by Zoe Chant
Ash’s arm slid around her waist. “I left my mate once. I have promised her that I will never do so again.”
The wendigo’s eyes glinted. “So you came to your senses at last.”
“Will you join us this evening?” Rose asked him. She gestured around at the gleaming, polished interior of the Full Moon. Even though she’d kept as much of the original design as possible, it was still strange to have it all fresh and new. “We’re throwing a party tonight, to celebrate reopening. We only just finished rebuilding.”
Ice hesitated. “I…am not the sort of shifter that many would welcome.”
“Nonsense,” Rose said firmly. “Everyone is welcome here.”
“Stay,” Ash put in, smiling. “Please.”
Ice shook his head. “If it was just myself, I would. But…my mate is not comfortable in crowds. Particularly not crowds of shifters.”
“Your mate?” Rose exclaimed. “Ash didn’t tell me you were mated!”
“I was not, when we last parted.” A deep, quiet pride lit Ice’s haggard face. The chill in the air around him faded. “It turned out that we had nearly crossed paths many times, but we found each other at last. She is outside now.”
“Well, call her in!” Rose urged. “I’d love to meet her.”
Something crossed Ice’s expression—a shadow, a memory. Whatever it was, it was gone too fast for Rose to interpret. Even to her empathic sense, the wendigo was as hard to penetrate as an iceberg.
“You already have,” he said.
The door creaked again. A woman slipped through, soft-footed as a cat. She was a little older than Rose, maybe in her fifties, with a diffident, shy manner. Her silver-streaked hair shadowed her face, but there was something familiar about her…
“Oh,” Rose gasped. She hurried forward, opening her arms. “Oh.”
Tears gleamed in the woman’s startling green eyes. Without hesitation, she stepped into Rose’s embrace, hugging her back tightly.
“I always wondered what had happened to you,” the former ocelot whispered into her ear. She stepped back, holding Rose at arm’s-length, beaming despite her tears.
“And I you!” Rose could barely speak, she was so choked up. “At least, I did when I remembered—when I got my memory back—oh, I’m glad, I’m so glad!”
Ash had also recognized the woman. He’d faded back a little, his own expression shuttering down. Noticing, the former shifter disengaged from Rose, holding out her hands.
“Do not be sorry,” she said. “Some scars cannot be helped. It was the only way.”
Ash held still for a moment. Then, slowly, he clasped her hands.
“I am still sorry,” he said. “I wish…”
He trailed off, his gaze sharpening. Rose sensed a sudden, strange surge of focus from the mate bond as his eyes flicked from the woman to herself and back again. His fingers tightened.
The woman drew in a short, shocked breath. “What—?”
Rose shielded her eyes as fire flared. Ice lunged forward—but Ash was already letting go of the woman’s hands. The wendigo caught his mate as she stumbled.
“What did you do?” he snarled at Ash, teeth lengthening into fangs. If he hadn’t been busy supporting his mate, Rose was fairly certain he would have been at the Phoenix’s throat. A flurry of snow swirled across the floor.
“Perhaps nothing,” Ash said. He’d gone a little pale, looking drained. Without conscious thought, Rose found that she was at his side. He leaned gratefully against her shoulder. “I’m not sure. It seemed worth a try…”
“Marietta.” Ice brushed his mate’s hair back, anxiously studying her face. “Are you all right? Marietta!”
Marietta drew in a deep, shuddering breath, opening her eyes. Something new burned there, a fire rekindled. Her hand crept up, pressing against her heart.
“She’s back,” she whispered. “She’s back!”
Her clothes dropped empty to the floor. A sleek golden ocelot leapt into Ice’s arms. He started laughing—pure, disbelieving, joyous laughter—as her rough pink tongue licked his face.
Rose stared from the happy couple to Ash. “How did you do that?”
“What was destroyed can be made anew.” His arm wrapped around her, holding her as tightly as Ice embraced his own mate. “You taught me that.”
Rose breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction, looking round the deserted pub. “Now that’s better.”
