Ian growled in displeasure. His hands went to her waist and she grudgingly appreciated the support until the room stopped spinning.
“I’m getting this book for you,” Ian said. His voice was deep and close to her ear.
She started to shake her head, stopped, and instead said, “No possible way. It’s not at a bookstore or a friend’s house. It’s at my mom’s. My nan had one book on shifters. One. I read it because you know, werewolves are fun.” Ian rolled his eyes at that. “But there was something, maybe, I can’t remember! Something about their energy or the nature of the change? Something…” She squeezed her eyes in frustration. It’d been too long since she’d last seen that book.
“Then I’m coming with you,” Ian’s voice brooked no refusal.
“No. Possible. Way,” Cleo enunciated. She wasn’t going to subject Ian to her mother. Orlaith would see him as a challenge, and to bring Ian to Orlaith’s doorstep was akin to firing the first shot. It wasn’t a battle she was going to fight. Cleo worried it wouldn’t be a battle she could win.
Ian’s fingers flexed against her waist. Less ‘let me keep you steady’ and more ‘can I hug you’ territory, then. She stayed very still, and kept her eyes on the small of his throat. He waited a beat, and then let her go.
“I still want to,” Ian’s voice was very deep. Cleo shivered, then her brain caught up with the conversation. He wants to get a book. Right.
Cleo took a step, determined to ignore him. She stopped before the door. She turned around slowly. “How good are you at small talk?”
Ian looked vaguely ill in response. Cleo laughed.
Chapter Seventeen
Orlaith’s car was in the driveway, of course. Cleo sighed. It was too much to hope for to have her gone.
They’d been quiet in the drive over. Cleo wasn’t sure how to explain her mother’s and sister’s quirks, and in the end, she didn’t. His own family didn’t sound like it was award-winning, either. She thought about Ian’s handsome face, the width of his shoulders, and amended the thought: his family were genetic lottery award-winners, sure. But that was it.
Before they got out of the car, Cleo half-turned towards Ian. “Don’t believe my mother.”
Ian raised a brow, waiting for her to continue. Instead, Cleo left the car and eased into the house. Ian moved quietly for a big man.
In the living room, Cleo heard the television laughing, but that didn’t mean anyone was watching it. She paused in the entryway, the stairs right in front of her. She’d started creeping up the steps - Ian must’ve been watching her closely, because he skipped the noisy third stair too.
“Like a thief in the night, the prodigal daughter returns,” said Orlaith. Her voice was sweet and soft, but Cleo heard the seething anger.
“Mother, that doesn’t even make sense,” Cleo said and turned around.
All she saw was Ian’s broad back. He placed his body directly in front of hers, which was sweet in an inconvenient way. She placed a hand on his back and gently steered him aside to face her mother. He didn’t move all the way, just enough so she could see Orlaith. His face was expressionless, eyes flat. Thank Mother. The other Mother.
Orlaith stood at the bottom of the stairs in a thin pale pink tank top and high-waisted shorts. Her hair was loose and soft on her shoulders. Orlaith looked like she could be in her twenties, if you didn’t look at her eyes. They wore too many years of anger to be young.
“Stealing more books?” Orlaith said.
“I’m getting more today. Hand to the Goddess, I’m clearing out the rest of them next weekend,” Cleo vowed.
“Too late,” Orlaith said. “I needed the room, and since you’d just kept all those books sitting there, I figured you didn’t want them. Since you were treating them like trash, I put them in the trash for you. You’re welcome.”
Cleo’s voice closed. Those were what she had left of Nan. She hadn’t wanted anything else. A few photographs of them together from when she was a kid, the ugly saint medallion Nan always wore, and the books. Those books housed the memories of being in the stifling hot attic, Nan’s intense smile as little Cleo practiced green witchery. They were how she and the entire coven were advancing. Those books were priceless. Orlaith had no right. She had no right.
Cleo hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud before Ian grabbed her wrist and was leading her down the stairs. His fingers were tight around her, and she felt tethered. She felt thin, at the precipice of floating away. Grief was like that for her. Some memories of Nan swept Cleo off the ground, and all she could do was dangle helplessly until the moment passed.
Orlaith said something as they passed her, and Ian barked, “We’re leaving!” over her words. His voice wasn’t quite human, and the threat in it was enough to shut Orlaith up for once. She’d have to bring him over here more often, she thought distantly.
In the car, Ian didn’t say anything, just fished the keys from her purse and opened the passenger side door. His arm shot out before she could enter, though. “Ian, what,” Cleo started before he ground out, “Who the fuck are you?”
Siobhan had tucked herself into the backseat. She looked bad. Her eyes were circled red with the salt of old tears. Her hair was thrown back in a greasy ponytail. The last time Siobhan looked this bad… actually, Cleo couldn’t recall.
“Just drive, okay?” Siobhan’s voice was thick. “I’ll explain on the way.”
Ian looked to Cleo for confirmation. Cleo patted his arm, still blocking the way. He slid it away reluctantly. His face still had the same odd, expressionless look. It was worry, she realized. She slid her fingers up and patted his shoulder. She pulled out a little half-smile and something in his face eased.
Siobhan kept
