7. Leire
SEVEN
LEIRE
Hangovers, I’ve learned, come in varieties.
There’s the standard variety—pounding head, queasy stomach, deep regret for that last drink. There’s the magical variety—sparkles in your peripheral vision, occasional bursts of color when you sneeze, the lingering sensation that reality is slightly tilted.
And then there’s the Duskfire Brewery variety, which combines both with the added bonus of your magic refusing to cooperate because apparently even your power has limits on how much sentient beer it can process.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” I mutter to the citrine on my nightstand, which is pulsing with aggressive cheerfulness. “Stop being so bright. Some of us are dying over here.”
I’m lying face-down on my bed, seriously considering never moving again, when the knock comes.
Not on my shop door. On my apartment door.
The private one. At the top of the narrow stairs that no one should be climbing without my permission.
I’m upright before conscious thought catches up, hand outstretched toward the nearest crystal—a chunk of black tourmaline I keep on my nightstand for exactly this reason.
My wards aren’t screaming, which means whoever’s out there either has permission to be here or is very, very good at bypassing magical security.
Neither option is comforting.
Another knock. Three sharp raps, impatient but not aggressive.
“Leire.” The voice is low, unmistakable. “I have coffee.”
I stare at the door. Stare at my hand, still reaching for the tourmaline. Stare at my reflection in the mirror across the room—wild hair, smudged makeup, wearing the same clothes I stumbled home in last night.
The tiger shifter is at my private door with coffee.
“I can hear your heartbeat.” His voice carries through the wood, dry and almost amused. “If you’re planning to attack me with a crystal, I’d suggest the obsidian. Better defensive properties.”
“Stop giving me tactical advice,” I call back. “It’s weird.”
I grab a robe, yank it on over my rumpled clothes, and wrench open the door.
Aslan stands on my tiny landing, filling the cramped space in a way that should be illegal. He’s holding two paper cups from The Crescent Cup—the good coffee, the kind the vampire couple makes that costs twice as much and is worth every copper.
He looks annoyingly perfect. Alert and composed, not a hair out of place, those eyes taking in my disheveled appearance with what might be amusement or might be concern. Hard to tell with him.
“Information exchange.” He holds out one of the cups. “We need to talk.”
“What time is it?”
“Nine.”
“In the morning?”
“That is, traditionally, when nine happens.”
“Did you just make a joke?” I accept the coffee because I’m not an idiot, even when I’m hungover and confused and standing in front of a man who makes my magic do backflips. “I didn’t know you did that.”
“Rarely. Special occasions.”
The first sip is heaven—dark roast with cinnamon and definitely has a mild alertness charm woven in. The vampire couple doesn’t mess around.
“How did you get past my wards?”
“They let me through.”
“They what?”
“Your wards.” He takes a sip of his own coffee, maddeningly casual. “They recognized me. Opened without resistance.”
I’m going to have a very serious conversation with my magical defenses about their standards. Right after the caffeine kicks in and I stop wanting to die.
“You.” I point at the selenite cluster on my windowsill.
The selenite pulses warmly at Aslan.
“Fine.” I step back, gesturing him inside with the hand not clutching coffee. “But if you judge my living space, I will hex you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
My apartment is exactly as chaotic as expected. Clothes draped over the single chair. Books stacked on every available surface. Crystals scattered across the windowsill, the dresser, the floor in one corner where I was experimenting with a new grid pattern and never cleaned up.
“Stop that,” I hiss at it. “Have some dignity.”
Every stone in the room orients toward him like flowers following the sun.
“They’ve lost their minds,” I announce.
“Do your crystals always respond to visitors?”
“No. They’re being weird today. Probably the magical hangover affecting their judgment.” I shove a stack of grimoires off the chair. “Sit. Before you loom any more dramatically.”
He doesn’t sit. Of course, he doesn’t. He moves to examine my crystal collection instead, and I watch as the stones track his movement with an interest I find embarrassing.
“This is unprecedented. And mortifying.” I point at the nearest crystal. “Stop it.”
Something shifts in his expression—the barely-there version of amusement. He pulls a folded paper from his jacket.
“The symbol from your shop. Elio’s sources found a match in old Registry records.”
My stomach clenches. The coffee suddenly tastes bitter.
“What kind of match?”
“The pattern your crystals formed—it’s called the Preserver Mark.
We don’t know what it means yet, but it appears in documents dating back centuries.
” He hands me the paper—a rough sketch of the same angular pattern I photographed.
