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Authors: Danielle Monsch
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into the room, stopping short as he took in their guest. His blue eyes snapped, and the good humor he always carried around with him washed out of his face. He drew in a deep breath that was pure shoring defenses before coming farther into the room. “Rule. I wasn’t expecting you until tonight.”
This time there was no bow of her head, and while the words were still polite, this time the challenge in voice and tone was unmistakable. “Alpha. I received word to come earlier.”
They were gunslingers at high noon, facing off as tumbleweeds rolled by. “I hadn’t heard that.”
A new voice spoke up, so curt it edged on harsh, though the words contained the expected courtesy. “My apologies, Wulver. It was a sudden change in my schedule that prompted this switch.”
The energy around them became charged as Kyo entered the room. The Japanese man radiated power so strong that for those not used to it, it was hard to breathe around him.
His near-black hair was long enough to touch his nape, the fringe falling over his forehead and face, but it looked in no way unkempt. His dark eyes shown from behind the bangs.
He was six-foot with a medium musculature, but even next to Wulver who was bigger than him in both height and mass, something about Kyo made Wulver seem small. Kyo wore a traditional yukata in a midnight blue, and though the garment resembled a robe, on Kyo it might as well have been the most ornate and majestic of outfits.
Next to him was a Japanese woman of about five-four, taller than Laire but shorter than Aislynn, and far shorter than both Fallon and Rule. She carried herself the same way Kyo did, spine vertical and chin lifted high, eyes watching for the tiniest sign of weakness. She wore a white sleeveless top with a high collar, the tailoring resembling a vest, and white flowing slacks.
Kyo looked over the group, including Laire who was studying her nails again, but this time her body was a story in distinct uncomfortableness.
Tec’s voice filtered through the air. “Fallon?”
Taking in Laire’s small breath and subtle shift of her shoulders downward, Fallon answered, “Yeah?”
“The Dream Crafter has contacted us. She has what we requested.”
“That sounds like my cue to miss this little lovefest.” Fallon cuffed Laire on the back of her neck, which caused the mage to jump and give Fallon the side-eye from hell. “Come on. I might need your help.”
Without any goodbyes, Fallon ushered Laire away to Tec and their mission.
Chapter Eleven
‡
T he urge to vomit was a constant pressure from the back of her throat. Amana took another sip of ginger ale, willing the acid to settle back in her stomach and behave.
Once again, her hand stroked over her bag, feeling for the shape of the book within it, as she had done every minute since she walked out her door to the trendy café on the corner. With every ring of the bell over the door she looked up, and so far all it got her was disappointment and stretched-out nerves.
Another sip of soda, hand again ghosting over the book. She wanted…she wanted to meet a god, or the Oracle, and ask them why? For the first time in ten years she had felt…
That was it. She had felt. She had opened up to someone, trusted them enough to let them in, and it was so good. Warm and remarkable and now… Now she was supposed to go back to what she was before? Worse, she was a betrayer, a thief who had stolen from him, stolen his faith in her.
Nakoa. This was the price for Nakoa to come back to her. How many times had she said she’d pay any price, only let him come back to her?
The gods took her at her word.
A phone rang, and the person behind the counter answered. His countenance turned from disinterest to fierce focus, and after he hung up, he called out, “Everyone out. Not you,” he said, looking to Amana. The two other patrons startled, but taking in the proprietor’s expression, they made hurried movements to grab everything and go. In moments, the
This time there was no bow of her head, and while the words were still polite, this time the challenge in voice and tone was unmistakable. “Alpha. I received word to come earlier.”
They were gunslingers at high noon, facing off as tumbleweeds rolled by. “I hadn’t heard that.”
A new voice spoke up, so curt it edged on harsh, though the words contained the expected courtesy. “My apologies, Wulver. It was a sudden change in my schedule that prompted this switch.”
The energy around them became charged as Kyo entered the room. The Japanese man radiated power so strong that for those not used to it, it was hard to breathe around him.
His near-black hair was long enough to touch his nape, the fringe falling over his forehead and face, but it looked in no way unkempt. His dark eyes shown from behind the bangs.
He was six-foot with a medium musculature, but even next to Wulver who was bigger than him in both height and mass, something about Kyo made Wulver seem small. Kyo wore a traditional yukata in a midnight blue, and though the garment resembled a robe, on Kyo it might as well have been the most ornate and majestic of outfits.
Next to him was a Japanese woman of about five-four, taller than Laire but shorter than Aislynn, and far shorter than both Fallon and Rule. She carried herself the same way Kyo did, spine vertical and chin lifted high, eyes watching for the tiniest sign of weakness. She wore a white sleeveless top with a high collar, the tailoring resembling a vest, and white flowing slacks.
Kyo looked over the group, including Laire who was studying her nails again, but this time her body was a story in distinct uncomfortableness.
Tec’s voice filtered through the air. “Fallon?”
Taking in Laire’s small breath and subtle shift of her shoulders downward, Fallon answered, “Yeah?”
“The Dream Crafter has contacted us. She has what we requested.”
“That sounds like my cue to miss this little lovefest.” Fallon cuffed Laire on the back of her neck, which caused the mage to jump and give Fallon the side-eye from hell. “Come on. I might need your help.”
Without any goodbyes, Fallon ushered Laire away to Tec and their mission.
Chapter Eleven
‡
T he urge to vomit was a constant pressure from the back of her throat. Amana took another sip of ginger ale, willing the acid to settle back in her stomach and behave.
Once again, her hand stroked over her bag, feeling for the shape of the book within it, as she had done every minute since she walked out her door to the trendy café on the corner. With every ring of the bell over the door she looked up, and so far all it got her was disappointment and stretched-out nerves.
Another sip of soda, hand again ghosting over the book. She wanted…she wanted to meet a god, or the Oracle, and ask them why? For the first time in ten years she had felt…
That was it. She had felt. She had opened up to someone, trusted them enough to let them in, and it was so good. Warm and remarkable and now… Now she was supposed to go back to what she was before? Worse, she was a betrayer, a thief who had stolen from him, stolen his faith in her.
Nakoa. This was the price for Nakoa to come back to her. How many times had she said she’d pay any price, only let him come back to her?
The gods took her at her word.
A phone rang, and the person behind the counter answered. His countenance turned from disinterest to fierce focus, and after he hung up, he called out, “Everyone out. Not you,” he said, looking to Amana. The two other patrons startled, but taking in the proprietor’s expression, they made hurried movements to grab everything and go. In moments, the
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