Chapter 17 Meera
Meera
“Have you lost your mind?” she hissed as she dragged the hooded male into her home before any of her neighbors could see. The door thudded shut, muting the whispering forest beyond.
A male. In her home.
In the Witchwood.
Outside of the mating season.
Unthinkable. The Riders had only just slipped out her back door, and now this?
If any neighbor glimpsed his silhouette and ran to Ditch, Meera would be made an example of before midnight tolled.
Safely inside, Lowell pushed his hood down, grinning as his gaze swept the room. “You actually live in a toadstool.”
She straightened. “A spacious one. This is a three/two.” The place might look whimsical, but she’d spent years lovingly maintaining every windowpane and mushroom beam. It was perfect for her—when it wasn’t being invaded by Rider operatives and an equally clandestine visit from her secret crush.
Cloak-and-dagger bullshit. She hated it. Her mother’s voice murmured from memory: Secrets are acids that corrode from within.
Meera felt the burn now. “You can’t be here,” she said tightly, resisting the urge to grab the hexed broom by the door and shoo him away like a giant spider.
“No wolves allowed, huh?” His rumbling burr was far too entertained.
“Yes, and no males allowed.”
“Why?”
“Perhaps we find you untrustworthy and overrated,” she said, only half lying. “Now, why are you here?”
“Wanted to see you outside work.”
Before she could answer, Nettle—the black cat she’d inherited from Lazara—slunk into the room. She hissed at the intruder with a puffed tail.
Lowell chuckled. “Your cat does no’ like me? Yet she’s female? I reckon it had to happen sometime.” Sly grin. “Luckily her mistress does no’ share the sentiment.” Effortless charm exuded from him, his aura warm.
Meera’s pulse jumped. “You seem very sure about that.”
“Oh, aye. At those meetings on the Mount, you’re always undressing me with your eyes. A couple of times, I wondered if I’d make it back to Craigdúr with my virtue intact.”
Resisting his charm, she demanded, “How did you get here?”
“The castle’s young teleporter dropped me at the edge of the woods, and then I tracked your scent. I can reasonably brag that I’m the best tracker this side of the Helter. Are you impressed yet? I can go on.”
She waved that away. “Why visit me?”
“Because you and I are going to save our species from a pointless war—without anyone else ever knowing.”
She crossed her arms. “A secret mission? You’ve got to be kidding me.” Nettle’s hiss cut through the air again, a reminder of the deadly games seemingly everyone wanted Meera to play. “You’ve come to the wrong witch. I’m an assistant, Lowell. That’s it. I don’t shape policy or stop conflicts.”
“You have the ear of your new leader. I have mine. Between us, mayhap we end the bloodshed. Tell me, do you even remember why we’re at odds?”
“You mean besides your kind’s innate distrust of magic and hatred of witches?” she shot back. “It’s practically instinctual, like a vampire’s thirst.”
He frowned, the teasing dimming. “Is that what your elders tell you?”
“Do you deny it? Do you deny that a Lykae murdered the first Rosewyn—the original Red Riding Hood—and her beloved grandmother? Hecate rest their souls.” She briefly gazed down.
Lowell parted his lips, then thought better of whatever he’d been about to say. “Nay. But that wolf must have been maddened. The pack punished him, aye, but it was never enough for your kind. We’ve paid the price since.”
“You think we’re unnatural.”
“Not unnatural, just…unnerving.” His tone softened, almost regretful. “And the real start of this feud was when Riders crossed into our lands to relieve us of food during lean times.”
She pursed her lips. Witches loved to steal from wolves, like teenagers in a hex shop. And some of that was because of necessity. The Skein had its ups and downs, and immortals hadn’t quite figured out how to manage them.
The mention of Riders twisted her stomach. Rose hadn’t been at that earlier meeting, but her Riders had been as relentless as the Banehand—peppering Meera with questions about Lazara’s disappearance, Ditch’s rise, and the Accession closing in. Every question was like a noose that kept tightening.
