9. Leire
NINE
LEIRE
Iwake to the smell of coffee.
Then memory floods back. The ward alarm. Aslan hunting through the mist. His voice, rough and final.
And now there’s coffee.
I push upright, shoving hair out of my face. Sunlight streams through my bedroom window—later than I usually sleep. The mist has thinned to a shimmer over the rooftops. A good sign, according to locals. Calm magic. Nothing stirring.
I grab a cardigan and pad downstairs, bare feet silent on the wooden steps.
He’s still on the couch.
Not sleeping—I’m not sure he slept at all. He’s sitting with his back against the armrest, legs stretched out, watching the door like he’s been staring at it for hours. Which he probably has. The morning light catches the sharp angles of his face.
Unfairly attractive. That’s the only way to describe it.
The man spent the night keeping watch over my shop, and he looks like he belongs on the cover of a paranormal romance novel.
Meanwhile, I probably look like a pixie dragged me backward through a hedge and then through a second hedge for good measure.
My hair has achieved sentience and is attempting to escape my skull in multiple directions.
“Coffee’s in the kitchen.” His voice is scraped thin. Tired, maybe. Or just morning-raw. “Didn’t know how you take it.”
“You made coffee.”
“Your machine has four buttons. I managed.”
I move to the kitchen, hyperaware of him watching me.
The space behind the counter is small—smaller with him in my peripheral vision.
I pour two cups, the rich aroma filling the air.
My hands are steadier than they should be, considering.
Add sugar to mine, stir it longer than necessary just to have an excuse not to turn around yet.
I carry both cups back to the main room. When I hold one out to him, he takes it without comment. Our fingers don’t touch. I’m very careful about that.
I settle into the chair across from him, tucking my feet underneath me. The coffee is good. Strong. He didn’t skimp on the grounds.
We drink in silence. Not awkward—that’s the strange part. It should be awkward. Last night we almost... and then the wards, and someone watching, and he stayed. On my couch. All night.
But the silence is comfortable. Easy. Like we’ve done this before, which we haven’t.
“Anything after I fell asleep?”
“Quiet.” He takes a long drink. “Whoever it was didn’t come back.”
“Yet.”
Something hardens behind his eyes. “Yet.”
“You should go home. Get some actual sleep.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve been awake for—what, twenty hours? More?”
“Tiger.” He lifts one shoulder. “We don’t need as much sleep as humans.”
“Convenient.”
“Sometimes.” The tension across his shoulders eases, barely perceptible—the closest he comes to relaxing. “I’ll leave when you’re ready to open. Check in later.”
I should argue. Tell him I don’t need a babysitter. But honestly? I’m glad he’s checking in. Which means I’m in more trouble than I thought.
The shop opens at nine. By eleven, I’ve had three customers—a wolf picking up his daughter’s comfort charm (he tears up when he tests the warming feature, which is unexpectedly sweet), a brownie looking for cleansing crystals (very particular about the energy, makes me test seven different specimens before finding one that “feels right”), and a vampire couple searching for jet lag remedies.
Direct sun is still a problem for them, but Mistvale’s permanent mist filters enough of it that most of the town’s vampires move through their days same as anyone—old habits about parasols and midnight schedules die harder than the sun ever could.
“Crossing time zones is absolute hell on the undead metabolism.” The wife adjusts her parasol out of pure habit, even though we’re indoors and the mist outside is doing most of the work already. “We were in Tokyo last week and I’m still not right.”
“Marcus keeps trying to sleep at noon.” Her husband rubs his temples. “It’s throwing off our entire routine. Centuries of keeping a schedule, and now this.”
I sell them matching moonstone pendants charmed for circadian regulation. They leave holding hands, which is adorable for creatures of the night. Love eternal takes many forms, apparently.
The morning rush fades into midday quiet. I’m reorganizing the display case near the window—the rose quartz keeps edging closer to the front, the absolute flirt—when the bell above the door chimes.
Iskra Sable walks in.
She’s dressed casually today—soft sweater, dark jeans, hair pulled back in a way that looks effortless but probably isn’t. Her smile is warm as ever, and she carries a small paper bag that smells like Moonpetal Bakery’s cinnamon scones.
“Leire! I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.” She holds up the bag. “Peace offering for dropping in unannounced.”
