Chapter 20 Ezra
Ezra
An hour later, the three of us climb into Aurora’s ancient SUV and head toward the wrakh’s home. My heart flutters with something that feels dangerously like contentment as Aurora sings along to a song softly playing on the radio.
It’s a warm October day, so we travel with the windows down, the smell of decaying leaves and crisp air swirling around us.
Aurora wears a long, flowy skirt and a tight V-neck T-shirt that doesn’t leave much to the imagination.
The minute I get her alone, I’m going to tear that tight T-shirt in half and bunch that flowy skirt around her waist …
“Ezra!” Aurora yells, jolting me out of my sensuous reverie. “Are you okay? Is this the place?”
The familiar modern A-frame cabin sits on a hill at the edge of town. The wrakh doesn’t have a phone. “Off the grid” is the phrase they used when I saw them last. So, we couldn’t call ahead to make sure they’d be home.
“Yes, this is where the wrakh lives. Let’s see if anyone is here,” I say, stepping out of the car and strolling toward the front door.
Before I reach it, though, Aurora wraps a hand around my arm.
“Are you well, Aurora?”
I run my knuckles over her freckled cheek, then tuck a few strands of hair behind her ear.
As the bright October sun shines down, the dark bruises circling her neck look like black voids against her fair skin.
If I could do it all over again, I would have kept Jameson alive, pinned him down, and placed the blade in Aurora’s hand myself.
I would have whispered in her ear, told her where to cut first. How deep. How slow. Let her paint herself in his blood while my shadows curled around her, eagerly watching.
Aurora shivers when my fingers graze the bruises.
She looks up at me, her smile soft and small … and so fucking wrong it nearly splits me open.
“All is well, Ezra. I mean … kinda. I’m just overwhelmed. Finding out supernatural creatures exist and that I might be Lucifer and Lilith’s weird little queen-in-waiting—on top of the, ya know …
sexual assault and attempted murder is a lot to process. Plus, my neck hurts like a bitch.”
One stray tear rolls down her cheek, and I lean forward, pressing my lips to her jaw just before the teardrop curls under her chin.
I would drink down her poisonous pain if it meant she could find some peace.
“You are so strong, little lupine. So much stronger than me. Louie and I will keep you safe, and we will help you find the peace and power that was stolen from you.
“The wrakh who lives here will help us with at least one of our problems. He’s not exactly pleasant but will do just about anything for the right price,” I explain, not wanting her to be shocked by Iain’s grumpy demeanor.
“He?” Aurora asks, sounding slightly shocked.
Aurora may be part underborne, but her stereotypes are pure human.
“Yes, Aurora, he. A wrakh can be any gender. This one just happens to be a horrible bastard.”
Aurora looks less than convinced as I pull her toward the house.
“What about Louie?”
She turns toward her car, where the hellhound’s head is hanging out of the passenger window. Her wet, black nose twitches as she scans the woods for any sign of danger.
I hate to admit it, but Louie doesn’t fuck around when it comes to Aurora.
“Iain will immediately know what Louie is, and it’s not exactly good manners to stroll into someone’s house with a hellhound in tow. We must ask if she can set foot on the property. Chances are this old fucker has protection spells all over the place that target beasts like her.”
Turning back toward the house, I take a deep breath.
I hate dealing with other supernatural creatures, especially the volatile, barely house-trained kind like Iain.
But I don’t tell Aurora that. I keep my expression perfectly neutral as I lead her toward the doorstep of what is essentially a magically booby-trapped crack den.
Calling Iain’s place a shithole is an insult to shitholes everywhere. The porch roof sags, one good gust away from collapse, and looks like it’s held together by sheer spite and magic.
Crammed onto the front porch are several flea-ridden couches, two washers, three refrigerators, and, for some reason, a toilet. The paint peels away from every inch of the wood siding in huge ruddy chunks, and the entire house seems to lean slightly to the left.
A song I don’t recognize blasts through the house, shaking the rotten walls and rattling the windows. I knock with more force than necessary, and a dusting of old paint rains down at my feet.
For once, I’m thankful for my immortality because I’m almost certain those paint chips are 90% lead.
Aurora hums along with the song blaring through the house, and when she notices Iain’s ridiculous rubber duck wreath, she lets out a smoky little giggle.
Something in my chest becomes uncomfortably warm as I watch the little goddess enjoy a moment of well-deserved peace.
