Chapter 20 Ezra #2
But, before I can speak, Aurora steps forward, cocks her head and asks, “Are you a fan of Tool? The band? I only ask because I noticed the artwork from their albums on your wall. And the song you were listening to when we showed up. ‘The Pot,’ right? Do you have their new album on vinyl? It’s so freaking expensive, but I’d love to listen to it if you have it. I’ve only ever listened on Spotify.”
Aurora smiles sweetly at Iain, hiding her hands behind her back and playfully rocking on her heels.
The black cloud of rage threatening to consume Iain’s home pulls back almost immediately. With only a few sentences, Aurora has calmed the warrior wrakh.
Iain clears his throat and picks at the dirt under his nails.
“Oh, aye, little blackbird. Got the new Tool album on vinyl. Want me to throw it on while we talk?”
Iain’s voice has a strange hint of hope woven into his question.
“Really? That would be wonderful! I’d love to hear your take on the album when we finish chatting.”
Aurora leans forward and gives him a conspiratorial wink. The air thickens, charged, like something just moved.
Iain blinks. His sneer falters and his posture softens.
And then … he blushes.
The wrakh clears his throat, mutters something, and immediately turns to find the record.
I gently wrap a hand around Aurora’s arm and pull her to me.
She’s in some sort of dreamy daze, and wait—wait.
Is that … kettle corn?
Everyone’s magic carries a scent, so I wonder if this is hers.
I hook my finger under her chin, then angle her face toward me.
“Aurora, are you okay? What just happened? I smell … your magic, I think? How did you do that?”
It certainly wasn’t Iain’s. His smells like fish and burnt plastic.
Her magic is sweet, pleasant … good.
Aurora doesn’t blink. Her gaze stays distant, her eyes glassing over before the tears rise. Something hums beneath her skin, a living chord that reverberates through me.
This doesn’t feel like a party trick. It feels ancient.
I blow the thought off almost immediately. No one really knows what a Daughter’s magic is supposed to feel like.
Maybe this is normal.
Maybe it’s nothing.
Doesn’t mean it didn’t feel … significant.
She finally blinks, shuts her eyes tight, and slowly snaps out of it.
“What just happened? Did that fucker refuse to help us? What an asshole.”
She sounds like herself again, and I’m left speechless, a rare occurrence for a snarky, ancient creature who has a comeback for everything.
“Aurora, you … Christ, you don’t even know, do you? You just pulled something out of the ether and lashed it between you and that old fucker. It was beautiful. Terrifying but … beautiful.”
I pause, watching her.
“I wonder if persuasion is a power a Daughter might possess.”
Music drifts through the house again while I consider the implications. Persuasion feels a little too powerful for what we’ve always assumed Daughters could do.
Then again, maybe these things get stronger over generations.
Maybe the magic’s just evolving.
Still … persuasion’s a hell of a thing for the universe to hand out at random.
“Ah, Christ, Ezra. Still swallowing fairytales, are ya? That Daughter shite’s just that—shite. Never met one, have you?” Iain asks as he flies by on the way to the kitchen.
“Come on, ya old fucker. You know I do all my work in the kitchen. I’ll give ya ten minutes,” Iain grumbles while he clears a spot at his table for us.
I pull out one of the dingy, mismatched kitchen chairs for Aurora and give her what I hope is an encouraging smile.
Iain’s kitchen is a claustrophobic nightmare. It’s crammed full of herbs, exotic spices, and every mystical tool required for spell-casting. The old wrakh sits down across from us and stares.
“Well, go on then! I don’t have all fucking day,” Iain snaps, sipping his hot tea from a pink mug that definitely wasn’t there a second ago.
In glittery script, it reads: “I stared at Hettie’s tits, and all I got were free muffins and blue balls.”
I don’t need to see the back of it to know it says, “Butter & Salt.”
In Lorewood, Hettie starts the conversation, and whatever’s listening makes sure she gets the last word.
She’s not magical, not technically, but the town listens to her like a favorite child.
The air around her smells like sugar and lavender and something I can’t quite name—something buried and rooted, something I recognize in my bones.
It’s not her power. It’s older than power. And the town listens when she bakes. Because whatever she’s calling on remembers. And it’s not something you fuck with.
And her mugs? They appear when you’re trying to look serious and say something important.
Every goddamn time.
He glares at the mug like it personally betrayed him. “Fuckin’ Hettie,” he mutters.
I don’t disagree.
Knowing Iain, it’s best to start with the spells, then address the Daughters and Disciples. Either way, the volatile prick will most likely kick us out in the next few minutes, anyway.
