by Leigh Evans
Staring at the wall, he began a tuneless whistle.
“How long?” I asked.
“About twenty minutes.” He gave me a wicked smile. “Maybe less.”
I heard a lawn mower start up. Then another.
“You’re talking about a quickie.”
“Mmm-hmm.” His voice was warm butter.
That had possibilities. I let my gaze roam over my mate again.
Thanks to his super-fast-healing Were genes, his buzz cut was fast on its way to becoming a very bad memory. Small black curls swirled at the nape of his neck. And a lot of the gauntness that had produced such spectacular hollows under his cheekbones was gone. My man was rapidly filling out.
It made me happy.
And not just in the “my world’s finally going right” kind of way. Nope, the feelings flooding me at that moment were far baser. Trowbridge’s shoulders have always rated as a strong attraction, but now they are freaking awesome. My gaze dwelled on them for a second, then moved on to where his jeans hugged the curve of his butt cheek.
My gut tightened. “What’s that in your back pocket?”
“A box.”
I could see that now. Also this—that it was a very small and very square.
Growing solemn, Trowbridge shifted his balance to extract a ring box. It was royal blue, and someone had wrapped a clumsy bow around it.
Little butterflies—I was positively aflutter with little butterflies.
Trowbridge stared at the box for a brief moment, and I got the sense that he was having a bout of minor misgivings.
Come on. You can do it.
He slid off the ribbon. It drifted—thin white crushed silk—to our floor. “I was thinking about your mom’s Bride Belt a week ago,” he started.
For half my life, I’d worn my mother’s Bride Belt around my hips, hidden underneath my clothing. Its chain is made of soft supple Fae gold and the clasp that secures both the belt and the soft leather pouch is jeweled. I always took comfort from its familiar weight. Rattling inside the pouch were five diamonds, each about the size of a desiccated pea.
To me, the stones weren’t diamonds; they were relics of spilled tears—specifically, my mother’s and my own. Perfect stones born from the tears we wept at the lowest and highest points of our lives.
A birth. A great loss. An instant of great joy.
As sentimental tokens, they were irreplaceable. However, nostalgia is a lousy substitute for having food in your belly and a roof over your head. Ten days ago, I gave the belt to Cordelia and told her to hawk the rocks.
Now Trowbridge set his thumb to the lid. “And that made me think about your tears.”
Please don’t offer me a diamond ring. Make it anything else. A sapphire, a ruby, an emerald. Don’t give me a diamond.
Nothing could replace my tears.
He flicked the lid open. Then he turned his ravaged hand toward me, the jewelry box balanced on his palm like it was an offering, instead of a good thing on the cusp of going very, very wrong.
My gaze dropped on the ring sitting on the satin cushion.
It was a custom piece. Any dimwit could tell that with just one glance. Made of dark gold, eighteen carats or higher. Not dainty so much as airy. Someone who’d never met Merry might have thought it was a miniature bird’s nest. Until they looked at it carefully, and then they’d see that the twigs weren’t twigs at all but very delicate vines.
It was exquisite.
“I’m going to miss her too,” he said.
Oh, Trowbridge.
“I know the ring hasn’t got a diamond in it yet.” With some fascination, I watched color spread over his high cheeks. “I looked at the stones the guy had, but they were all shit. None of them was as bright as one of your tears.” His neck moved as he swallowed. “If you want one of those diamonds,” he said levelly, “we can go look at them together—I’ll get you whatever you want. It will fit right in the center and if it doesn’t I’ll get the guy to make it over again so it will.” His gaze dropped to my mouth, then traveled slowly back to my eyes. “But I thought…”
“What?” I whispered.
“That we should wait until you get your Bride Belt back.”
My voice was a thread. “Trowbridge, I don’t have my Bride Belt anymore.”
“But you will.”
I stared at him.
He nodded slowly. “You will, sweetheart. Promise.”
Be careful of those, My One True Thing.
A spark flitted in the depths of his eyes. “You need to believe that people are going to be there for you from now on.”
