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Chapter

Thirty

Noah arrives early for the game on Sunday to wrap me in a crushing hug that sweeps me off my feet. He presses a loud kiss into my cheek. “Missed you,” he says warmly. “How was your trip?”

“It was really good.” It feels nice to hear how relaxed I sound when the words ring with truth. “I visited some of my favorite spots, got to see my mom, and—oh, I brought you something.”

I fetch him the four-pack of local beers I’d brought back from the brewery near my apartment in Queens. “They’re not as good as Alchemist’s,” I say quickly. “But in case you want to try something new.”

“Trying new brews and food is the best part of traveling.” He snaps one beer off and opens the can with a hiss. “You know me well.” He squeezes my hand then drops his voice. “And Paragon?”

I just nod. “They’ve given me the weekend to think about it.” I’d told him about the offer, of course—but not much more than that. I’d kept our texts during the trip lighthearted, and he’d kindly followed my lead.

I don’t think I imagine the way his lips linger as he plants another kiss on my temple.

Shortly after Morgan walks in, Jules arrives wearing the pair of chunky yellow taxi earrings I’d given her that I’d found at an art market in Chelsea.

We all descend upon her latest batch of treats: dice-shaped sugar cookies.

Half of them are decorated immaculately and frosted with tiny numbers, while the others are smeared with messy colors.

“My kids helped.” Jules glows with pride.

As I search for a gold-painted d20, Liam shoulders his way into our frenzied feeding circle. “Y’all better have left some for me,” he grouches. I gape at him and mouth, y’all?

He grins and shrugs. “What can I say? It’s grown on me.”

He plucks two natural twenties from the top of the pile—which doesn’t bode well for us—and turns back toward the game room. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Noah fires off a crisp salute. “Ready when you are, DM.”

Hearing a knock, Jaylie opens the front door of the tower to find Alastair on his knees, webbed hands held awkwardly clasped together above his pointed hat. His bulging eyes are fixed on the dirt.

“Lady Shira Soros,” he intones, voice thick with feigned obeisance.

“I have tried everything I know, and I cannot rid myself of this curse. Please consider me thoroughly humbled. You may keep my spellbook, as is your right, but if you can find mercy within the depths of your black heart to free me from this slimy cage—”

He finally looks up when Jaylie can no longer suppress her giggling.

He drops his arms to his sides and stands immediately. “Oh. It’s you,” he says flatly. And then, very meanly: “ Fuck you, you said you were going to help me!”

Jaylie cuts off her laughter with an indignant gasp. “Well, fuck you, too! You got me killed!”

“You seem fine now!”

“Only because they brought me back! It was a godsdamned beholder, you nasty little amphib—”

“What’s going on here?” Shira snaps. Over Alastair’s roaring ribbiting, Jaylie hadn’t heard her approach. The others peek their heads around the corner with curiosity.

“Alastair has come to beg for mercy,” Jaylie summarizes. She glares down at the frog. “Pathetically, I might add.”

The green wizard takes in a deep, bracing breath before he turns his flat black eyes to Shira. “Please just turn me back,” he pleads, exasperated. “I am at my wit’s end.”

“Do you promise never to return?”

“I’ll promise to be your personal court jester, if that’s what it takes.”

Shira wrinkles her nose. “No, thank you.” She beckons him inside. “Very well. Come along.”

Jaylie considers the whole jester affair to be a missed opportunity on Shira’s part, but she follows as Shira leads them into the library. Like a moth to a flame, Loren’s taste for theatrics has him falling into step behind the priestess, and the other members of the party are not far behind.

Shira’s library is unsurprisingly gorgeous. Glossy black shelves piled with books and artifacts stretch impossibly high toward a ceiling shrouded in light. Alora is curled into the corner of a plush purple couch, her slippered feet tucked under her.

“Another guest?” Alora calls. “My love, you’ve grown so popular.”

Shira’s lips twitch. “Not by choice,” she says dryly.

Alastair pauses in the center of one of the library’s many elegant rugs, tracing his gaze over the shelves. It’s difficult to read a frog’s features, but Jaylie can’t imagine that he’s looking upon Shira’s collection with anything other than naked hunger. Something catches his eye, and he freezes.

“Hells.” A note of reverence creeps into his tone. “Is that it?”

Shira plucks the orb-capped staff from its resting place against the shelf. “It most certainly is.”

Over breakfast the day before, they had all agreed that with the orb in hand, confronting Donati would be a walk in the park. All they needed to do was pin him in its beam, tie him up, and then flip a coin to see whether they would turn him in to the City Watch or chop his head off themselves.