There were fresh scuff marks on the new floorboards, some from boots, a few from claws. Someone had spilled beer over the upholstery in one of the booths. There was a dent in the polished bar, where a friendly arm-wrestling tournament between the local wolf and hellhound packs had gotten a little too competitive.
From behind her, Ash chuckled. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her back against his chest. “You have an interesting definition of better.”
“It was too fresh and new before. Now it feels right.” She touched his right wrist. “Sometimes a few scars are necessary.”
“Mmmm.” He rested his chin on her shoulder, his warm breath tickling her ear. “I am not entirely sure the stain on the ceiling was necessary. Or even how Chase managed to achieve it.”
She laughed. “It was certainly a memorable keg stand.” She turned in his arms, hugging him back. “And party. But it’s good to be alone again.”
“Yes.” His hands slid lower over her hips. “It has been a tiring day.”
She pressed against him, grinning at the growing evidence of his arousal. “Evidently not that tiring.”
“Nonetheless.” Ash drew her hair aside, trailing soft kisses down her neck. She sucked in her breath. “I think the tidying up can wait until tomorrow. We should go to bed.”
That seemed like an excellent idea.
He drew her with him through the rebuilt pub. It was still strange to turn right instead of left, heading up the new staircase. The Full Moon was twice as big as before, and she wasn’t yet used to the expanded layout.
Their apartment occupied two full floors above the pub itself. It was light and airy, but cavernously empty. Few of her things had survived the fire, and all of Ash’s worldly goods fit inside a single cardboard box.
But they were going to need the space…
“I was thinking,” Rose said, tugging him into one of the bare, unfurnished spare rooms. “We should do this one next. Yellow, maybe.”
“Yellow?” Ash took advantage of the pause to kiss her again.
“For the walls. And white wooden furniture. A chest of drawers, a bookcase, a nice comfy armchair…”
Ash clearly had other things than interior decor on his mind. She gasped as he pushed her against the aforementioned wall, his body hard against hers.
“And…” Her breathing went ragged as his strong fingers skimmed under the waistband of her skirt. “And a cradle.”
He stilled. His hand spread, very gently, across her still-flat stomach. His eyes met hers, pure joy kindling in their dark depths.
“Yes,” she whispered, putting her hand on his.
Our mate, her swan murmured, in utter contentment. Our mate.
Epilogue
Twenty-three years later…
Rory couldn’t help grinning as he turned the last corner. As always, the sight of the Full Moon pub filled his chest with warmth—the solid, comfortable instincts of den and safe and friends.
In a way, the old, whitewashed stone building was more home than any of the places he’d lived as a child. He’d grown up in a succession of different, ever-expanding houses—a necessity, given his parents’ irritating habit of continually presenting him with new siblings—but the Full Moon had always been a constant in his life.
“So many firsts here,” he said out loud, to thin air. “First drink. First kiss. Even my first flight. See up there?” He pointed up at one of the top-floor windows. “Conleth pretended to fall out, so I leaped after him. Didn’t cross my mind that he’d been flying for a year while I was barely fledged. He got grounded for th
at. Literally. Took months for his clipped feathers to grow back in. Good times, good times.”
The empty space next to him said nothing in response. Not that he’d expected it to.
Rory started to head for the front of the pub, but checked himself. The oak door stood ajar, a narrow beam of yellow light striping the street. Even from a distance, he could hear the mingled laughter and chatter of a party in full swing. The evening was still young, but from the sound of things, the pub was already packed with celebrating shifters.
“Let’s go round the back,” he said, switching direction. “It’ll be less crowded.”
A narrow alleyway ran round the side of the pub, barred at the end by a high wooden wall. Rory’s grin stretched wider as he threaded his way round the dumpsters.
“Used to come this way all the time when we were kids,” he said, looking up fondly at the numerous claw-marks scoring the top of the fence. “We were only allowed into the pub itself on special occasions. Naturally that just made us more determined to sneak in at every opportunity.”
Backing away a few steps, he let his animal surge up from the depths of his soul. Golden fur and feathers swept away his skin. The alleyway was too narrow for flight; furling his wings close to his body, he crouched down on his haunches. The claws on his back paws dug into the worn cobblestones.
