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“I don’t know how we’re supposed to do anything with this shit,” Fern murmured, walking a circular path under his raised arm and practically vibrating with displeasure. “We might have to settle for acting absolutely blimmin’ mad to get their attention. And what did Araxis mean by looking up when they usually would be?”
Of course she went and read his damned mind.
“It means we have to time it so they’d rather stare at us than up at Lunara when the Occurrence starts—a tall order.”
“Hmm. We’ll see.”
Oh, he didn’t like the gleam in her eye one bit.
—Sure about that?—
You didn’t even make it five minutes. And no, I’m not, but you already knew that. Now please shut your interfering gob.
The music—if it could be called such a thing—stopped, and Mag looked up to see Amun walking away from the group of instrumentalists as he tucked a coin pouch into his trouser pocket. Apparently, they were all in on whatever the fuck this was. But when the music started up again, the first notes of a raucous theme slicing through the courtly murmurs and turning every last head there, Magnus wanted to strangle his oldest brother.
That arsehole must’ve paid them a bleeding fortune.
—Aye—
He’s messing with me.
—Aye—
Damn it. At least he finally knew what to do.
“Aye, what?” Fern narrowed her gaze on him, leaning in. “What’s happening?”
Magnus pushed a harsh breath through pursed lips and accepted his fate. “Just…try not to judge me too harshly when I start acting like an arse in a minute.”
“Start?”
“Aye, funny.”
That smart mouth was going to be the death of him.
“As long as you promise not to be mad.”
Shite. “Mad at what?”
Fern shrugged, one side of her sassy mouth curling up. “You’ll see.”
He was afraid of that. And, unfortunately, she was going to see, too.
Magnus sent her twirling away from him, lifted his face to the open night sky, and bellowed, “Creatures of the Evesong!” He swept across the floor and snatched up two more glasses of wine, both for show and because he wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this shite, and chugged them down before turning back to the crowd. “On this most blessed occasion, I, Magnus aht Bordoroth, Ambassador Apparent to the Westrealm of Thodelebor, have a different sort of gift to offer you in celebration.”
There were probably a thousand pairs of eyes staring back at him like he’d lost his mind, and he couldn’t even blame them. It was only going to get worse.
Mag shirked the robe from his torso only, wove the long sleeves around his waist—nice and low for show—then spread his arms wide and flexed his tattooed pectorals. “Aye, gather ‘round, and behold The Dance of the Wolf.”
It was an old courting dance of sorts, more for play than anything. A game. A way for Wolflords to show off their achievements to potential lovers in a flirtatious manner. And it was usually done naked, but there was no fucking way. Mag hadn’t done it in literal decades, and never once when he wasn’t blind drunk and barely remembered it the next day, so he was keeping what dignity he could. This shite was for the young. For the likes of Thad, not Mag’s ancient arse.
—Ach, away. We’re in the prime of our young life, Maggie—
Well, when he locked both hands behind his nape and swayed his hips to the beat of the song right on cue…
When he flexed every damned muscle he possessed to manipulate the massive wolf head inked upon his body so it jumped and snarled, panted and howled…
And when he pranced up to an unsuspecting but clearly interested Nachthellian, pressed against him, arched his back and bowed again, and made it seem like the fangs across his abdomen were actually taking a bite out of the cackling Sorcerit…
