Chapter 4 Dorian
DORIAN
The last set of the evening featured a local folk duo who specialized in traditional mountain ballads. Dorian adjusted their mic levels and checked the sound balance, but his attention kept drifting to the copper-haired woman sitting on a hay bale near the front.
Ivy's first note from her earlier performance still echoed in his memory, sliding under his skin like silk and claws.
The moment her voice had joined his harmony, something had clicked into place with the finality of a lock turning.
His panther had recognized it immediately, that quiet certainty that made predators go still.
Mate.
Dorian forced a laugh at one of the folk singers' jokes, the sound coming out sharper than intended. The female half of the duo shot him a questioning look, but he just nodded toward the soundboard as if adjusting levels.
He wasn't ready for this. Wasn't ready for the way Ivy's magic had called to something wild in his chest, or how her careful wariness made him want to prove he was different from whatever had put that guarded look in her amber-green eyes.
"You're staring."
Lucien's voice in his ear made Dorian jump slightly. His cousin had materialized beside the soundboard with the silent grace that made him so effective as the Council's night hunter.
"I'm working."
Lucien's green eyes tracked to where Ivy sat listening to the music. "She's pretty."
"She's talented."
"That too." Lucien paused. "Dangerous magic in that voice of hers."
"Dangerous how?"
"The kind that changes things. Permanently. You know, not your style, lover boy." Lucien's voice carried a warning that made Dorian's shoulders tense. "You sure you want to go down this road?"
Before Dorian could answer, the folk duo finished their set to enthusiastic applause. He busied himself with breaking down the sound equipment, grateful for something to do with his hands.
"Thanks for the help tonight," the female singer said as she packed up her guitar. "You've got a good ear for sound."
"My pleasure."
"Will you be back tomorrow? We could use someone reliable on tech."
Dorian glanced toward Ivy, who was rising from her hay bale and stretching. "Yeah. I'll be here."
The folk singers gathered their equipment and headed off into the night, leaving Dorian to finish coiling cables and securing the soundboard. Most of the crowd had dispersed, though a few stragglers lingered around Twyla's café, drawn by the promise of late-night pastries and coffee.
"Ready for that drink?"
Ivy's voice made him look up from the cable he'd been winding with unnecessary precision. She stood a few feet away, guitar case slung over her shoulder and that careful distance maintained even in approach.
"Absolutely." He straightened, letting his playboy mask slide into place like a familiar coat. "Though I have to warn you, the Silver Fang serves the kind of whiskey that could strip paint."
"Good thing I'm not planning to refinish any furniture tonight."
The dry response made him grin. Most women either giggled at his jokes or tried to top them with increasingly dramatic banter. Ivy just met his charm with steady practicality that somehow made him work harder for her attention.
"Fair point. Shall we?"
They walked through the square, their footsteps echoing on wet cobblestones. The drizzle had stopped, but moisture still clung to the lanterns and made the air smell like autumn leaves and woodsmoke.
"So," Dorian said, falling into step beside her. "Traveling song. That's an interesting way to describe what you do."
"It's what I am."
"Care to elaborate?"
Ivy was quiet for so long he thought she might not answer. When she finally spoke, her voice carried the weight of old pain carefully contained.
"Some people collect things. I collect songs. Stories set to music." She adjusted her guitar strap. "I travel until I find places that need music, then I share what I've gathered."
"And Hollow Oak needs music?"
"Every place needs music. Most just don't know how to ask for it."
There was something in her tone, a loneliness that spoke to the part of him that had spent years moving from bed to bed without ever finding home.
"What about you?" she asked before he could pursue the thought. "What do you do when you're not volunteering at festivals?"
"This and that. I'm between careers at the moment."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I'm independently wealthy enough to avoid commitment." The words came out more bitter than he'd intended, so he softened them with his most charming smile. "The Vale family has old money. Very old. I'm what you might call the black sheep who lives off the family fortune."
"Lucky you."
"Isn't it?" He guided her around a puddle, noting how she didn't flinch from the brief contact when his hand touched her elbow. Progress. "No responsibilities, no expectations. Perfect freedom."
"Must be nice."
Something in her voice made him glance at her sidelong. "You don't sound convinced."
"Freedom's relative. Some people's perfect freedom is other people's cage."
Before he could ask what she meant by that, they reached the Silver Fang Tavern. The building squatted between two shops like a contented cat, its windows glowing with warm light and the sound of conversation spilling into the night air.
"This is it," Dorian said, pushing open the heavy oak door. "Fair warning, Maeve takes no prisoners when it comes to her customers."
"Maeve?"
"The owner. Lioness shifter with a tongue sharp enough to fillet a fish and the temper to match.
" He held the door for her, catching a whiff of her scent as she passed.
Rain and copper hair and that wild magic that made his panther pace restlessly.
"But she makes the best whiskey sour this side of the Blue Ridge Mountains. "
The tavern's interior was exactly what you'd expect from a place called the Silver Fang: dark wood, exposed beams, and enough supernatural energy to make normal humans vaguely uncomfortable.
Most of the tables were occupied by various shifters, witches and fae, their conversations creating a low hum that felt like home.
"Dorian Vale," a sharp voice called from behind the bar. "I was wondering when you'd show up."
Maeve Cross emerged from the back room, her short black hair gleaming under the tavern lights and her dark eyes missing nothing. She was small but carried herself with the kind of confidence that came from knowing she could take down anyone in the room if necessary.
"Maeve. Beautiful as always." Dorian leaned against the bar with practiced ease. "I'd like you to meet Ivy Lane. She's performing at the festival."
"The one with the voice that had half the square in tears?" Maeve's sharp gaze assessed Ivy with predatory interest. "Not bad. What are you drinking?"
"Whatever you recommend," Ivy said, settling onto a barstool.
"Smart answer." Maeve's smile was all teeth. "I like her already, Vale. Try not to screw this one up."