Page 99 of Werewolves and Witches AU

Lady Time offers us her hands, palms up, and with a kindly smile says, “¡Vamos!”

35

Not In Virginia Anymore

Milo

The moment my fingers touch her palm, Rowan and I are instantly transported to… I have no idea where. Not Virginia, that’s for sure.

Wherever here is, it’s nighttime, but the sky seems bigger and darker than the one I’m used to. It’s lit by a million shimmering stars that, somewhere out over the navy horizon, blend with the foam-capped waves of an uncharted ocean.

A gentle and warm breeze rolls in from the surf that crashes onto shore just below the shallow cliff we stand on. The roughened trunks of lean palm trees glow golden in the firelight they borrow from the tiki torches that surround this… resort?

Only now do I notice the rustic terracotta-tiled promenade that Señora Tiempo strolls along. Her scrappy sandals click as she guides us past wealthy guests who dine to the sound of soft jazz played on an open-air piano.

Rowan’s hand on mine tightens, and he keeps me pressed in close behind him as we weave around the individual cloth-covered tables. We follow our eccentric host up a winding path lined with agave plants, and through a small gate to a private terrace.

Gradually, the warm weather and relaxing atmosphere encourage my shoulders down and away from my ears. I remain unconvinced that I’m not actually dead, and that all of this isn’t some sort of afterlife dreamscapade. Impulsively, I reach out and prick my finger on an agave leaf. When it hurts and bleeds, I smile and suck the finger into my mouth.

Rowan uses his free hand to pull out a chair for me at a table already set for three, and checks my wet finger with a frown. Unsure how to be with him, I divert my gaze to the little candles trapped in small glass lanterns at the centre of the table.

I ignore the noisy scrape of his chair’s legs over the tiled floor, but when he sits, he’s so close that our thighs almost touch. Then he settles a hot and heavy hand on my knee, and I suck my bottom lip between my teeth. What does this mean?

I like it—really like it—but I don’t want to read into it. Possibly, it’s some alpha or pack thing, because I’m still under his protection… And I did just run off and almost get myself killed… And so probably, he’s now being extra bodyguardy.

Señora Tiempo removes her extravagant feathered headdress and it vanishes into thin air. When she smoothes her precise finger-curls into place, I briefly wonder what shampoo she uses, but the flash from a large pair of citrine and gold earrings distracts me. She’s dazzling dressed in all gold.

Finally, she takes the remaining seat, then raises her hand high in the air, and gives it a little wave. “Jesus? Tres margaritas, por favor.”

Rowan’s shoulders sag, and he blows out a long-suffering sigh. I know he didn’t really want to come here—that he only agreed because I made it clear that I did. Likely, he wants to get back to the Nest and debrief. Definitely, I’m in for a telling off. And now instead of any of that, it seems we’re staying for drinks.

Lady Time studies him for a moment and then corrects her order. “Dos margaritas, y un whisky de malta.”

He still projects unease, but Rowan does at least settle back a little more with the new drinks order. Our host then conjures a cigarette in a long and carved holder, the type you see in old black and white gangster movies, but not ever in real life. Well, not in this century anyway. In fact… I tilt my head. Señora Tiempo’s whole image is very exóticas meets flapper girl, and I’m here for that.

“Rowan, you are both entirely safe here.” She lights her smoke with the flame from a candle on the table, then conjures a glass ashtray. “Your wolf can relax too. There’s no enemy who can access you here.”

Rowan grumbles under his breath and squeezes my knee. Then he asks, “Where exactly are we?”

“An elite—you may interpret that as a heavily secured—compound on the Pacific Coast of Mexico, Baja to be precise, in nineteen twenty-three.”

A man wearing a crisp white linen suit with a black apron and bow tie brings our tray of drinks. Jesus, I guess, sets them on the table precisely, and Rowan doesn’t even wait for his glass to touch the soft tablecloth before he’s downed it.

I snort a laugh and slide my margarita closer. It’s in one of those saucer-style glasses that was popular way back, the rim thoroughly salted, and the overwhelming fresh citrus scent carries on the sea breeze. Señora Tiempo raises her glass, and I carefully pick mine up to clink it against hers.

We maintain eye contact as we each take a sip. Oh. My. Goddess. That’s delicious. I take another, longer sip, and as the syrupy yet bitter drink warms me from the inside out, I give a happy little sigh and shoulder shimmy. I deserve this after today.

Our host signals for another round of drinks, and my gaze strays Rowan’s way. He’s still not at ease, his eyes focused down onto the larger terrace below. He’s cataloguing all the guests and the threat they might pose, a force of habit as much as anything, but my intuition is telling me that we can trust Lady Time.

Hoping to convey that things are okay now, I mirror Rowan’s position and rest my hand on his impossibly thick thigh. He stares at me, brow set low and hazel eyes flickering amber in the candlelight, but I can’t read his expression.

He turns his focus to the new whiskey on the rocks Jesus delivers, finishes it, then asks Señora Tiempo, “About Janus… How was what he did—and what he almost did—allowed to happen?”

She nods, and exhales a plume of fragranced smoke to the side. I watch it carry away on a gentle gust of wind. “This is my fault…”

Recrossing her long and stockinged legs the other way, a contemplative expression settles into the heavy lines of her dark makeup, and she takes a sip of her margarita.

I imitate her.