I exhale a breath, then look at Boone.
He’s watching me closely, concern etched into every line of his posture.
“Well,” I say faintly. “That was… a lot.”
He studies my face. “You’re not afraid.”
It’s not a question.
I consider it honestly. “I was,” I admit. “For about ten seconds. Then I realized ifyoutrust them, I can too.”
His expression softens a little. “That was wise,” he says.
My heart promptly forgets how to behave.
It isn’t until Bob and Christopher are gone—really gone, the last ripple of displaced air smoothing back into meadow-stillness—that my brain catches up with what just happened.
I look down at the rune in my palm.
It’s still warm.
Not metaphorically warm. Not emotionally warm. Physically warm, like a stone that’s been sitting in sunlight. The symbols etched into its surface pulse faintly, as if responding to my attention. When I curl my fingers around it, the hum deepens, not louder, but morepresent, like a second heartbeat.
I swallow.
“Boone,” I say slowly, carefully. “What Christopher said earlier.”
Boone’s attention sharpens immediately. He’s gone still in that way I’m starting to recognize—the way he does when something matters. “Yes.”
“He said sixty years but doesn’t look a day older than twenty-eight.”
“Yes.”
My thoughts stumble. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, as in he and Bob met almost eighty years ago.”
“And he’s seriously that old?” I’m struggling to comprehend, but broken record or not, I push, saying, “He looks late twenties. Thirty, max, if he’s been outside a lot.”
Boone considers this. “He has been outside a lot.”
“That does not—” I stop, drag a hand through my hair, then try again. “Okay. So. Help me out here. Because either my understanding of human aging is catastrophically flawed, or something very significant is happening.”
He exhales through his nose. “Both.”
My laugh comes out a little hysterical. “Great.”
We move away from the meadow and toward a stand of trees where the ground dips and offers natural shelter. Boone scans the area out of habit while I… stare at the rune like it might start explaining itself if I glare hard enough.
Christopher’s words replay in my head.
So was I.
I clear my throat. “So… Bob and Christopher. They’re mated.”
“Yes.”
“And Christopher is human.”