A crash echoes from inside.
Then another.
Something glass shatters.
Then, from deep within the house, a voice thick with an Irish lilt and slurred like a man three pints past good decisions, roars, “Jaysus FUCK, what fresh shite is this now?”
The door swings open, and my shadows flinch.
Not out of fear, but recognition.
The wrakh’s magic lingers in the doorway, foul and acrid, crackling along the threshold.
My instincts snarl, and my shadows pulse, but I force them to stay still.
No point in picking a fight … yet.
And then Iain steps into view.
A savage fucking sight.
If Celtic warriors still existed, I imagine they’d look very much like him.
His head is completely shaved, leaving the elaborate tattoos across his skin fully exposed.
He’s shirtless, too, showcasing artwork that twists and winds along his thick arms and muscled torso, creating a violent mosaic of ink and old scars.
A loose pair of jeans hangs low on the wrakh’s narrow hips, baring the sharp carve of muscle and the trail of hair disappearing below the waistband. It’s enough to make me want to throw a goddamn coat over him before Aurora sees it.
The bloody heathen never did like to wear underwear.
I suppose he’s savagely handsome in a “knife fight in an alley” kind of way. A thousand years ago, I would’ve had him moaning into the dirt, my hand flexing around his throat, fucking him hard enough to leave bruises.
But that was a different version of me.
A different kind of monster.
Back then, we bled. We fucked. We survived.
What else was there?
“Ah, for fuck’s sake. Ezra. What d’you want now?” Iain shouts over the music.
His wild gaze shifts to Aurora, who steps behind me while Louie growls loudly from the car.
“Hello, Iain. It’s been a while. I hope you’re well. Do you think you could turn down the music? I have something to discuss with you.”
Iain glares at me, slams the door in my face, then yells, “Fucking monsters, always darkening me doorstep.”
A few seconds later, the loud music stops. We wait and wait, and then wait some more.
This asshole better open the door. Although a rather large piece of me hopes for violence after twelve solid hours of patience, understanding, and restraint.
Twenty rage-inducing minutes later, the front door flies open again. Iain leans against the door frame with his arms crossed, looking Aurora up and down.
Would she change her mind about me if I ripped his eyes out?
At least Iain had the decency to put a shirt on. The tattered, bright pink Minnie Mouse sweatshirt certainly tones down his savagery.
“Well? You gonna stand there all day or come in?” Ian grumbles as he walks away from the open door.
“That fucking hellhound stays in the car. I’m not dealin’ with a hell-beast’s shite today. I’m too fuckin’ hungover and got way too much to do.”
“Very nice to see you, too, Iain. I trust you’ve been well.”
A menacing growl tears from the wrakh’s throat as he abruptly turns and strides toward me, jabbing a finger into my chest. When I smirk at his cute little outburst, he leans in close, his nose almost touching mine.
“Listen, shadow man. I did you a favor years ago. I’m not dealing with you lot anymore. Why the fuck did I even let you in?”
Iain seems confused. That’s odd.
Suddenly, his gaze shifts from me to Aurora. Without warning, he grabs her, catching me completely off guard.
Iain has always been a little … extreme … but never like this.
I wonder what has him worked up?
Aurora whimpers while Iain sniffs her hair and runs his hands over her body.
I know he has to touch her. I know that’s how his magic works.
Unlike other wrakhs, who use bones, tea, or blood, Iain’s gift is in his hands.
But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. The second his fingers skim over her ass, my shadows coil tight, snarling without sound. Iain hums in amusement, a low, knowing sound just for me.
Then, without even glancing my way, he flips me the middle finger.
The wrakh has always been a fucking mongrel.
“So that’s how it is, then? Ezra, you ancient motherfucker, you’ve gone and gotten yourself a little human girlfriend. Wait …”
Iain leans down, buries his face in Aurora’s neck, and sniffs, then continues.
“Not human, but human. Christ, girly, aren’t you a fucking walking paradox?”
The wrakh takes another moment to study Aurora before he turns back to me.
“What’s this then? You here for some kind of supernatural abortion? ‘Cause I tell ya now, prices’ve gone to shite. Government cunts think they can tell us what to do with our own bodies. Fuckin’ disgrace!”
Iain’s unfocused rage spreads across the house like a dark plague, popping light bulbs and wilting plants. If I don’t calm him, this outburst will consume him for weeks.