Avine, to her credit, didn’t flinch.
“Elder Amell.” She offered a slight bow, formal but not subservient. “Welcome to the Siren’s Rest.”
Eamon studied her for a long moment, that assessing gaze taking her apart and putting her back together. Then hereturned the bow, equally slight, and tension in Theo’s spine loosened.
Respect. Not acceptance, not yet, but acknowledgment that she was worth respecting.
“You activated wards that haven’t stirred in decades.” Eamon’s voice was flat. “The ley lines through town are still adjusting.”
“I signed a deed. The wards responded.”
“They did more than respond.” Eamon moved past her, examining the ward lines visible along the walls with an intensity that suggested he knew exactly what he was looking for. “Either you’re remarkably powerful, or remarkably dangerous.”
Theo stepped forward before he could stop himself. “Uncle?—”
“Maybe both.” Avine’s chin lifted. “Is that a problem?”
The silence stretched. Then Eamon let out a low noise—half laugh, half concession.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” He turned to Theo, lowering his voice to a pitch meant for pack ears only. “We’ll speak later.”
Before Theo could respond, the door opened again, and the chaos truly began.
Georgia Gentry slippedin like a shadow, all sleek panther grace and calculating assessment. She circled the parlor once, taking in the restoration work, the ward lines, and—Theo noticed—the positioning of everyone present. When she stopped in front of Avine, her pleasant smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“The last four owners were rejected by this place within a month. What makes you different?”
“I didn’t ask for its permission.”
Georgia’s lip twitched—approval or amusement, impossible to tell—before she drifted to join Sue near the fireplace, already murmuring words Theo couldn’t catch.
Bartek Arbor came through the door like a mountain deciding to visit, ducking to clear the frame. The tiger Elder was enormous even in human form, all broad shoulders and scarred hands and a face that looked like it had been carved from granite by a sculptor who’d given up on details.
He didn’t bother with pleasantries. His gaze went straight to the ceiling, tracking lines only he could see, and his scowl deepened.
“Your support beams need work.” He pointed at a spot near the kitchen doorway. “That one’s taking too much weight. And the foundation work from the flood—passable, but not to code.” He finally looked at Avine. “I’ll send my crew.”
It wasn’t a question.
“I—” Avine started.
“Tuesday.” Bartek was already moving toward the basement door. “I’ll need access to the lower levels.”
Theo caught Avine’s expression—gratitude and affront warring on her face—and felt a flicker of dark humor. Welcome to Elder management.
Isandro Holt arrived with all the warmth of a formal treaty negotiation. The lion Elder was impeccably dressed, silver-haired, and emanating the kind of old-blood skepticism that had kept coven-pack relations strained for a century.
“My son, the Mayor, sends his regards.” He addressed Avine with measured neutrality. “He’ll be monitoring the situation.”
The situation. A muscle jumped in Theo’s jaw.
“I look forward to meeting him.” Avine’s tone was perfectly polite. “When the inn is ready for guests, he’s welcome to inspect it personally.”
Isandro’s expression flickered—surprise that she’d offered rather than waited to be demanded. He nodded once, stiffly, and moved to stand with Georgia and Sue.
Then Bran Ursa arrived, and everything got loud.
“LITTLE WITCH!” The bear Elder’s voice boomed through the inn, rattling the chandelier. He was massive, bearded, and beaming, and before anyone could react, he’d swept Avine into a hug that lifted her feet off the floor. “Welcome to our shores! You smell like anxiety! Completely understandable given the circumstances!”
