Chapter 22
Courting An Agent
Fenrir Thorsson
The scent of bread and spices fills the air as I push open the door to the ranch house. Despite the distance from Astrid, the siren transport makes it easy to get back and forth. The brownies have been busy in the kitchen during my absence.
Three brownies, no taller than my shin, who’ve appointed themselves my official matchmakers, scurry across the countertop in a flurry of activity.
One vigorously kneads dough with his entire body, another chops vegetables with precision that would make a master chef envious, while the third—Thistle, their self-appointed leader with distinctive purple-tinged ears—arranges flowers in a tiny vase with solemn concentration.
Cormac looks up from his cup of coffee at the kitchen table. "That was quick. Did she shoot you this time?"
"No." I grin, the memory of Astrid's flushed cheeks when she caught sight of me warming my blood more effectively than any fire. "She barely glared at me."
"Progress!" Thistle abandons his flower arrangement and scampers to the edge of the counter, bright eyes fixed on me with unnerving intensity. "Did she notice the rolled sleeves? The buttons? We told you females respond positively to forearms and a glimpse of chest hair."
I cross my arms, trying and failing to suppress my amusement. "She noticed."
All three brownies freeze, then erupt into a chorus of triumphant chirping sounds that remind me of excited songbirds. They exchange what appears to be currency. Some sort of small, shiny pebbles passing from one tiny hand to another.
"You were betting on whether she'd appreciate my forearms?"
"Not whether," the dough-covered brownie corrects, his voice high and musical. "How much. Thistle said she would stare twice. Bramble said three times minimum."
"And I," the vegetable-chopper announces proudly, "said she would try very hard not to stare at all, which means she noticed most of all."
Cormac chuckles into his coffee. "And the winner is?"
"Nettle," I admit, nodding to the vegetable-chopper. "She kept her eyes firmly on my face. Mostly."
More pebbles exchange hands as Nettle preens. "The resistant ones always fall hardest," he declares.
Hope warms my chest at his words. I do feel like progress was made in our last encounter.
I move to the refrigerator, helping myself to cold water. The electrical sensation that hums beneath my skin whenever Astrid is near has faded to a distant warmth, a phantom echo of connection. Already I miss it. Miss her.
"She's going to stake out the warehouse," I say, leaning against the counter. "Alone. For three days."
Cormac's expression sharpens. "Hellhounds and alone? Not a good combination."
"Precisely why I plan to join her." I drain the glass in one long swallow. "Though I doubt she'll welcome the company at first."
"Of course she won't," Thistle says, returning to his flowers. "Warriors rarely admit what they want immediately. It makes them feel vulnerable."
I nod, agreeing with his statement. "And what does she want?" I ask, genuinely curious about the brownie's perspective.
"You," all three answer in unison, as if I've asked the most obvious question in existence.
The simple answer surprises me. The certainty in their tiny voices feeds something within me that wants to believe our connection is as inevitable as the tides. The corners of my mouth lift in a smile I don't attempt to hide.
"Eventually," Bramble adds, still kneading dough with his entire body. "After she fights it very hard first."
"Speaking of fighting," Cormac interrupts, reaching into his jacket. "You're due for this." He places a flask of ambrosia on the table, the honey-gold liquid catching the late morning light. "You've gone nearly twelve hours without it."
I reach for the flask automatically, then pause. The familiar burning need, the restless clawing of my wolf beneath my skin… both sensations are noticeably muted. My wolf lies quiet, content in a way I haven't experienced in hundreds of years.
"I don't need it," I say, the realization dawning with startling clarity. "Not right now."
Cormac's eyebrows rise. "Are you certain?"
The truth feels both obvious and revolutionary. "When I'm near Astrid, the wolf settles. We're... aligned. Balanced."
"The soul recognizes itself," Thistle says solemnly, rearranging the flowers in the vase on the counter.
"It's more than that," I say, searching for words to explain what feels beyond language. I fail, there are no words that do what I’m feeling justice.
Cormac studies me, his expression thoughtful. "Hawke experienced something similar with Melinda, though his curse manifested differently than yours. And from what I’ve heard he didn’t experience relief from it until he bonded."
The word 'bonded' sends a cascade of contradictory emotions through me.
My wolf surges forward. Bonding with Astrid is precisely what he wants, has wanted from the moment we first locked eyes.
I can envision our souls fully intertwined, her strength merged with mine and the curse that has grown inside of me for centuries finally broken.
The relief that image promises is almost painful in its intensity. To be free of the constant struggle against my own nature, to no longer fear losing control and becoming a feral monster without a shred of humanity.
Yet I push these selfish desires back. Bonding is irrevocable. Eternal. She doesn't even know what she truly is, let alone what I am to her. To bind her to me without full understanding would be unforgivable, no matter how desperately my wolf howls for completion.
"I’ll take the ambrosia." I pocket the flask. "Just in case."
"So," Nettle interrupts, waving a tiny knife for emphasis. "What will you wear next time? The Henley shirt looked very nice. We have it in three colors."
"We could try the tank top," Bramble suggests, flour dusting his green-brown skin as he pauses his dough-kneading. "Show more muscles?"
"No," Thistle objects, setting down his flower arrangement with a definitive tap. "Too aggressive. We're trying to court her, not intimidate her."
I watch their debate with growing amusement. Three brownies arguing over my wardrobe like mothers preparing a son for his first hunt.
"The Henley," I decide, ending their squabble. "Dark blue. With my regular jeans and boots." I glance at the kitchen clock. "And I'll need food to bring her for dinner."
This pronouncement sends the brownies into another flurry of activity, abandoning their previous tasks to focus on this new mission.
"Have you told her yet?" Cormac asks quietly. "About the soul shard? About what you truly are?"