“You didn’t have to do that.” I take the bag anyway because I’m not stupid—Sunny’s scones are incredible. The woman once ended a three-generation family feud with a single batch of her rosemary-lemon shortbread. Her cinnamon scones have been known to make grown shifters weep with joy.
“How are you doing?” Iskra’s voice is warm, concerned, solicitous. “I heard you had some trouble with your wards last night.”
I go still.
The ward alarm happened after midnight. I didn’t tell anyone. Aslan didn’t leave until after dawn. So how the hell does Iskra know?
“Where did you hear that?”
She waves a hand, casual. “Oh, you know how it is.”
Mistvale is small. Someone could have noticed Aslan leaving at dawn.
But my gut doesn’t buy it. The way she said it—trouble with your wards—like she already knew exactly what happened.
Not “I heard there was some commotion” or “Is everything okay?” She knew it was the wards.
Not just a noise. The wards, specifically.
“I’m fine.” I force a smile. “False alarm. The wards have been a little sensitive since I strengthened them last week. New enchantments need time to settle.”
“Oh good. That’s such a relief.” She buys a small citrine point and leaves with another warm smile.
I stand behind the counter, watching her disappear across Moonthread Square. The scone bag sits unopened on the counter. Suddenly I’m not hungry.
Why does the hair on the back of my neck feel like it’s trying to escape?
“What do you think?” I glance at the amethyst. She pulses once—skeptical, cautious. “Yeah. Me too.”
I text him. Iskra was just here. She knew about the ward alarm.
His response is immediate. How specific?
Me: Very. She said “trouble with your wards.” Not just commotion. Wards.
Aslan: Stay in the shop. On my way.
I text back: It’s fine. I’m not in danger from scones.
Bossy. But I stay.
By mid-afternoon, the staying has gotten old. I pace the shop, re-alphabetize charm components, and count the register money twice with different wrong answers both times.
The obsidian watches me from the shelf with the resigned patience of someone who has seen this before and knows exactly how it ends.
The selenite tower by the window hums at me. I pat her anyway because she’s trying her best.
Aslan: Meeting ran long. Thirty more minutes.
Me: Going stir-crazy. Quick walk to Sakura’s. Back in fifteen.
I don’t wait for a reply. I’m already locking the door, the bell chiming behind me like a reproach.
The afternoon is bright, the mist burned off by actual sun.
Moonthread Square is busy—Grandmother Peach is still outside the Registry, handing out samples of something that smells like brown sugar and magic.
A young witch stops to taste one and her face transforms into something approaching religious ecstasy.
Grandmother Peach smiles that knowing smile of hers—the one that makes you wonder if she’s running a bakery sample stand or conducting some kind of elaborate social experiment.
A pair of selkies have set up a jewelry stand near the fountain, their wares catching the light in ways that suggest either excellent craftsmanship or subtle enchantment.
Probably both. One of them is braiding the other’s hair while they wait for customers—domestic and efficient.
One of the stone trolls is sitting near the Whisper Oak, having what appears to be a very slow conversation with the tree.
He’s been there for at least three hours.
Troll conversations can take days. I’ve heard of one that lasted a month and was mostly about whether moss prefers north-facing or east-facing stones.
Normal. Safe. Just a regular day in Mistvale.
Except there’s a cat sitting in the middle of the sidewalk.
A sleek black cat with eyes that used to be golden and warm. Eyes that looked at me like I was the center of the universe. Eyes that crinkled when he purred and narrowed when he was plotting mischief and softened when I scratched behind his ears just right.
Shadow.
I can’t move. Can’t breathe. The world narrows to just him—his familiar shape, the exact arch of his spine, the way his tail curls around his paws. Two years since I’ve seen him. Two years since he destroyed everything we had.
But his eyes—
His eyes are wrong.
Flat. Empty. Like someone turned off the light behind them.
He stares at me with no recognition, no warmth, nothing that says he remembers the nights we spent curled up reading.
The bond that was supposed to last forever.
The way he used to headbutt my chin when my throat tightened, like he could push the sadness out of me through sheer force of feline affection.
“Shadow?” My voice comes out cracked. Broken. The name I haven’t spoken aloud in two years.
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t twitch an ear. He just watches. Then turns and walks away.
I follow. I know I shouldn’t. Every survival instinct screams that this is a trap, that I’m being led somewhere I shouldn’t go, that the smart thing to do is turn around and walk back to my shop and wait for Aslan.
But it’s Shadow.