“And the dead bird was a traditional warning symbol. Used by factions that oppose witch-shifter cooperation.”
Old ways. Traditional symbols. Factions that oppose...
The room tilts. I sit down heavily on the edge of my bed, coffee forgotten in my hand.
“They found me.” The words come out hollow. “I thought—I really thought I’d escaped.”
Aslan is quiet for a moment. Then he moves closer, sits on the floor with his back against my wall so our eyes are almost level. It’s such a human gesture—making himself smaller, less threatening—that it hurts me deep in my chest.
“Tell me.” His voice is low, careful. “Whatever you’re willing to share.”
And I do.
He listens without interrupting. Without judging. Just... listens.
“Two years,” I finish, staring at my hands. “Two years of looking over my shoulder. I came to Mistvale because I heard it was safe.”
“You didn’t escape. They followed you. That’s not the same thing. The Registry has archives,” he continues. “Records going back to Mistvale’s founding. If the Preserver Mark is significant, we’ll find the information.”
“We?”
“Unless you’d rather wait here while I investigate alone. Somehow I don’t think that’s your style.”
“Give me ten minutes to look like a person instead of a disaster.”
“Take twenty.” He’s already moving toward the door. “I’ll wait downstairs.”
The walk to the Familiar Registry takes fifteen minutes and is significantly more entertaining than my hangover deserves.
We pass Thornwick Books, where Berry Thornwick is in the window having what appears to be a heated discussion with her own shelving unit. The books are definitely rearranging themselves. One particularly aggressive tome keeps throwing itself at the floor.
“Literary differences,” Aslan explains. “The mystery section and the romance section have been feuding for decades. Berry’s tried everything. They just really hate each other.”
“The books hate each other.”
“The books have opinions. Strong ones.” He pauses. “Don’t get me started on the poetry corner. It’s insufferable.”
We turn onto the narrow lane leading to the Registry, and he clears his throat.
“Zeph mentioned it. When I stopped by the brewery this morning.”
My heart does complicated flips. “You stopped by the brewery?”
“To make sure nothing happened after you left. The brewery attracts attention during coven gatherings.”
“And what, exactly, did Zeph mention?”
“She said you were discussing me when Sakura accidentally made it rain.”
“We were discussing protection assignments in general.” My voice comes out slightly strangled. “Yours wasn’t even the main topic.”
“She said your crystals rearranged themselves into a heart shape.”
“Coincidence.”
“And that the mist turns pink around your shop when I’m nearby.”
“That’s—the mist does whatever it wants—I can’t control ambient magical phenomena—this is slander—”
His almost-laugh cuts off my spiraling. “Relax. I’m not... I was just curious.”
“Curious.” I’m definitely blushing. Absolutely crimson. My face is probably visible from space. “Well. Curiosity satisfied. Can we talk about literally anything else? The weather? Politics? The ongoing cheese dispute? Anything?”
“The archives probably contain records of the Severing. Whatever that is.”
“Great. Perfect. Let’s do that.”
The Registry’s crooked Victorian facade rises before us, and I’ve never been so grateful to see a terrifying magical building in my life.
Grandmother Peach is waiting. Because, of course, she is.
“Ah.” Her voice comes from everywhere and nowhere as we enter. “I wondered when you’d come.”
She materializes from behind a filing cabinet that definitely isn’t large enough to hide her. She’s wearing lavender, all lace and fabric that shifts between purple and silver depending on the light. Her smile is warm. Her eyes are knowing.
I really wish her eyes weren’t always so knowing.
“Come, come. I have cobbler fresh from the oven, and the archives are dusty.”
“We’re actually here to—” Aslan starts.
“To research the Preserver Mark, yes.” She’s already moving toward the back of the building. “I know. I’ve been expecting this. The kettle is on.”
Aslan and I exchange looks—his resigned, mine bewildered.
“Does she do that to everyone?” I whisper.
“Everyone,” he confirms.
Grandmother Peach’s kitchen exists in a separate reality. Warm light, copper pots hanging from exposed beams, the smell of peaches and brown sugar so thick, it’s almost visible. There’s a small table set for three, because apparently, she’s psychic in addition to everything else.
“Sit, sit.” She pushes bowls of cobbler toward us before we can argue. “Eat first. The archives have been there for centuries. They can wait another ten minutes.”
The cobbler is perfect. Warm, sweet, with a lattice crust that shatters under my spoon. I take one bite and understand immediately why Sakura cried.
“Oh.” The sound escapes before I can stop it. “That’s illegal. That should be illegal.”