The likely answers: Lazara was murdered, and the murderer wants another bloody All-Battle to the bitter end until the House of Witches reigns supreme.
The Riders continued to work against Ditch, but surely the high priestess was already aware of their plans. Just the thought of her situation spiked Meera’s anxiety, and her magic welled. Control it.
She shook away her thoughts and said, “Witches have stolen from wolves. I can’t argue with that.”
Lowell’s grin returned. “No argument? See, we’re already agreeing on something.” His gaze drifted to a portrait on the wall. “And who’s that stunner?”
“My mother,” Meera said, exasperated. He wasn’t wrong though.
Her mother was radiant with her glossy raven hair framing flawless skin.
She had sat for the painting in her crimson uniform—a hooded, hip-length cloak—with a white sari beneath it, one passed down from Meera’s grandmother.
Gran had been wearing it when she was swept up in the Exile from her coven in Kashi.
Back then in Gaia, there’d been no Riders, because there’d been no protracted war between witches and wolves.
“Your mam was a Rider?”
Meera said softly, “Yes.” Before a battle against marauding demons had stolen her life.
“The apple fell far from the tree then?”
What the hells? “You don’t think I could be a Rider?” Magic swirled inside her, but she reined it in before a fight broke out.
He held up his palms in surrender. “Thought you were driven by intellectual pursuits.” He nodded toward the wall with framed diplomas: her degrees in pagan arts and species studies from the Akelarre Institute of Witchery and Lore. “Those look impressive. You studied in Akelarre?”
“I was a long-distance student.” Traveling there took a substantial amount of magic. The journey between the Skein and the House of Witches home world was one-way for most. “Portal travel isn’t cheap.”
“I meant no offense to you, lass.” He gave a rueful smile. “Here, I know how to cool your pique.” From his cloak, he drew a bottle of whiskey, the label old and ambered. “Dinna come empty-handed for our meeting.”
Hecate above. Wolves and their whiskey. She licked her lips before she could stop herself, and his grin deepened, revealing that lupine playfulness she’d predicted.
Of course, this would be the day she wore her baggiest lounge clothes and had her hair knotted in a bun that would attract birds to nest. She briefly considered excusing herself to go throw on a glamour. She might have one in the potion cabinet somewhere. Probably expired.
“Come on, witch,” he coaxed. “Let’s share a dram and solve the Skein’s problems. Surrender to temptation.”
She should say no. She really should.
But resisting him felt as impossible as resisting every other push-pull aspect in her life—spying for Riders…Ditch’s new mandatory training with her enchantress ability…the creeping loneliness of her existence.
Without a word, Meera turned toward the kitchen. When she returned with glasses, she told Lowell, “One drink. Then you need to go. The coven will kill you for being here, you know.”
He hung his coat on the rack and followed her into her sitting area. “And what would happen to you?” He joined her on the sofa and uncorked the bottle.
“Possibly ostracism.” Possibly death. Who knew with Ditch?
Lowell’s expression sobered. “If Ditch truly killed Lazara, I believe she’s capable of anything.”
Exactly. Yet Meera wasn’t sure she believed Ditch’s bold confession. Of course, cannibalism would explain why no one had found Lazara’s body, even with Riders on the case.
“Tell me to go now,” he said gently, “and I will.” His black hair took the fire’s glow in jagged flashes, glinting like obsidian caught in a blaze. She imagined threading her fingers through those midnight locks.
Her pulse betrayed her. “One drink,” she repeated.
His smile felt like praise. He poured the glasses. When he handed one to her, their fingers touched. His skin was warm against hers, filling her with longing.
“To peace in the Skein,” he toasted.
“And to other impossible dreams,” she murmured, clinking his glass. The whiskey burned like a revelation down her throat, and she nearly moaned.
He scrubbed a big hand over his mouth as he stared at her own. “When you lick whiskey off that plump bottom lip of yours, I’m afire with jealousy for the tongue—and the lip.”
She stifled her thrill over his words. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? Seducing the assistant to help your kingdom?”