"Some." I run a hand through my hair, loosening it from its half-knot. "She's not ready to hear all of it."
"Or you're not ready to tell her," he suggests, but without judgment.
He's right, of course. The truth is that she carries a piece of my soul. That our fates are bound together by forces older than either of us. But she's spent her entire life hiding what she is, I can't expect her to embrace an even more impossible truth overnight.
"One step at a time," I say finally. "First, I earn her trust. Then her friendship. Then, perhaps, something more."
"Very noble," Thistle approves, though the slight roll of his eyes suggests he finds my approach unnecessarily cautious. "Though I maintain that simply claiming her would be more efficient."
"She would shoot me," I remind him, fighting a smile.
"Only a little," Nettle argues. "And you heal fast."
"No claiming," I say firmly, though my wolf rumbles with reluctant agreement at the brownie's suggestion. "I need to leave soon, though, she'll be there before dusk for the night surveillance shift."
"The food will help," Bramble assures me, shaping dough into what appear to be miniature croissants with practiced efficiency. "Females appreciate providers."
"She can provide for herself," I point out. "She's a warrior, not a helpless maiden."
"All the more reason she'll appreciate someone who recognizes her strength yet still offers support," Cormac interjects. "Warriors need companions who understand the burden they carry."
His words strike a chord. Astrid has been fighting alone for so long—against GUIDE, with GUIDE, against her own nature, against a world that would destroy her if it knew the truth. She's a warrior without an army at her back, carrying a solitary burden that would crush most souls.
Not anymore. Not if I can help it.
"Take these," Thistle says, handing me a small leather pouch that smells of dried herbs and something ancient. "Protection charms against the hellhounds. They won't attack you directly, your wolf is too dominant, but better to stay off their radar all together."
I accept the pouch with a nod of thanks, tucking it into my pocket alongside the ambrosia flask.
"It was difficult," I admit to Cormac as the brownies continue their food preparation, "not to follow her this morning."
He raises an eyebrow, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. "I'm amazed you resisted."
"I nearly didn't," I confess. "I circled the GUIDE building three times before forcing myself to leave."
"The wolf wanted to be near her."
"The wolf. The man. Both," I say simply. There's no point denying what we both know is true. And I don’t want to.
An hour later, I'm dressed in the dark blue Henley, my hair pulled back in its usual half-knot, a basket of still-warm pastries and a thermos of coffee packed and ready.
The leather pouch of protection charms hangs from my belt, alongside the ring that will call a siren to transport me to Astrid's location.
"Remember," Cormac says as we walk toward the lake behind the ranch house, "hellhounds won’t harm you directly, but Hades doesn’t send those dogs out for easy souls. Whatever lurks in that warehouse, it's bad."
"All the more reason Astrid shouldn't face it alone," I reply, jaw tightening at the thought.
"And all the more reason you should be careful," he counters. "Your wolf may be subdued around her, but true danger could trigger a shift. We don’t know if you’ll always be able to change back or control the wolf."
I pat the flask in my pocket. "I have the ambrosia if needed." But I’m not worried. I shifted in Louisiana and I was fine. My control is stronger when I’m close to her.
"Use it," he says firmly. "Before you need it, not after."
“I will.”
We reach the lake's edge, the late afternoon sunlight dancing across its surface in diamond patterns. I remove the silver ring from the small pouch at my waist and drop it into the water. It disappears beneath the surface without a splash.
A slim pale hand breaks the surface, wrapping around my wrist with gentle but irresistible strength. The siren's face appears, iridescence in her skin catching the sunlight as she pulls me down.
For a heartbeat that lasts both an instant and an eternity, I'm suspended—neither here nor there, neither dry nor wet, passing through the ancient pathways that sirens alone can navigate. Then we break through, emerging into a small, murky pond.
"Thank you," I tell the siren as she releases my wrist, her opalescent eyes blinking once in acknowledgment before she disappears beneath the surface again, leaving only a faint ripple to mark her passage.
I step from the pond completely dry, the magick of siren travel leaving no trace of water on my clothes or skin. The pond is at the back of a deserted park. The sun is now sinking toward the horizon, painting the sky in deepening shades of orange and purple.
I inhale deeply, sorting through the city smells—exhaust fumes, fresh-cut grass, the lingering traces of last night's rain. Beneath it all, I catch a faint thread of the thing I’m seeking—Astrid.
The warehouse isn’t far from this park. She might have even stopped here on her way.
The electrical sensation beneath my skin hums to life, growing stronger as I follow her scent through the park toward the warehouse. My wolf stirs, not with the usual restless aggression but with eager anticipation.
I move quickly but carefully, staying within the cover of trees where possible. The warehouse complex looms ahead, abandoned buildings jutting against the twilight sky like broken teeth. From my vantage point, I scan the perimeter, looking for Astrid.
A nondescript black sedan is parked on a side street with a clear view of the main entrance. Even without enhanced vision, I can make out her silhouette behind the wheel.
I approach from behind, keeping to shadows, moving with the silent precision honed through centuries of hunting. Not because I fear she'll spot me—I want her to—but because the wolf in me can't resist the thrill of the stalk, the satisfaction of a perfect approach.
When I reach her vehicle, I pause, admiring her profile through the window—the sharp line of her jaw, the intensity of her focus as she watches the warehouse. Her dark hair is pulled back in its usual severe ponytail, emphasizing the elegant column of her throat and the delicate shell of her ear.
Mine, my wolf whispers.
I circle to the passenger side, and press a ceramic disk against the lock. It clicks and I open the door and slide into the seat beside her, setting the basket of food between us like a peace offering.
"Good evening," I say casually. "I know our conversation this morning was rushed, so I brought breakfast for dinner."