With a single fluid leap, he cleared the fence. His front talons didn’t even clip the top of it. He frowned as he pulled his griffin back into his human body.
“Huh.” He glanced back at the fence wryly. “I remembered that as taller.”
Nobody replied out loud, but his griffin abruptly sat up in his soul. It tugged at his mind, feathers bristling in anticipation.
Rory laughed at his animal’s eagerness. “Of course he’s here. Where else would he be?”
He didn’t need his griffin’s urging to hurry round the building, to the wide courtyard behind the old pub. With the cold of winter not yet giving way to spring, the picnic tables and benches were empty, umbrellas tightly furled. The rose bushes in the decorative stone planters were just bare, thorny sticks. Stacks of empty beer barrels lined one wall, waiting to be shipped out.
One of his earliest memories was playing hide-and-seek in this courtyard garden. Ducking behind barrels, stifling giggles, yelling at the pegasus triplets when they inevitably used their powers to cheat. Everything was just as he recalled. The only thing that had changed was himself.
Well, and one other thing. Rory touched one of the casks in passing, smiling at the bold yellow logo. The stenciled letters underneath proudly proclaimed: Lionbird Brewery.
The outer door to the cellar was open. Succumbing to a sense of mischief, Rory slowed down, padding as softly as he could down the steps.
Inside it was cool, the air thick with the scents of malt and hops. A single small light bulb illuminated the racks of casks. In the dimness, Rory’s eagle eyes picked out a stocky form kneeling next to one of the fermenting beers.
The man didn’t show any sign of having noticed Rory’s presence, completely focused on his work. The sleeves of his checked flannel shirt were rolled up, exposing heavily tattooed arms. His strong, square hands caressed the oak barrel as if it was a lover’s body. As Rory watched, the other man frowned, rubbing his bearded chin in thought.
Rory folded his arms, fighting down the sappy grin that wanted to spread over his face. “You look like a damn hipster, you know.”
His twin didn’t even glance up, let alone jump. “I am a damn hipster.”
“Since when does running a microbrewery means you have to embrace every cliché?” Without warning, Rory lunged, managing to ruffle Ross’s hair before his twin ducked away. “What is that, a man-bun?”
“I make artisanal craft beer. Customers expect me to look the part.” With dignity, Ross straightened his mussed hairdo. One tawny eyebrow cocked as he looked Rory up and down. “What happened to your mane?”
Rory grimaced, running a hand self-consciously over his own short, golden hair. “Had to cut it. Health and safety regs.”
“You have safety regulations?” Ross chuckled. “I thought you ran into burning forests?”
“That’s why we have safety regulations.” Abandoning the banter, Rory pulled his brother into a tight hug. “It’s good to see you again.”
“And you.” Ross hugged him back, nearly cracking Rory’s ribs. His brother might not cut firebreaks for up to sixteen hours a day, but he did wrestle massive oak barrels for a living. “We were starting to think you weren’t going to make it.”
“I wouldn’t have missed this party if I’d had to fly across the Atlantic on my own two wings.”
“Ross!” Rose’s voice called from up above. “We’re out of Swanfire!”
“On it!” Ross yelled back, releasing Rory. His amber gaze raked over the stacked casks. He hesitated between a couple—both of which looked identical even to Rory’s equally sharp eyesight—before hefting one under an arm. “Come on. Everyone’s been asking after you.”
Rory started to follow his brother up the stairs, then realized the silence behind him had changed slightly. He paused in mid-step, waiting.
Nothing happened.
“Okay,” he said out loud. “I’ll be back soon.”
From the top of the stairs, Ross gave him a peculiar look. “What?”
“Never mind.” Rory took the stairs three at a time to catch up. “So the whole gang is here?”
“Everyone except Morwenna and Danny. The baby’s due any day now, so they couldn’t risk flying out of Valtyra.”
Rory shook his head. “I still can’t believe we’re going to be uncles.”
