“An incubus demon?” I finished for her. “We don’t normally advertise it on our website—stops the weirdos with kinks from hiring us,” I added, a rare awkwardness tugging at my words. “But if you read the small print in the contract, it does mention—”
“—my mate,” she said.
Chapter 6. Ambrose
I glared out at the tree line, eyes narrowed.
Isadora’s wards pulsed faintly against the midday light—strong for now, but even the strongest weave would fray under that kind of relentless pressure. The creature out there wasn’t going to stop. Not until it got in.
A flicker of color moved beyond the hedge.
There wasn’t time to do more than tense before it darted forward, barely more than a blur. The wards snapped like a whip as it struck, sparks flaring along the invisible barrier. Instinctively, shadows poured from me, spearing through the newest weakness in the weave and lashing around the small, gnarled form.
I didn’t want to hurt the hob. Only drive it back.
But despite my restraint, Isadora’s voice sounded in my mind, the urge to protect her and her home almost overwhelming. And without much thought at all, my shadows tightened, then flung the hob into the foliage it’d come from. It crashed through the brush and landed hard in a small clearing beyond the property line. In an instant it was back on its feet, the much too big, once vibrant knitted sweater—now tattered from weeks living in the forest—clinging to its knobbly frame. Pointed teeth flashed as it let out a long hiss before vanishing into the trees.
I exhaled slowly, fixing the location of the breach in my mind so I could tell Isadora where the wards needed reinforcing.
Part of me felt sorry for the little hob.
This property had once been its home, but the witch who’d lived here before Isadora had abandoned house and hob alike a few months ago.
Which was somewhat unusual.
From what I knew of hobs, they were quiet little creatures, happy to remain in the background, head down, going about their work. Once they chose a house, they bound themselves to it, working tirelessly to keep it standing, safe, and whole. In return, the occupant offered the hob their hospitality: food left out, a fire to warm by, and company.
These ancient creatures saw many occupants come and go over the course of their lives and were usually tolerant—even when they weren’t particularly fond of whoever currently shared their space. So long as they were fed and the hearth remained lit, they went about their work, company optional.
Their bond was with the house after all.
If a hob truly wanted someone gone, it would simply drive them out. Theft was the usual method—the ironic and often misunderstood origin of the old lore about offering a piece of clothing to get rid of a hob.
A hob would take what it pleased and cause just enough mischief to make the house unlivable, then wait patiently for the next occupant to arrive.
A part of me desperately wanted to take this hob’s side—the little creature had bonded with the house first.
But then I’d simply close my eyes and hear the soft melodic voice of my Isadora. The past week had been a blissful blur. From the moment Isadora opened her front door to me, something in my chest had tipped and never quite righted itself. I’d fallen for her with a speed that should have given me pause but didn’t.
She was an older, delicate witch, perhaps with another twenty years on my twenty-seven, yet she was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. Elegant. Regal, even. Her voice had wrapped around me as she’d first welcomed me inside, and as she explained her plight, it had felt only natural to listen. She’d seemed so small, so defenseless. As she spoke, I felt the swell ofprotectiveness rise in my chest and had silently pledged that I’d help her in every way I could.
Because Isadora was...Isadora. Perfect in every conceivable way.
And the hob’s hostility toward her felt excessive, almost senseless.
Isadora didn’t deserve this stress. All she’d done was settle into an abandoned house and try in good faith to form a bond with the hob within.
At first, it had gone well. The hob accepted her food and slept by the fire. It kept the house in order and even took on domestic tasks I hadn’t known hobs to bother with—cooking, tidying, even the laundry.
And then, abruptly, it changed.
The hob turned on Isadora.
She believed it was jealousy—resentment toward the new things she brought into the house. The hob had been used to drying herbs and twigs from its former occupant’s foraging, not designer clothes and expensive trinkets. According to Isadora, it had begun trying to drive her out. It accepted neither her food nor her hearth. It started stealing her designer belongings, such as theincrediblyexpensive Vivian Wyrdwood knitted sweater that the little hob had all but destroyed after weeks of forest living. It was all my Isadora could do to cast the hob out, raise her wards, and find a reputable security company to help her get the situation under control.
I’d arrived just in the nick of time.
Isadora had been exhausted, stretched thin between tending the house and reinforcing her protections. She’d looked so small then, standing in the doorway, batting her lashes as she asked for my help.
