Chapter 17
Tanner scanned the gathering for the new-citizen acknowledgment ceremony, reminding himself of names and faces he hadn’t seen often.
Shifters, humans, a dryad pair, and others sat in chairs arranged loosely around the central pillar.
The remembrance walls from the solstice vigil were gone, leaving the circle open to the slate-colored sky.
City crews and magicians had cleared the snow from the paving stones and the surrounding sidewalks, though the mountains beyond remained buried under the heavy white blanket of the recent bomb cyclone.
The seating was anything but formal. Mismatched wooden chairs, a velvet settee that had seen many decades, and sturdy park benches sat near large, bespelled river rocks that radiated a steady, dry heat against the ever-present wind.
It was a setup unique to Kotoyeesinay — a blend of high ceremony and a neighborly backyard get-together.
He sat on a high-backed, padded bench, pleased to have Avelunne beside him.
In past years, he had stood on the periphery, watching over the town as a guardian.
Today, he wanted to be seen with her. He wanted the town to know that his dragon shifter wasn’t just a rescue case or a temporary visitor, but the woman who held his heart.
He had done some hard thinking in the quiet hours of the morning.
Loving her meant respecting her autonomy, treating her not as a prize the thunderbird wanted to claim, but as a woman with choices.
A small folding table, covered in a rich red-and-pink embroidered cloth, held the gift bags prepared by local businesses.
About forty people mingled in the space, bundled in thick coats and scarves, their breath puffing in the frigid air.
Tanner noted the arrival of more council members than usual.
Guivre Gul-Vert, looked serene in winter whites, and Pendragor was dressed like a Shakespearean fairy who’d turned Goth.
He was amused to see that Scholar of the Skies sported a knitted green muffler around his wyvern neck.
Their presence was unusual for the annual ceremony, but given the record number of asylum grants following the auction house takedown and the battle for Fort LeBlanc, the extra pomp was warranted.
Beside him, Avelunne shifted, her scent spiking with a subtle note of nervousness.
He slipped his gloved hand into hers. “The Council representative says a few words, reads each name, and asks them to stand to be invited into the protection of the Glade,” he said, keeping his voice low.
“We clap, they say a few more words, and then we’re done.
Everyone gets a gift bag and goes home.” He pulsed a quick image through their latent telepathic connection.
“Back in the old days, seventy or eighty years ago, when they held it in the old courtroom, it felt like a diploma procession. I like the updated version better. It’s more welcoming. ”
Avelunne squeezed his hand, offering him a teasing smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “And holding it outside in the wind keeps the speeches short.”
Tanner chuckled. “Yes, it does.”
She glanced toward the leaders gathering near the central pillar. “Are the Glade holders all on the Town Council? Or maybe I should ask, was Wolcz a part of the Glade, and now he’s not?”
“There’s some crossover, such as Guivre, Pendragor, and Scholar of the Skies, but they are separate groups,” Tanner explained.
“Wolcz was elected to the Council, not appointed by the Glade, so all he lost was his political position. He won’t be disinvited from the town just for being a jerk.
” He snorted softly. “We’d be a much smaller community if we did that.
When I first stumbled into town at the turn of the last century, I was a belligerent drunk addicted to datura-laced moondew.
Instead of kicking me out, they detoxed me and gave me a job. The Glade is patient.”
The ceremony began without fanfare. Guivre stepped forward, her voice carrying easily over the wind without a microphone. Tanner listened as she read the names in date order. He clapped for them all, including the captive from the pen named Naima and the stoic bear shifter who had lost an eye.
When Guivre reached the end of the list, she paused, then said, “Avelunne Storm Mouth.”
Tanner turned in stunned surprise. Beside him, Avelunne stood, her posture straight, the wind catching the ends of her scarf. She accepted the protection of the Glade with a quiet “I do.” Pride and relief welled up in him. She had chosen to stay. She had chosen sanctuary.
As the applause died down and the crowd moved toward the gift table, Tanner stood and followed as she crossed to greet Guivre to thank her.