“Iain, we’re here because we need your help—”
The wrakh interrupts me with a loud snort, then mutters, “No shit. Get to the fucking point.”
“Since you haven’t asked, this is Aurora. When she was younger, her mother had a timeline reset spell placed on her. We would like that removed. Then there’s the matter of the hellhound, who’s been under a forgetfulness spell for almost thirty years.”
The chances of him agreeing to remove Aurora’s spell are slim, so there’s almost no chance he’ll remove the spell on Louie. Casting and removing spells on beasts from Hell can be deadly if not done properly.
Iain appears to consider our request while he reclines in his chair and rubs the back of his neck.
“No,” he says with a loud snarl.
“Why?” Aurora shoots back before I can respond.
“Listen, little blackbird. I don’t know what the fuck you are, but you’ve got a hellhound stitched to you and a thread wound tight around that one.”
The wrakh has the audacity to jerk a thumb at me.
“That’s a thread of fate, love. Won’t break. Not in this life or the next.”
His barking laugh makes my shadows writhe.
“Poor thing. You’re stuck with him. Bad fucking luck.”
My patience is, once again, wearing thin. But I’m interested in these threads. Could that be the painful pull I’ve felt in my chest since I met Aurora?
If I want answers, I’ll have to remain calm and play Iain’s little games, which mainly involve him insulting me, then bursting into laughter.
“I understand your concerns, Iain, and just like last time, I’m willing to pay whatever price you ask for your masterful work. Hell, I’ll pay double what I paid last time. More than enough to keep your bar stocked for the next hundred years.”
That should ensure the old drunk’s cooperation.
Iain bites his bottom lip and rocks back in his chair, most likely wondering if the danger of reversing a spell on a hellhound is worth the massive amount of money I’ve just offered him.
“I’ll do the spell work. For triple the price. But first you’re gonna do something for me,” he says, turning his uncanny amber eyes back to Aurora.
“You’re gonna tell me exactly what the fuck she is.”
When Aurora flinches, my shadows lash out first, coiling around Iain’s wrists and creeping up his arms.
My hand finds his throat a second later, guided by an instinct older than this broken world. Then I squeeze, lifting him off the ground, his toes scraping helplessly across the filthy linoleum.
“Now it’s your turn to listen, wrakh.”
I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to.
“I’ve tried to be patient. Because you’re powerful. Because you know this shit better than anyone. But there are two things you won’t do today.”
My grip tightens. His pulse thrums against my palm, speaking directly to my darkness.
“You won’t test me.”
Iain’s eyes water and his breath stutters.
“And you sure as fuck won’t disrespect her.”
My shadows hungrily shudder. Just a little more pressure and the wrakh’s windpipe will crack like a brittle bone.
But somewhere through the rage and violence, Aurora’s voice reaches the rational part of my mind.
“Ezra, please put him down. I’m feeling a little sick watching you squeeze his throat like that,” she whispers, with a hand on her neck.
The red haze immediately clears, and I carelessly drop the wrakh in his chair.
While Iain coughs and sputters for air, I turn to Aurora, get on my knees, and beg for her forgiveness.
“I am so sorry, Aurora. I didn’t think … I would never …”
“I know, Ezra, but we won’t get far if we kill every asshole we encounter,” Aurora says, shooting the wrakh a look that could boil blood.
Iain wheezes, sucking in a rattling breath.
Then … this motherfucker grins.
“Didn’t know you liked it rough, shadow man,” he rasps, his voice scraping against the air. “Buy me dinner first, yeah?”
Laughing at his own joke, he throws himself back into his chair.
“Sit. Talk,” he says hoarsely.
“Before I say anything, are we agreed on the terms and the price?” I ask, wanting to get out of his cluttered house as soon as possible.
“Yeah, Ezra. We got a deal. Double what you paid me last time,” Iain says, taking a sip of his still-steaming hot tea.
Returning to my chair, I pull Aurora’s hand into mine. I need her strength—the warmth of her skin—to anchor me.
“Your instincts are correct. Aurora is not human. At least not completely human. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around it, but she’s a myth, Iain, a legend. Aurora is a Daughter of the Morning Star.”
I pause, waiting for the inevitable scoff, the sarcasm, the smug wrakh bullshit.
“Fuck …” Iain mutters, rubbing a hand over his bald head. “So that’s why I just dropped two Disciples into the Mariana fucking Trench.”
He’s not surprised. That’s concerning.
“So, you believe me? Why? You just asked me if I still believed in fairytales when I brought the Daughters up a few moments ago.”