“Welcome to small-town politics.” She tried to inch away, but there was nowhere to go. Her back hit the paper towel dispenser. “The Shadow Council’s always hated outsiders. Me bringing in a demon lawyer from Boston? Might as well have declared war.”
“I’ll file a formal complaint.”
She laughed. Actually laughed, because only Marcus Hawthorne would threaten paperwork while hiding from poisonous pixies in a gas station bathroom. “That’ll show them.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile. This close, she could see gold flecks in his brown eyes that she’d never noticed before. Could see the individual lashes, dark against his skin.
“How long before they give up?”
“Depends. How long can you stand being this close to me?”
For a moment, the buzzing outside faded, and there was only his eyes on hers, the heat of his body inches away, the absurdity of their situation.
The buzzing outside intensified, then gradually faded as the swarm lost interest in prey they couldn’t reach.
“They’re leaving.”
“Right. Good.” Neither of them moved.
“We should…”
“Yeah.”
His hand was still on her hip from when he’d steadied her. She could feel the warmth of his palm through her shirt, the slight pressure of his fingers.
“The dust.” He cleared his throat. “It’s toxic. We need to wash it off before it absorbs through the skin.”
“Right. Toxic.” She reached for the door handle, her arm brushing against his chest. She stopped, hand on the deadbolt.
“Shower,” he said. “There’s a truck stop next door. They have facilities.”
“Shower. Yes. Separately. Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
The truck stopshower facilities were exactly as glamorous as expected: two stalls separated by walls thin enough to hear everything. Hazel tried not to think about that as she steppedunder the spray, pixie dust swirling down the drain in glittering spirals.
His voice carried through the wall, making her jump. “Tell me about this Shadow Council.”
She closed her eyes, let the hot water beat against her shoulders. Talking was safe. Talking was good. Talking meant not thinking about the fact that Marcus Hawthorne was naked twelve inches away, separated by nothing but cheap plywood.
“Five members,” she called back. “Margaret Thornfield, you met her. She’s the secretary and head busybody. Runs half the committees in town, knows everyone’s secrets. Two others hate outsiders on principle, been that way since before I was born. Two are neutral, meaning they’ll go whichever way the wind blows.”
“And they’ve been protecting Viktor this whole time?”
“Not protecting, exactly. Just… not interfering. The Blackwoods bring money into town. Jobs. They fund the library, sponsor the little league team, donate to all the right charities.” She scrubbed pixie dust out of her hair. “Hard to convict a man who paid for your kid’s baseball uniforms. Hard to testify against someone who funded your grandmother’s hip replacement.”
“Economic leverage.”
“The oldest kind of power. Make yourself indispensable, and people overlook the bodies.”
“They’ll make this harder.” His voice was matter-of-fact, analyzing a problem.
“Nothing about you is easy.”
Silence except for water.
“I won’t let them hurt you,” he said.
