Iris has her phone back out and she pulls up a photo, shows it to me, and I laugh all over again. It’s—well, there’s no other way to describe it.
It’s a mosaic of Iris’s sister made out of multicolored googly eyes.
I’m sure she loved being immortalized this way, all proper and dignified as she is.
“That is the single most horrifying and hypnotic thing I’ve ever seen,” I say. “How do you have time for this?”
“I make time.” She shrugs. “How do you blow off steam between your classes?”
By picking fights with guys who turn out to be Holiday royals, apparently.
Iris shows the picture to Coal and Hex.
“Oh. My.God.” Coal waves at Wren. “That’s the only format in which I will accept an official Santa portrait. Make a note of it.”
Wren blinks slowly at him. And does not make a note of it.
Iris grins. “I needed something silly after my unintentional deep dive into Russian Orthodox iconography.”
“Yeah.” I chuckle again. “I can see that. So—you’ll stay for lunch?”
She turns her grin on me. “Do we have a deal?”
I smile. “Yeah. Deal.”
“Then I’ll stay.”
“And we can review the other members of the St. Patrick’s Day family,” Coal adds. “Make sure Kris hasn’t viciously assaulted anyone else they’re related to.”
“It was hardly avicious assault—”
“Wren.” Coal ignores me. “Can you send him the profiles for—”
My phone pings.
His jaw drops. “A few hundred years ago, you’d have been burned as a witch.”
She makes a noise I swear to god I’ve never heard from her. It takes me a beat to realize she’slaughing.“Thank you, Nicholas. I appreciate that.”
I reach across the desk and shove the side of Coal’s head. “I’ll see about getting my classes wrapped up early before we have lunch. When am I leaving?”
Wren poises her finger over her tablet. “When would you like to? I haven’t reached out yet.”
“As soon as possible.” Get this over with.
It’s manageable, if I break it down: go to Ireland to apologize, tail between my legs. Figure out who is stealing joy from us, even though there’s no way it isn’t someone as arrogant as Lochlann. Stop him from stealing from us. Get him to pay us back.
I suck in a stabilizing breath, wading through my bubbling emotions to find one last, lone island of resolve. I owe it to this guy to give him the benefit of the doubt after my prank and this subsequent tabloid mess. Maybe Lochlann isn’t the ass I remember. Maybe he was locked in his own Week Five Blues episode too. Maybe it’s the St. Patrick’s Day King who’s screwing over Christmas and Lochlann doesn’t even know about it.
My thoughts swivel sharply back to Dad.
Nope. Not thinking about him, or Mom, or anything butthis.
Not thatthisis much better.
And that’s how I find myself in the Claus Palace foyer with a suitcase at my feet and a scowl on my face five days out from March 17.
It couldn’t have been a quick visit. No, oh no; the moment St. Patrick’s Day heard I wanted toapologizefor mybehavior,it skyrocketed from a quick weekend bounce-over toWait a few weeks and come for the full splendor of our Holiday.Which isn’t surprising—the tabloids have been having a field day picking apart Lochlann’s life, according to the summaries Wren gives me. They go off speculating wildly about any gaps in his history, and are doing their darndest to paint him as an immature wild child.
