Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92996 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92996 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
“Yes, and maybe the whole point is to weed them out to find you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“But again—why?”
“No idea, but I like to cover all my bases.”
Something occurred to me. “You know, if something is hunting active magic users, then that would put Argos on their list as well.”
“Argos?”
“Yeah. The kind of creature he is, a daemon, anyone not from this plane—as we know whatever came through is not—might realize what he is if it got close enough to sense his power,” I explained. “I mean, he looks like a cat. But if a thing knows magic, then Argos’s outer appearance wouldn’t fool them.”
“Okay, so maybe it tested Kathy, saw she wasn’t a threat, and killed her.”
“I guess that’s possible.”
“But with Lynette, instead of attacking her, it manifested something, put it in her house, then observed her, realized she’s not even using passive magic, and left her alone.”
“That would also follow.”
“I hope it left before we got there, so it didn’t see you.”
“You were the one speaking over cleansing spells,” I reminded him.
“That’s fine. I would certainly rather it attacked me than you.”
“Or how about neither of us?”
“Well, it doesn’t matter either way now,” he assured me as he turned down our familiar cobblestone driveway and parked to the right of the porch, in the spot where he normally kept his Jeep, under the sugar maple. “Because we’re home and safe.”
The front door of the cottage opened, as it was prone to do, welcoming us home, and Argos came sauntering out, giving us a big yawn and then a half yowl of greeting. Whatever had been bothering him earlier in the evening—or yesterday rather, at this point—was no longer a concern. He was his usual chatty self.
“Look who’s fine now,” Lorne said, watching the cat leap onto the railing and regard us as if we were his servants.
“We are safe,” I agreed with him, taking a deep breath as I walked around the back of the vehicle to reach him.
“You know,” he began, taking my hand and leading me into the cottage, “maybe you should stay here until everything gets sorted out.”
“Let me understand,” I teased, following him up the stairs, reaching to touch the windchimes as we passed by, loving the sound of all the different kinds of shells and ceramic, wood and metal, gently clinking together. “You want me to cower in our home?”
“Cower is not the word I’d use,” he grumbled, shooting me a scowl before smiling as he walked into our home. “Good evening, my lovely cottage.”
“You’re such a suck-up,” I muttered under my breath once I was through, closing the door behind me.
“Sorry?” He was taunting me. “Speak up.”
I would not because the last time I said anything remotely pissy to him, I had nothing but cold water in my shower for three whole days. Corvus loved me, but the cottage was overly fond of Chief MacBain. And while I understood that my ancestors wanted to keep him—from the Viking and his Native American soulmate, all the way up to my grandparents—still, a little loyalty to me would have been nice.
At that very moment, as Lorne and I took off our shoes, leaving them on the stand near the front door, the cottage was making its feelings known. The hearth made a whoosh, like flames exploding in a fireplace, in welcome. As it was July, no heat was needed, so instead, the newly installed overhead fans began to spin, and the lights in sconces, gas lamps, and candles in holders scattered around the kitchen and living room, all flared to life. The place was cool and beautifully lit in moments.
In the past, there would have been quite a bit of manual work on my part to have long strands of fairy lights twinkling on a warm midsummer night. But things changed when Lorne moved in with me. The biggest one was that whatever the cottage thought he needed, or might possibly want, would appear. And that didn’t mean simply black tea with lavender and vanilla, French roast coffee with sweet cream, and thick, soft towels that were always warm when he got out of the shower, but also, he could bake as well as I could because what he called winging it was his home fixing things around him. Temperatures in the oven were corrected, ingredients appeared out of thin air, ones he’d pulled by accident somehow moved out of reach, and whatever he was looking for in the refrigerator was right there in front. Of course when he came home, the first thing he did was tell our abode how much everyone enjoyed the muffins or the tarts or the homemade granola. So I knew why it helped him, and since I actually knew what I was doing, all that conversation with the cottage wasn’t necessary. I probably needed to put a bit more effort into our relationship, though I did greet it every morning and thanked it for sheltering us. And I knew the reason our home loved Lorne was because of what he brought to my life. I could find no fault in that logic.