I already have, I thought. I believed in a man who pushed me off a waterfall. I believed in my wolf, and my magic, and the people of our pack.
And I believed in myself.
But if—when—my belt was returned and the stones were mine: that was the issue. The concept was sweet, but wearing one of my tears, letting total strangers gape at evidence of my greatest joys and sorrows …
I inwardly winced.
He took the ring, pulling it free of the bed of satin. Held it, pinched, so that the twists of gold rose above his scarred knuckles. “I know this isn’t Fae gold. And this isn’t Merry. And I know that if you wear one of your tears in your ring, we might attract attention from some dickhead who should know better than to mess with us.”
Blue comets started to swirl. “But Tink, if that’s the case, let them come. We’ll take care of them. This is our place and our rules.”
His maimed hand moved to my jaw and then upward to my temple. He pushed aside the hair I’d arranged, and tucked it behind my ear. “I don’t want you to hide these around the pack anymore.” His thumb swept my ear’s pointed tip in a gentle caress. “And I say if you got Fae Tears, you should wear them. They’re the most beautiful diamonds I’ve ever seen.” His gaze lifted, to wander the room. “This home we’re creating—it’s just the beginning. We’re going to make a pack that’s never been seen before. But it all starts with us. Right here. We’re the glue.” He pulled his brows together, searching for the right words. “We need to make another stand. This time without any mages, or arrows—”
“Or crossbow bolts and bullets.”
“Those too,” he said. “Life can be short, sweetheart. However long ours last, I want the world to know what you mean to me.”
I snared my upper lip to keep it from trembling.
“You are my chosen mate. Stand in front of our wolves with me at the next moon? I want to say the words again. This time with witnesses.”
I released the strip of paper I’d twined around my thumb and watched it flutter to our newly stripped bedroom floor. Tiny blue flowers on a background of cream. Old oak burnished to shine. He’d been married before, to a girl who wore a fussy dress. “I’m not wearing white.”
“Tink, you could wear nothing but your Bride Belt and I’d be proud.”
I held out my left hand.
He slid the ring over my knuckle. It was heavy. And beautiful. One day—soon—I’d put a tear in it. My eyes burned. “Robbie Trowbridge,” I said, not lifting my gaze from my beautiful ring.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“I really need a shower.”
* * *
The Trowbridge drive is a long one and the front lawn large enough that it took two Ontario pack members over two hours to cut the grass. In my opinion, mowing the grass was a wasted effort. After all, it was very late in the growing season and it was Sunday.
Trowbridge had disagreed.
Sometimes, a wise mate knows when to throw her man a bone. Thus, the grass got cut in time for our first “Sunday at the Trowbridges’.” Hah. As I’d thought, it was a totally wasted effort. Who could see the lawn? Those who couldn’t find a place for their vehicle along the drive had parked their cars on the grass. The rest of the front yard was devoted to long tables with fluttering plastic tablecloths, people, and grills.
It took a knowing eye to spot it, but the two wolf packs had carved o
ut their own territories. The Creemore Weres had claimed the gas barbecues. They were proving how very manly they were by cooking chicken, ribs, and pre-made Angus burgers.
The Raha’ell territory was definitely to the right of gas grills where a rented rotisserie had been set up to slowly roast the pig. The Merenwyn-born wolves were in high spirits and had been since their nose hairs had first quivered with the scent of pork. To them, this Sunday lunch was the perfect combination of two new favorite things—food you didn’t have to bring down yourself and useful human technology (i.e., battery-operated spits).
Yes, I was working the pack. Which reminded me; I bestowed a nice smile Rachel’s way. If she was going to be my actual sister-in-law instead of my metaphorical SIL, I could make the effort.
She flinched and looked away.
You’d think she’d get over it.
All right.
My new life in Creemore wasn’t going to be Camelot.
I have a bitch of a future sister-in-law who’d added to her list of grudges a broken nose and a fractured jaw. And the two wolf packs hadn’t merged yet. But that will happen; I know it will. Eventually emotions or hormones will come into play and the tipping point between the Raha’ells and Ontarians will occur. There’ll be a lot of drama and perhaps some blood.