“I’ve no orders to seduce you. Hell, witch, I’ve fancied getting to know you better for years.
” His voice dropped. “Every time we met on the Mount, I craved to know what went on behind those dark, watchful eyes of yours. Now I’ve got an excuse, and I’m taking it. Sometimes seduction is its own end.”
She raised her brows. She was aware of the renowned beauties of the Lykae clan. Not to mention the bands of nymphs that roved across the Skein, dispensing pleasure like alms. Those lusty rolling stones loved to visit the equally lusty Lykae. He’d probably partaken of them all.
So why would he look twice at her? She was simply Meera of the sensible shoes.
He relaxed back against the sofa, and his ease drew her in despite herself. Outside in the night, autumn winds rattled the leafless trees. But inside her cottage, warmth curled around them like a spell.
“Nice place,” he said. “Any kids?”
“No. Not yet.” But she’d been thinking about motherhood more and more. All her cottage lacked was a cradle by the hearth with a little witchling inside.
Ache.
“Hard to manage that with no males around,” Lowell said. “But I heard your coven has some kind of arrangement with the warlocks of Umber.”
“Yes, they visit each season to procreate.” Maybe. The last few mating seasons had proved so lackluster and unfruitful that some witches wanted it canceled.
Her own fumblings with warlocks had disappointed her. None had moved her to try intercourse for the first time. Nope, not for me. Not until I’m ready to get offspring out of it.
Lowell already affected her more than any of those males had.
She supposed if the warlocks didn’t make their pilgrimage this year, she could journey to their stronghold and find a father for her child. The longing in her heart couldn’t be ignored for much longer. Despite the coming Accession, it might be time. “I’ll probably take the plunge this year.”
“Funny way of putting it. I was just thinking that process sounded…spawn-y. Makes me picture the salmon fighting currents in Craigdúr’s streams.”
She glared. “From what I’ve heard about cohabitation, it sounds like a lot of work to me.” So why did she dream of waking next to a mate? Sharing her home with one?
“With the wrong bloke, aye. And those are the ones you hear of—no’ of the steady ones quietly making females purr with delight.”
Purring? Speaking of which, she glanced around for Nettle, but the cat had disappeared. She wouldn’t have gone far in this blustery weather. “Doesn’t your Instinct force you to treat mates well?”
He laughed warmly. “Is that what they’re teaching these days in species studies?”
She raised her brows for an explanation. “Enlighten me.”
“The Instinct is no force, just an inner voice that guides us to what is best for us and for our pack.”
“Some in my classes think it’s a glorified subconscious.”
“More animalistic, I reckon.”
That made sense. The first Lykae had been a human in Gaia, bitten by a maddened wolf. The male had risen from the dead as an immortal with superhuman strength, a contagious bite, and an inner wolf. Lykae “humanity” was only a thin veneer over a lethal beast.
“What about you?” she asked. “Any kids?”
“I canna have pups with any but my mate.”
“And you could go centuries without finding her.” Or millennia. “How old are you anyway?”
“Thirty-eight and counting.”
“You must’ve just turned fully immortal.”
“Aye. Few years ago. You?”
She sipped again. “A little over a century.”
“You’ve beaten me out in age and beauty, lass.” His charisma simmered like a concoction over an eternal heat source.
Resist it! “You’re drinking slow.”
“Doona want our date to end. Hankering to make it last.”
“Date?” She drew herself up, assuming a businesslike demeanor. “This is diplomacy, wolf.”
“Aye. Highlander diplomacy. Step one: whiskey.” He winked. Fucking winked at her.
She found her lips curling. Damn him. “You’re impossible.”
Lowell leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes half lidded. “And yet,” he murmured, “you’re still sitting here.”
Meera didn’t answer. The words she wanted to say—because I’m so tired of being alone—lodged behind her teeth.
Instead, she met his gaze, held it, and finished her drink. The whiskey flamed down her throat, sweet and final.
But when she lowered her glass, he smoothly repoured, watching her like a man memorizing a sin he meant to commit again.