“It usually waits until July,” Rosalie says. “But this is normal for the area.”
“It might take a year or two to acclimate,” River adds. “Pacific Northwest coastal summers are cooler than ours.”
“So, what brings you to the bakery?” Ryder settles against the counter. “Are you here because you missed me, needed my air conditioning, or were summoned by the smell of cinnamon rolls?”
“I was on my way to the cafe, but my order isn’t ready yet, so I thought I’d stop in and say hi.” I peer into the back. “Is Arista working today?”
The winter pixie and I had a rocky first meeting thanks to her magic going rogue and dredging up one of Rowan’s painful memories. But I’d like to become friends.
“She went home after she put the rolls in the oven,” Ryder says. “She had a rough morning.”
“Is her magic acting up?” Rosalie asks.
“Always.”
River steps back, browsing the cookie case. “It’s too bad there’s not a way to suppress it.”
“A mage Ansel and I went to school with started experimenting with that a few years back,” Rosalie says. “But she ended up abandoning the project. People always get anxious when mages start tampering with pixie magic.”
She shoots me an apologetic look, as though even bringing it up makes her feel bad.
“No one else will attempt to manipulate magic, though,” Ryder says. “The high fae are purists, and elves rarely concern themselves with the other races. I doubt any of the other magic types would be helpful.”
“What was she using in her experiments?” I ask, intrigued. Goodness knows I wouldn’t mind occasionally neutralizing my own gifts. “What would suppress pixie magic?”
Rosalie looks like she wishes she hadn’t brought it up. “She was experimenting with shadow pixie dust.”
“How would someone go about collecting that?” River asks, a touch disgusted.
“I don’t know.”
Shadow pixies are spectral fae. The spectral fae are solitary, and their gifts, if you can call them that, are dark. They’re the fae of legend that gave our people a bad reputation. They thrive on sorrow, pain, death, and fear.
They’re the sirens who lure sailors to their deaths, the kelpies who offer aid and then drown their victims, the will-o’-wisps who delight in misguiding travelers. They’re the hobgoblins, the shadow fairies, the things that go bump in the night.
Europe was overrun with them in the medieval era, until they created the Black Death and the royal elves decided it was time to step in.
We waged a massive war right under the humans’ noses, sent them back to the Faerie realm, and the elemental elves created wards to prevent their return. But, naturally, some escaped.
Leave it to the mages to seek them out to experiment with their magic seven hundred years later.
The door opens, and we turn, careful not to continue our conversation in front of humans.
But the newcomer isn’t human. She’s high fae—and the very last high fae I want to see. Ever.
Keira’s eyes land on me almost immediately. It takes all my willpower not to duck behind River.
“Hello, Keira,” Ryder says, his voice flat and far from welcoming.
Her eyes flick over River, Rosalie, and me before she acknowledges the elf, not looking pleased that we’re here. “Ryder.”
Rowan’s ex-fiancée wears stylish shorts that look like short-cropped trousers again today, these a light khaki color. She’s paired them with a black sleeveless knit turtleneck, a dainty gold necklace, and sky-high nude pumps. She carries a leatherhandbag that probably cost more than most people’s monthly mortgage payment.
Her hair is down. The brunette layers are impeccably cut and bouncy from whatever expensive hair care routine she uses. Goodness, she’s polished.
Just like an apex predator, she senses my unease and flicks her gaze my way. “You’re Laverna’s niece.”
“I am.” I try to smile. It’s my only defense. “My name is Kathleen, but people call me Kit. And you’re Keira. I don’t think anyone actually introduced us.” I catch the pitying look that Ryder shares with Rosalie, but I can’t stop myself now that I’ve started. “It’s nice to meet you…officially.”