After the surprise gift of the shiny new Sheriff 100 SUV, he thought he had learned his lesson about assuming he knew everything happening in his town.
Clearly, he needed to up his game. Avelunne had kept her secret very well.
When the crowd began to disperse, he captured the flapping end of her scarf and tucked it into her pink coat.
“I traded for the afternoon-to-midnight shift at the station so I could bring you here this morning.” He checked his watch.
“But I’d like to celebrate with you tonight.
It’s too late to get reservations at a restaurant because of all the New Year’s Eve parties, but would you like to go somewhere? ”
Avelunne looked up at him. “Yes, I think I should.” Her smile was real, and her kiss was warm, but as she pulled back, he thought he caught a flicker of sadness in her expression, but it was gone so fast, he might have imagined it.
He kissed her forehead. “You’re welcome to wait in the cabin instead of at the Transition Center. I’ll text you after dinner about places we could go.”
“Thank you.” She gripped his lapels and kissed him fully, lingering for a second. “Walk me to Tinsel’s house before you go to the station?”
Tanner pushed aside a trickle of unease. It had been a long, emotional week; she was likely just tired. He offered her a courtly bow, then extended his arm. “I would be honored, your majesty.”
Avelunne laughed as she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Oh, majesty, is it?”
“You seem to be the last moonwing standing,” Tanner said, covering her hand with his. “Ergo, you are the successor to the throne and the ruler of your clan. Just showing proper respect.”
She leaned into him as they walked. “Underneath your upright manner and shining armor, you’re a very whimsical being, Tanner Stands in River.” She smiled up at him, her eyes twinkling. “I love that about you.”
The silence in the station weighed on him more than it should, and not even good coffee helped.
It had been a quiet afternoon, though that would change as soon as the New Year’s Eve champagne started flowing.
Tanner sat at his computer, staring at patrol rosters for the coming month, but the words swam before his eyes.
The uneasy feeling from the morning hadn’t gone away, and he didn’t know why.
He needed to talk to Avelunne. They were too far apart for telepathy, and it wasn’t a conversation to have via text messages.
He wanted to ask her how she envisioned her life now that she was a citizen of the Glade, and how he could fit into the shape of her future without crowding her.
Restlessness overtook him. He grabbed his phone. “I need a favor, my friend. I need to go home and get something nicer than my uniform to wear tonight. Can you cover for me for an hour?”
“Be there in ten,” Shiloh replied, his tone light and unconcerned. “Tell Avelunne welcome to the Kotoyeesinay madhouse, by the way.”
“Will do.” Tanner disconnected and grabbed his coat.
Shifting and flying would help clear his mind. He landed on the sturdy front railing of his cabin. A quick shift back to human form and a hop down from the railing took him to his front door.
In the center of the living room stood an easel with a canvas he hadn’t seen before. It was a half-finished portrait of him painted in colorful oils, capturing him laughing. Taped to the corner of the frame was a piece of folded paper. Uneasiness flared as he pulled the note free and unfolded it.
The easy words first: I love you. My body dances for you. My dragon heart sings for you. You are my thunder, my once-in-a-lifetime bolt of lightning.
I accepted the offer of sanctuary because I want the chance to be among people who embrace magic, care for strangers, and rescue captives on the word of a wounded, cursed dragon. The sanctuary is an open invitation to come and go. I must choose to go.
The harder words: I have no place here. I have been given food, clothes, and shelter, but I have nothing to trade, no way to contribute.
I need that, or I will never be independent.
I’m told there are still wild places where I can fit in and learn how to make my way in the modern world on my own. I need that, too.
The hardest words of all: Even though your thunderbird clan may have come from the age of ice, in your large, generous heart, you are a shifter who needs a true mate. It breaks my heart that I will never be that for you.
It will be well past moonset when you’re reading this, and I will be gone. The painting is not yet finished. If the moon and wind spirits are kind, perhaps we aren’t, either. I will write when I can.