“I still can’t believe those two really did turn out to be mates. You remember how annoyed he used to get about her following us everywhere?”
“Morwenna knew a long time before he did. It just took her a while to get him to stop seeing her as a little kid.” Rory sighed. “Our brother is one lucky man.”
“May we all find our mates so easily.” Ross shouldered open the door to the main room of the pub. “Rose, look who’s here!”
“Rory!” Rose hurried from behind the bar to enfold him in her soft, strong arms. “When did you get in?”
“Just now.” Rory hugged her back. “I came straight from the airport.”
Like the Full Moon, Rose never changed. Oh, he supposed there had to be a few more laughter-lines around her eyes and a few more silver threads in her hair these days…but she was still Rose, as warm and welcoming as ever. He let out his breath, relaxing into her air of deep, wise peace as much as her embrace.
“If you’ve got time later,” he murmured in her ear, “I could really do with some advice.”
“I’ve always got time for my honorary nephews.” She drew back, pursing her lips ruefully as she looked around the crowded bar. “Though not literally at this moment. Come talk to me when this quietens down?”
“Thanks, aunt Rose.” With a last squeeze, he let her go. “But shouldn’t this be your party as much as anyone else’s? What are you doing serving drinks?”
“What I love doing,” she said, smiling. She bustled off, raising her voice. “All right, all right, I’m coming! Keep your fur on, I won’t let you perish of thirst!”
Ross was busy tapping the new cask of beer, with the degree of concentration usually reserved for brain surgery or defusing bombs. Leaving him to it, Rory scanned the crowd. He picked out John Doe instantly—the indigo-haired firefighter towered over everyone else, even the other sea dragons. And where he was, you could be sure to find…
“Excuse me. Pardon. Coming through.” Rory cut his way through the crowd. Grinning wider than ever, he cleared his throat. “Congratulations, Fire Commander.”
The Commander turned. His golden eyes—exactly the same shade as Rory’s—crinkled as he glanced down at the rank insignia on his formal uniform.
“One day I’ll stop looking around for someone else when people call me that,” Griff said ruefully. “M
aybe. Hello, son.”
Rory hugged him too, rubbing cheeks in the way that lions greeted other members of the pride. The familiar, comforting scent of Alpha wrapped around him. His griffin purred in contentment.
“When you called to say Ash was retiring, I honestly thought you were joking,” Rory said, releasing his dad again.
“So did the rest of us,” said Hugh. The white-haired paramedic was leaning against the wall nearby, a drink in his hand and a slightly bemused look on his face. “I still think this is all just an elaborate way of saving the department from having to pay the cost of his salary. I have a bet on with Ivy that he turns up to work tomorrow morning anyway.”
Rory glanced around for Hugh’s mate, and found her a little way off, chatting to a circle of wary-looking teens. Rory guessed they had to be her latest group of protégées from her charity for disadvantaged shifters. He made a mental note to find her later. He could do with her insight into his current problem too.
“If anyone deserves to enjoy a time of peace at last, it is our former leader,” John rumbled. He was wearing gold-inlayed steel bracers and a sword harness over his formal dress uniform. On anyone else, it would have been a bizarre combination, but John pulled it off with ease. The blend of firefighter and sea dragon Knight was just him. “He had earned honor enough for a dozen lifetimes.”
“Yes, but…” Rory spread his hands, palm-up. “Hugh’s got a point. Ash is still the Phoenix. He can’t retire from that. What’s he going to do all day, if not fight fires?”
Beside John, Chase chuckled. There was a little more gray at his temples than the last time Rory had seen him. It gave the pegasus shifter a dignified, statesmanlike air—at least until he opened his mouth. “Oh, I’m fairly certain Sparky will find something to fill his time.”
Rory followed the direction of Chase’s dancing eyes. He was so used to seeing Fire Commander Ash—no, former Fire Commander Ash—in uniform, it took him a second to recognize the Phoenix in civilian clothes. Ash stood surrounded by well-wishers, accepting hugs and handshakes with quiet grace. His slight but real smile shone through his reserve like a glimmer of sunlight through clouds.
