when it comes to magick, or maybeit’s whatever goddessdamned reason our forebears decided we couldn’t just coexist and practice together.
Whatever the reason, we’ve always given each other space.
Well, as much space as two communities of magick-users in a wider world that doesn’t know about our existence can give each other.
“And since this isn’t a date,” he says, “I’ll tell you again that it would be really, really stupid to go anywhere near this.”
I shoot him a smirk. “In all the years we’ve been doing thisdance, you haven’t gotten to know me that well, have you?”
He raises his hands in an unmistakable ‘hey, don’t come running back to me when you ruin your life’ gesture. “Fair enough.”
After he finishes his drink, he leaves, giving me at least enough courtesy not to warn me off the hunt again.
Maybe he’s getting to know me, after all.
Not that it matters, and not that I’m keen on connecting with him again after this.
Despite how thick he’s always laid it on, tonightIfeel like the slimeball.
I did get him here under the impression I was open to a date.
Mira, a mutual acquaintance of ours who runs a traveling tarot booth, mentioned a few months back that he’d been asking about me, that he hadn’t seen me around lately and was wondering where I’d been. I’d all but forgotten it until I started making a list of every last person I knew who might have even an inkling about Faerie or its queen.
I hadn’t hesitated for a second before I had her set us up.
Now, though, as I leave the bar and step into the bracing spring evening, I can’t stop the wave of regret that washes over me.
Maybe using Gavin like this was a bridge too far.
Maybe I should have thought it through a little more.
Goddess, I hate feeling like this.
I hate second-guessing, hate regret. I hate those rare times when it turns out I do possess the capability for caution and restraint, and it throws all the rest of my behavior under a guilty spotlight.
