A moment of bracing lucidity crossed Gareth’s face, and his jaw tightened with a sudden, dangerous belligerence. He glared at Morty, and then me, lips pursing as he slid his tongue over his teeth. From what I remembered, while entitled, overindulged, and clueless about his own failings, Gareth wasn’t an actual bully—at least, not when sober. But he was a Blackmoore, on top of being a tall and powerfully built drunk man with a crew of like-minded companions. I felt myself go a little jangly with adrenaline as I watched him pondering his options.

The tension gathered around us like an encroaching thunderhead—and then Gareth rolled his eyes elaborately, pushing back from the bar top with an exaggerated yawn.

“Sure is, Morty, my man,” he said, pointedly turning his back to me and clapping his closest cousin on the shoulder. “Hey, y’all, it’s getting a little stale in here. Let’s go hit up the Avalon.”

A chorus of hell, yeah, man and the like later, they’d all trampled out the door, leaving the atmosphere in the Cauldron almost palpably lightened by their absence. Morty and I sat in shell-shocked silence for a moment, regaining our bearings. Then Morty gave a full-body shudder as if to clear his head, and grimly poured us both a double shot of Grey Goose. I clinked my glass wryly against his, before tossing it back in a single swallow, hissing through my teeth.

“You okay over there, Emmy?” he asked, eyes warm with concern. “Can’t say I’m a hundred percent on what just went down. But I did manage to make out that Gareth is still an industrial-strength asshole, color me stunned.”

“I’ll survive,” I mumbled, sinking my forehead into my hands. “Thanks for stepping in before I did something actively dumb. Wait a second . . . did he even bother to pay for those shots?”

“He’s got a tab,” Morty replied, already assembling a fresh old-fashioned before I could ask for one. What a human treasure. “And frankly, I don’t really give a shit as long as he’s gone. Blackmoores always give me the crawlies, you know? Bunch of unnerving fuckers, rolling around here like they own the whole damn town. I mean, granted, they do own a ton of it. But they could really use a solid attitude adjustment about that whole deal.”

“Cheers to that,” I said with a bitter husk of a laugh, picking up my glass. This tumbler was identical to the one I’d broken, but now its solid heft felt somehow surprising. It was made from glass so heavy and dense that I couldn’t imagine breaking it with my grip alone.

Which meant I must have done it with a spurt of instinctive magic.

Which meant my magic might already be coming back.

3

The Sexy Tundra Wolf

I was still marveling over the glass when a husky, amused voice broke into my thoughts.