I sigh.
“I’m going to break the contract,” I tell her.
She pauses in her tracks. Her jaw clenches. She is silent a moment, staring at me. “You can take a potion to free your tongue, Mir,” she says, voice low. “But not one to break the obligation. If you speak about what you saw, the Coven will know… and then…”
I stare back at her.
“Either way, I’m coming with you.” She strides past me toward the train station.
I follow, using her confidence to bolster my own. It is a Saturday night, and the station is buzzing with people going here and there. We climb onto a car that is mostly full and ride in silence, casting each other apprehensive looks at intervals. Eventually, we dismount at the Senna Street Harbor station.
The night is warm and young, just how the general population likes her. We walk side-by-side as we pass others, humans and supes alike. There are a string of bars here that line the waterway, complete with large outdoor decks strung with golden lights that glow in the reflection of the water.
The mighty Delaware River rushes far below, too quiet to be acknowledged by human ears, but no doubt a low, constant thrum to all the wolf ears present.
And there are a lot of wolf ears present.
This is, after all, firmly their territory. There are other supes here, too, but the vast majority are wolf shifters, with their strong, lean builds and boisterous behavior.
Both the males and females of the species tend to be taller, more corded with muscle, and lighter on their feet than humans and even other supes. Their senses are keener as well, not so much as a vampire’s, but certainly more than a fae or witch.
Their magic was very physical, whereas mine was surely the opposite.
They even seem to have charisma on their side; shifters of all types tend to be charming and able to adapt in social settings, which made it either highly beneficial or equally dangerous to get close with them in any capacity.
Flora and I catch looks from several of the males as we continue toward the Quarter Moon—a bar owned, operated, and patriated by mostly wolves.
I can’t help but feel like a doe that has wandered a touch too deeply into the glen. I’m acutely aware of the tightness of my black jeans and shirt—the way they hug the curves of my body.
I second-guess my decision to come here.
But I look over at Flora, and she is calm and collected, as usual. I draw from that strength as I keep my shoulders square and my face unconcerned. I may look weak, but I am not. I have my magic. And I am damn good at wielding it.
Music pulses from inside the Quarter Moon as we approach, an upbeat, popular song that keeps playing on the radio, one that makes you want to move. The building front resembles a large log cabin, the enormous deck out back already reasonably full with people, drinks in hand, standing in clusters, some dancing while others are chatting and laughing.
Another thing about the wolves; they knew how to party.
There is no line to get in, but there are groups of people standing outside the bar, already getting rowdy and metaphorically howling at the moon. There is, however, an enormous wolf checking I.D.’s. Being a couple years past the 30-year mark, I hope that he’ll ask for mine.
Since when had the hope flipped from “Please don’t spot my fake,” to “You better ask to see my identification, son...?”
Good lord, was this what it was like to get old?
I shake that question away. That was some society-created bullshit for your ass. Thirty-two was fuckin’ young. Hell, so was forty and fifty. People were living to be one hundred nowadays.
The enormous bouncer gives our I.D.’s a thorough examination and hands them back to us. He jerks his chin toward the entrance. “Have a good time, ladies,” he says with a smirk.
I wonder if he can smell the tinge of fear that surely underlines our scents, but put it out of my mind as we enter a dark, loud, and hopping barroom positively full of drinking wolves.
The lights are low, the ceilings high with wooden rafters from which hang dimly glowing fairy lights. Cool air pushes out of vents and falls just short of balancing the heat of the bodies stuffed into the place.
I lead Flora over to the bar, not knowing what else to do as I don’t see Milo anywhere. Was this really the best location in which to hold a fight-the-system meeting…? If that’s even what this meeting was?
When I reach the bar in the center of the room I see there are three bartenders whirling around the island that is the space behind the bar. A mountain of various alcohols sits in the middle of the space, and taps run along the diameter. Two females and one male, they move as if in coordination, a dance of flipping bottles, making change, and pulling taps. The movement is constant, and one of the females is standing before me with a questioning look on her face before I can even blink.
I look at Flora, who orders a beer, and I request a water for myself. The drinks are there in a few heartbeats and the bartender has moved onto another customer with the same swiftness as she’d arrived.
“You made it,” says a familiar voice right beside my ear.
I jump with surprise, then smile. I don’t even mean to; the expression just forms on my lips. My cheeks heat as I turn and look up into Milo’s hazel eyes.
He takes a small step back, giving me space, and I have to resist the urge to lean forward. Good Goddess, he smells good. Like the forest after a fresh rainfall. He’s wearing a gray button-down shirt that fits him well enough that his strong physic is visible beneath. His slacks
