He didn’t look at either of them when he asked. His shoulders had drawn in, braced for the verdict.
“Danger is a choice,” Ina snapped, offence flashing before she reined it in.
“No.” Archie stepped forward and placed a hand on Malachi’s shoulder. “We’re not dangerous.”
Malachi’s breath left him in a rush. His shoulders dropped, like a weight had finally slipped loose. The tension didn’t vanish—but it eased.
“But we know things.” Archie gave Malachi’s shoulder a squeeze. “And that makes us a threat to anyone who wants to hurt Latharna.”
Malachi nodded. “Like the Selkie?”
“The Selkie are creatures of habit. But over the years, desperation warped that. They attacked the people of Latharna. They took your brother because they were starving.” His throat tightened. “And now they’re more dangerous… because of what I did to them. They must be stopped.”
“I agree.” Ina cracked her knuckles. “If they aren’t, other beings from the Otherworld will start to push boundaries.”
Archie winced. He understood the truth of it, but he hated how fast she’d said it. How easily she’d leapt ahead with the Otherworld while Malachi was still finding his footing. The door had been opened a crack, but it didn’t need to be flung wide open all at once.
“The Otherworld?” Malachi’s gaze swept the Hideaway again. A locker door rattled as he tried to open it.
Archie reached into his back pocket and tossed him the key.
Malachi opened the locker and froze. The weapons lay neatly arranged inside—blades clean, handles worn smooth by use. Malachi’s eyes traced over them without expression, until they stopped at the axe.
Archie’s gut twisted. The axe had done so much damage. He’d swung it until his arms gave out and mercy finally stopped him.
“Yours?”
Archie nodded.
Malachi closed the locker door. The click of metal felt final. He turned back to Archie, face unreadable. “Who else knows about this place?”
“Only the three of us.” Archie’s voice hardened on instinct. “You can never tell any?—”
“Tilly knows.” Ina cut in.
Archie’s spine stiffened, his breath snagged halfway in. Of course she did.
“Ina, I…” The rest of his words jammed somewhere behind his teeth.
Ina had spent his entire life drilling it into him that Wolfendens always stuck together. That they could nevertell anyone about their history or the existence of the Otherworld. And now she was sitting there, calm as anything, admitting she’d handed their secrets to Tilly—Latharna’s resident chatterbox. Tilly couldn’t hold a secret any more than she could hold air. Her mouth loosened if she so much as sniffed whiskey.
“How could you tell Tilly about the Otherworld?”
Ina shrugged. “We grew up together. She knows everything about me.” She waved a hand. “And it’s not like she’s ignorant. Tilly’s dipped more than a few toes into the Otherworld herself.”
“What?” Archie blinked once. Then forgot how to do it again.
“She’s been brewing charms and protection spells since we were children. You know, the things she sells inThe Enchanted Thistle.” Ina rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “She’s convinced she’s got a streak of fae blood in her somewhere.”
Ina’s words stacked up without settling, sliding past each other like loose boards. Archie’s mind snagged on the cluttered counters inThe Enchanted Thistle,crammedwith homemade remedies; the cauldron in the middle of the shop; the little purple thistle stamps on a loyalty card. Ten purchases and the eleventh was free. Magic, apparently, came with a reward system.
“Tilly?” Malachi snorted, rubbing his face. “Fae blood?”
“I suppose it explains the luck,” Ina winked. “And the chaos.”
Archie planted his hands on his hips and drew out a breath. “Okay, let’s not get sidetracked with Tilly and whatever the hell she gets up to in the Otherworld—although, I am absolutely dying for more information about that.” He shot Ina a look that promised consequences. “Right now, we need to focus on the Selkie.”
Malachi nodded, already moving back to the locker. He unlocked it again, slower this time and stared at the contents. He reached for a compact round shield, no larger than a bin lid. The leather grip was scarred and darkened with sweat, the paint worn away where hands, blood and salt spray had eaten it. The splintered edges and cracks in the wood had survived battle.
