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“It’s one rhinestone,” she said.

“Tactical,” Knox said.

Maisie stared at him. “You’re getting entirely too comfortable with that word.”

Knox laughed again, and something warm settled behind my ribs.

Bernie had told me the story, of course. Bernie told stories the way other people breathed– frequently, dramatically, and with hand gestures that endangered nearby beverages. I knew about Hell and the Wards and the scar that no longer owned him. I knew Maisie had said he was alive.

But this was different.

This was Knox MacAllen across a crowded tavern on an actual first date– again, Bernie gave me all the details– wearing freedom like it still surprised him and laughing at a woman who looked ready to murder him over one rhinestone.

Alive looked good on him.

I checked the time again.

Still no Bernie. Still no Guy.

“They’re late,” I said to Dean.

Dean slid me another tiny cup of ranch without being asked. “Mated Dragons.”

“Exactly.” I pointed a fry at him. “Thank you for understanding my suffering.”

“Your bravery inspires us all.”

“As it should.” I ate another fry.

The front door slammed into the wall hard enough to rattle every glass behind the bar, make the jack-o’-lanterns jump, and knock one fake spider loose from the rafters.

It landed in a Werewolf’s beer.

The Werewolf looked down, looked up, and very wisely decided it was not the moment to complain.

A mountain had walked in.

Not a man who resembled a mountain. Not a Dragon with a dramatic sense of personal space. An actual, swear-to-the-Heavens mountain had apparently gotten sick of geology and come downstairs to yell at somebody.

Nearly seven feet tall, broad enough to make the doorway look undersized and personally offended, with dark hair clipped close to his skull and a full, untamed beard that looked like it had opinions about axes. His flannel had seen better decades. So had his jeans. One boot was muddy enough to qualify as an environmental statement.

He did not make it three steps before he bellowed, “Who the hell is fuckin’ with my mountain? It’s shakin’ like a drunk Troll tryin’ to two-step, and if one more rockfall takes out my north trail, I’m gonna start throwin’ people into ravines until somebody explains…”

Dean slowly set down the glass he was holding.

The Goblin Fairy put both hands over his wings.

Somewhere near the pool tables, a Mummy whispered, “I don’t even know where the mountain is.”

His gaze hit mine.

He stopped.

I stopped.

Something inside me whispered, “Oh.”

My hand froze halfway to my Diet Coke. A fry dangled from my fingers, forgotten and emotionally unsupported.