Page 13 of The Wolfing Hour

We went inside and faced each other on the sofa. Ronan sipped his tea. I scooped up Autry and set the black ball of floof on my lap, running a finger up the path of her shiny nose and between her tiny triangle ears. Her copper eyes drooped and finally closed.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Same bullshit as before. The pack and other assorted assholes. I spent some time calling around, checking on people this morning. No new attacks, but we all know they’re coming.”

He’d lost someone recently—an older wolf shifter who’d helped us track Ronan after he was attacked by the former coven—and it was eating at him.

Charlie Hannigan had been a pain in Ronan’s backside since he opened the pub, but he’d been the sort of pain you grew accustomed to. I imagined he’d felt the same way about that old wolf as I did about Señora Cervantes. It hurt that he was gone. It hurt worse to know his murder was likely because he’d helped Ronan—helpedus.

Two members of the local rat pack had discovered the elder wolf’s ravaged body by the dumpster behind his apartment. It had been a terrible way to die, and one Charlie hadn’t deserved.

Ronan was seething with fury over it. He was tracking down the alphas who’d perpetrated it, but that wasn’t easy now that he was persona non grata with the pack. He’d been foresworn, which was a fancy way of saying he’d been booted out by the alpha leader.

However, according to Ronan, his wolf wasn’t letting go so easily.

“Have you heard from Rory?” Aurora—or Rory, as he called her—was Ronan’s little sister. He’d told me more than once that she was the only nice thing Floyd had ever given him.

He shrugged. “A little. She’s got a bunch of finals coming up, so she’s fixated on that. She’s not giving her security any headaches, for which we’re all grateful.”

“You’re exhausted.”

“I’m okay.” He sipped his tea. Manzanilla with a hint of lemon balm and lavender. He often added a tiny amount of honey, though I didn’t smell any today.

“The bags under your eyes suggest otherwise.”

“Since you brought it up, I feel it’s acceptable for me to point out that you have eye luggage of your own.”

Autry stirred, and I stroked her tiny head until she went back to sleep.

“I had a long night. Not as long as yours, but possibly more eventful.”

“The Bloody Mary situation with Señora Cervantes’s niece, right? How’d it go? Was it really her? Is she a real thing?”

“Yes. Weird. No, and also yes. And she’s definitely real.” I gave him a quick overview of the night.

“So, you took care of the imposter and banished Bloody Mary. I’m with Ida. I think you should’ve smote—smited? Smitted?—him, but I get that witches trade in favors.”

“Not all of us, but yeah, most do.” I’d decided not to tell him that I’d wanted the favor to protect him. Somehow, I didn’t think it would go over well.

“Bloody freaking Mary is real.” He glanced behind him at the bathroom door. “Starting to think I’m saying that name way too much this close to a mirror.”

“You’re perfectly safe. She goes after kids—mostly preteens and teens—and only those credulous enough to still believe in her.”

“Kids? That’s pretty damn evil.” He made a face.

“Yeah.”

I knelt and laid Autry on a folded wool sarape beside my fireplace. She’d claimed the thick, colorful Mexican blanket a few days ago, and I’d taken to setting it out for her to nap on. In the garden room, she had a cute little bed next to Fennel’s.

“Is something wrong?”

“Lots of things are wrong.” I rose, walked into the kitchen. “You know that better than most.”

Ronan followed with his now-empty cup. “True, but it seems like something specific is bothering you. What happened last night that you haven’t told me?”

My reason for going into the kitchen in the first place forgotten, I leaned against the counter and watched Ronan wash his mug and set it in the dish drainer. There was something so right about his presence. He belonged here.

With me.