But we’ve faced worse, Trowbridge and I. We’ll work it out.
That’s what we do.
Anyhow, I wasn’t going to worry about it today, because it was Sunday and hellooo, I’d just got engaged, and plus, I had things occupying my attention. Like, for instance, keeping myself away from the grill area entirely, as I didn’t want charred meat scents to taint the hand-knit sweater that Mickie Kellerman had left in a gift-box on our porch.
Back in the summer, I didn’t know Mickie’s name. As far as my memory served, she was the Creemore bitch who spent a lot of time at Sandra’s Knitting. I have since memorized the face and name of each member of both packs. I know their mates and families. I know their ages, their occupations, and whether they’re into baking.
This was one of my new occupations. Besides being Trowbridge’s sounding board, I deal with the people-side of the pack.
I know, who knew?
But you know what? As Trowbridge had pointed out, eventually you have to stop thinking that Karma is out to get you and choose to believe that she’s pushing you in a better direction. Life can get not only better, but it can also get good.
I am already a complete believer of that philosophy because the benefits of the Stronghold–Trowbridge union are multiplying faster than bunnies on fertility drugs.
Example?
When I’d dropped by to thank Mickie for the present, she’d taken an obvious shine to me. She and Bert were childless and had developed a special interest in the Merenwyn mutts, particularly Mouse and Gwennie. For some reason, Mouse had convinced the Kellermans that I walk on water. The end result is that I’m now happily anticipating mittens and a matching toque for winter.
Yes, life is good, though I’ll always miss Merry. No one had remarked upon the ring on my hand, but the sweater’s sleeves were long enough to hide it and I wanted to enjoy the secret for a day. Now I rolled the ring with my thumb, turning it until the nest of gold was warm on my palm. I made a fist, wistfully wishing Merry could see how my life had turned out.
And strangely, I felt better.
“Do you find these biscuits dry?” asked Mouse, chewing slowly.
“They’re called cookies here.” I took another swig of grape juice to wash the cookie dust down and placed the bottle on the table beside my porch rocker. “Mouse, humans say you should never look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“Why not?” he asked after a thoughtful silence. “Stands to reason that if a mortal is given a horse, he should make sure it’s of sound health. Poor sod’s got nothing else going for him.”
Truth.
And here’s another: Mouse needed to go to school, where he could learn about humans, and gift horses, and PlayStation, and hockey. I’ll head over to St. Hubert’s on Monday and get him registered. Maybe I’ll talk with the headmistress about tweaking the curriculum so that lupine pride is merged with some Fae recognition.
Trowbridge broke away from a group of Weres to walk toward the porch. As he passed a small clutch of women, they visibly melted—those jeans cupped the swell of his ass almost as neatly as my two hands—and this time I didn’t feel like tearing their collective hearts out.
I don’t live in jealousy anymore.
He’s mine.
Another fact, this one without a shred of myth to it.
My One True Thing leaned down to plant a kiss on my temple. “Everybody’s got food. I’m suddenly sleepy. Want another nap?”
I grinned.
He stepped back so that I could uncoil my legs, and as he did his gaze casually roamed over our pack and, from there, beyond. Suddenly he went as still as a pointer spotting a pheasant.
Trouble? I pivoted to see what had raised his interest.
A car.
Even from this distance, I could see that the old red Subaru was filthy. Bug guts coated the glass where the wipers couldn’t reach. A tall woman sat behind the wheel. Beside her, a slighter silhouette. The driver turned the dusty sedan into the long driveway.
“Oh.”
My hand traveled to cover my trembling mouth.
“Mouse,” said Trowbridge quietly. “Go get Lexi.”
The driver braked—her head swiveled to take in all the vehicles, and the people, and the general carnival air—then she touched the gas again and let the old car motor up the drive, and as she got closer I could see her red hair and her big hands on the wheel and the final knot inside me loosened.
Ten days.
I’d missed her so.
