The lobbyof the Siren’s Rest had never looked better.
Crystal chandeliers cast light across the restored hardwood floors. The sweeping staircase gleamed with fresh polish, itsbanister wrapped in strings of tiny, spelled lights that shifted colors with the music. Clusters of comfortable seating invited conversation, and the original fireplace—unlit in the summer night—had been filled with arrangements of sea glass and driftwood.
Avine had poured her heart into every detail. And now her heart was overflowing at the sight of it filled with people.
Near the fireplace, a cold spot lingered with quiet satisfaction—Eleanor, present as always, apparently approving of what her inn had become.
Witches and wolves mingled openly, the old divisions softening in ways that would have seemed impossible a month ago. Clover Weaver was deep in conversation with a tiger shifter from Bartek’s construction crew. Malcolm Vance, Theo’s quiet lighthouse-keeper uncle, was showing watercolors to Fallyn Green, the fae-touched librarian, while she offered dry commentary that made him smile. Near the bar, Vito and Bella Marini held court with a crowd of mixed species, their laughter carrying across the room.
“This is your fault, you know.”
Avine turned to find Great-Aunt Sue Tidewell at her elbow, a glass of champagne in one wizened hand and a satisfied smile on her face. The Witch Elder looked particularly smug tonight, her silver hair piled high and her dark eyes gleaming with ancient mischief.
“My fault?”
“All of this.” Sue gestured with her champagne, encompassing the room, the guests, the unprecedented mingling. “A witch mated to the wolf Alpha. Pack and coven sharing space like it’s nothing. The town hasn’t been this united since—” She paused, a flicker of memory crossing her expression.
“In 1890.” Sue’s voice dropped, the brightness softening into something older. “A witch elder and a wolf elder made a bond—not unlike yours. For a generation, the pack and coven moved as one. The inn was full. The wards sang. Haven Shores was something extraordinary.”
She sipped her champagne. “Then the wolf elder’s family decided the alliance gave the witches too much influence. There were accusations. A broken promise. The witch was asked to leave the inn she’d helped build.” Her eyes settled on Avine with quiet gravity. “The Marsh-Vance falling-out, Beck’s generation calls it. A polite name for a very old cruelty. Haven Shores spent the next hundred years pretending the divide was natural. It wasn’t.” She lifted her glass. “Until now.”
“I seem to recall someone selling me an inn sight-unseen with two weeks’ notice.”
Sue’s smile widened. “Did I do that? How convenient.”
“You knew.” Avine studied her great-aunt’s face. “You knew about the surge. About the wards. About?—”
“I knew the inn needed someone with sea magic strong enough to wake the old wards. I knew the surge was coming and that bonds would form faster than usual.” Sue sipped her champagne, perfectly serene. “I may have suspected that the Alpha had been alone too long and might recognize a kindred spirit in you. But I certainly couldn’t have predicted the rest.”
“Liar.”
“Strategist.” Sue’s expression softened into rare tenderness. “I watched you disappear into that marriage, Avine. It broke my heart.” Her voice dropped. “I knew Haven Shores would either save you or destroy you. I gambled that you were strong enough to let it save you.”
Avine’s throat constricted. “And if I hadn’t been?”
“Then I would have been here to catch you.” Sue patted her arm. “But I knew you would be. You’ve got your grandmother’s spine, dear niece. You’d forgotten how to use it.”
Before Avine could respond, Sue drifted away, already targeting her next victim—Eamon Amell, Theo’s great-uncle, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
THIRTY-SIX
AVINE
The Elder Council had descended in force, once again.
Avine spotted them throughout the party—nodes in a web of observation. Georgia Gentry, sleek in midnight blue, cataloged alliances with calculating precision. Bartek Arbor had cornered a load-bearing column, examining the joinery with begrudging approval. Isandro Holt stood with his son, Mayor Hux, both lions radiating careful neutrality while their gazes tracked the pack-coven mingling.
Eamon Amell found her before she could escape. Theo’s great-uncle was old in the way wolves got—not frail, but weathered, carrying a century’s worth of pack history in his sharp gaze.
“Innkeeper.” He inclined his head.
“Elder Eamon.”
For a long moment, he studied her.
“The bond is strong,” he said finally. “Stronger than I expected. Perhaps stronger than any I’ve seen in a hundred years.”
“Is that a problem?”