What Jaylie’s companions had meant to be Shira’s downfall would work just as well on their employer.

Shira’s fingers curl over the spine of her spellbook, bound in a leather harness at her side, but she pauses. Her fingers wrap around the wood of the staff. “Would you like to see it at work?”

Alastair swallows. “Please.”

Jaylie and Loren exchange a glance. They shrug. Wizards.

Shira extends the orb toward Alastair, fixing him in its sights. “Glorvalk.”

Green and yellow tendrils of light swirl momentarily around Alastair’s froggy form, forming a twisting cyclone that swirls briefly upward. As it dissipates, Jaylie’s jaw drops to the ground.

He’s magnificent, she thinks, more than a little guiltily. But by the way Loren’s green eyes bug out, too, she guesses she’s not alone in her thoughts. She’d fully expected Alastair’s exterior to be a match for his terrible rudeness and poor attitude.

But with dark golden skin, piercing indigo eyes, a jaw cut from marble, and long jet-black hair that curls behind his slightly pointed half-elven ears, he paints a gorgeous picture.

Somehow he manages to make the purple star-studded robes and hat appear more mysterious and artistic than adorable and cute.

As he takes a spin, marveling at his unwebbed fingers, silver embroidery shimmers in his wake.

Jaylie catches a whiff of dark, smoky cologne.

“I am in your debt, Shira.” Even as his full lips bend toward a scowl, his voice is a deep purr in his throat—nothing like his former croak.

Loren bends close to Jaylie’s ear. “He would have made a killer bard.”

Jaylie huffs. “Might have had better luck with it, too.”

Alastair casts his burning violet gaze to the ground. “I suppose that’s all, then,” he says, despairing and broody. “Thank you for your mercy. I will be on my way, to begin…” A long-suffering sigh. “Rebuilding.”

From where he leans next to Morgana on the far side of the room, Kain rolls his eyes heartily at the wizard’s dramatics. But with Alastair’s back to her, Alora slowly turns a wide set of doe eyes on Shira.

Shira purses her lips and shakes her head vehemently.

Somehow, Alora’s eyes only grow larger and dewier.

“Darkthorn.” Shira says his name through clenched teeth, resigned. “My wife has decided to take pity on you.”

He turns. “Oh?”

Shira plucks a seemingly random book from the shelf and strides forward. Stiffly, she thrusts it toward him. “After this, I never wish to see your face again. Understood?”

Alastair’s eyes flick quickly between Shira and Alora as he curls his fingers around his spellbook.

“Oh, I can promise you won’t,” he murmurs. There’s an undertone of deep, frantic amusement that threads through his voice. Jaylie can’t pinpoint the reason—until she catches his gaze snapping to the orb.

In a blink, Jaylie rushes toward him—but Alastair is much faster. His spellbook begins to glow just as he shoots his free hand forward and tears the staff from Shira’s grasp.

The last Jaylie sees of him is a flash of too-white teeth as he teleports away in a cloud of smoke.

In the silence that lingers in the library, Kain finally gives voice to all of their thoughts.

“Well, shit.”

Shira paces violently from wall to wall. At the rate she’s going, Jaylie reckons she’ll carve a valley down the center of her kitchen by sundown. For hours they had all sat in the dining room, strategizing what the Hell they were meant to do without their most powerful weapon.

“If it were a duel between me and Aurelio alone, I could likely best him,” Shira mutters. “It would be difficult, but possible.”

“I won’t risk you like that,” Alora insists. Despite Shira’s tired assurances, Alora still wrings her hands in her lap, feeling responsible. Guilt hangs around her in a cloud.

Shira shakes her head. “I doubt I could get that close to him anyway. The situation is much worse. We know from the wedding that his estate is crawling with guards. And I’m sure given my last entrance, they’ll attack me on sight.”

Loren clears his throat nervously. “You don’t think Alastair would give the orb to Donati, do you?”

Shira bares her teeth at the mention of the traitorous wizard, but she shakes her head quickly. “He cares little for Donati. I imagine he’s holing away in some dark cave, happy to conduct his experiments alone.”

“Can we go to the City Watch?” Jaylie asks. “You said you had reports, and piles of research. Would it be enough to convince them to act?”

Shira sighs. “We can try. But with your party gone this long, I expect Aurelio has realized that something’s gone wrong. He’s probably spinning tales and preparing for the worst as we speak.”

Morgana steps forward, muscular arms crossed over her chest. “Why don’t we play his game, then?”

Shira narrows her eyes. “How do you mean?”