My Cordelia was a woman who took her word very seriously. I’d asked her to take Lexi’s daughter, Anu, away from the dangers of this life, and she’d done so. Right after placing that collect call to Petra, she’d headed for the West Coast. She’d driven straight through, leaving without her clothing, makeup, and, most important, cell phone.
She’d motored through four provinces and 4,921 kilometers without knowing if I was alive or dead.
There’d been no way of reaching her.
Best I could do was make sure a message waited for her in Prince Rupert. We knew that she read it because Trowbridge’s friend called to say that he’d watched her unfold the paper. According to him, she’d sat for a couple of minutes staring blankly ahead. Then, she’d refolded the paper on which the e-mail had been printed, said something to the teenage girl sitting in the passenger seat, and driven away.
It takes five days to reach British Columbia and an equal number to drive back. Ten freakin’ days. She could have called collect to ease my mind. She didn’t.
I guess in her mind that was fair. It was my turn to fret.
The Subaru drove right past the Raha’ells’ pig feast, right past the beer table, all the way up to the burning bush that anchors the northeast corner of the Trowbridge house.
She turned off the car, then snapped the visor down to check herself in the mirror.
People stopped talking.
Lexi came around the side of the house. He wore mortal clothing: a pair of jeans and a shirt that hadn’t been tucked in. Today, he bears little physical resemblance to the Black Mage’s Shadow. Gone is the long sheaf of blond; his hair has been shorn to a half-inch stubble. If possible, he looks harder and tougher. I have to work not to stare at the paw print inked over his ear.
The jury’s out on my twin’s future.
I don’t know how much magic he retained from those two days in Merenwyn. If he has some, he hasn’t demonstrated it. If he has none, he hasn’t complained about it.
But that’s my twin.
And only he can make peace with his wolf. He goes down to the pond most nights to sit on my pirate rock, to stare up at the moon or perhaps the air above the pond. I can’t tell which. A few nights ago, I
joined him. We didn’t talk about anything important—he asked me a few questions about iTunes and its cloud, which I couldn’t really answer (who the hell knows what the iCloud is?), and eventually our conversation died out. We sat quietly on our old pirate rock, at rest with each other. When the cold got to me, I started shifting toward the spot where I could wedge my foot for an ungainly dismount.
He leaped to the ground with effortless lupine grace. He held up his arms and took my weight. Then, he stood there, not letting me go, but not really holding me. I’d said, “We’ll face the moon together.”
His hug had bruised my ribs.
So, I think there’s hope.
Cordelia opened her door and slid out of her seat as if she were wearing a pair of Jimmy Choos and a beaded gown, not a pair of flats and a crinkled skirt. Her red wig needed a wash and restyle. She rested an elegant arm on the top of the car.
Arctic blue eyes studied me, then softened. “So. You’re not dead.”
“I’m not dead.”
Strange. As my mouth started quivering in earnest, hers clamped down. Forever, the ying and the yang. Over the Subaru’s roof, she gave Trowbridge a tight smile and he gave her the old Robbie Trowbridge grin, and life was almost perfect, though Anu hadn’t opened her car door yet.
My niece sat, clutching her pet ferret in a death grip, staring at my brother through her window.
Lexi cast me a helpless look.
There was a lot of crap I could have said and questions I could have asked. But this isn’t Camelot. This is simply my new life, with my family once more almost intact, and friends, and cookies, and the smell of grilling meat.
I opened my arms wide. “Welcome home, Cordelia.”
About the Author
LEIGH EVANS was born in Montreal, Quebec, but now lives in Southern Ontario. She’s raised two kids, mothered four dogs, and herded a few cats. Other than that, her life was fairly routine until the day she decided to write a book about a half-Fae, half-Were girl who’s a magnet for trouble. The first Mystwalker novel was grabbed by St. Martin’s and released as The Trouble with Fate in 2012. Second and third books quickly followed: The Thing About Weres and The Problem with Promises. At the age most people start thinking about retirement, Leigh is slinging words and pummeling plots. Leigh’s destiny has finally been met: she’s a writer. A little tardy, but then again, her mum always said she was a late bloomer. Visit: www.leighevans.com. Or sign up for email updates here.
