Avine produced a noise somewhere between a greeting and the sound of her spine compressing.
Theo moved without thinking. His hand found Avine’s back as he physically extracted her from Bran’s embrace, stepping between them with a possessiveness he’d examine later and probably regret.
“Bran.” He kept his voice level. “Perhaps let her breathe.”
The bear Elder looked between them, knowing warmth in his gentle eyes. “Of course, of course. Apologies, little witch. I forget my strength.” His gaze dropped to where Theo’s hand still rested on Avine’s lower back, and his smile widened. “The pack’s protective instincts are strong these days, I see.”
Theo removed his hand.
Too slowly, judging by the way Junie cackled from the porch doorway.
“Fascinating.”
The voice came from nowhere and everywhere, and Orryn Vale materialized near the window with the casual disregard for physics that made fae so deeply unsettling. He was impossible to age—face unlined but ancient, pale eyes that held too much knowledge, a smile that promised nothing good.
“The tides are turning, innkeeper.” He circled Avine slowly, not quite touching but close enough to be invasive. “Best learn to swim.”
Avine refused to retreat. “Is that a threat or advice?”
Orryn’s smile widened. “Yes.”
He turned to Theo then, and his expression made Theo’s wolf go still and watchful.
“Interesting.” The fae’s voice dropped low enough that only Theo could hear. “I didn’t expect the surge to catch you.”
“It hasn’t.”
Orryn laughed—a sound like wind chimes in a storm, beautiful and wrong. “Keep telling yourself that.” He drifted away before Theo could respond, leaving behind the scent of autumn leaves and the uncomfortable certainty that he knew exactly what was happening between Theo and Avine.
The door banged open again, and chaos arrived in the form of Piprick Geare.
The gnome Elder was barely four feet tall and carried at least three different devices that were sparking, whirring, or emitting small puffs of colored smoke. His white hair stood up in wild tufts, his spectacles were held with copper wire and optimism, and he was talking before he’d fully entered the room.
“—remarkable resonance pattern, truly remarkable, the ley line amplification alone suggests a power coefficient of at least—” He stopped, spotted Avine, and beamed with such genuine delight that it was almost disarming. “The new wardkeeper! Your energy signature is magnificent! May I take readings? I’ve been developing a device that measures magical throughput, and your activation of the dormant lines created exactly the kind of data spike I needed to calibrate the?—”
One of his devices exploded gently, showering them both with what appeared to be glitter.
“Ah. That one wasn’t ready.” He didn’t seem concerned. “Anyway, as I was saying?—”
Avine’s expression had glazed over. Theo stepped closer to her, bending to murmur near her ear.
“He’s harmless. Brilliant, but harmless. Nod occasionally and he’ll run out of breath eventually.”
She turned her head, and their faces were inches apart. Her breath caught. His pulse stuttered. Piprick continued explaining resonance frequencies entirely unnoticed.
“I have no idea what he said.” Her voice was barely audible. “Coefficients?”
“Nobody does. Nod.”
“Right.” Challenge flickered in her expression. “Pack.”
TWELVE
THEO
The next hour was an exercise in restraint.
Theo found himself gravitating toward Avine, positioning himself between her and whichever Elder seemed most likely to cause problems. When Georgia’s questions grew pointed, he deflected with pack business. When Isandro’s skepticism veered toward rudeness, he offered a bland redirect. When Bran tried to hug her again, he was simply there, a physical barrier wrapped in plausible deniability.
