Boaz’ scent draws my gaze next. He sits across from Wraith. And like Wraith, the glamour has hidden his pointed ears beneath curls of brown hair that fall to his shoulders, though his forest-green eyes remain unchanged. At least they left that much of him. My wolf huffs in approval—we're lucky enough that we won't need their magick to pass as human. Though from the way Maven studies me over her coffee cup, I suspect she has other changes in mind.
Currently we’re all dressed similarly in loose grey and black clothing.
Ares lounges in the chair at the end of the table like he owns it, looking perfectly human and unnervingly comfortable in this strange world. No glamour needed for him either. When he speaks though, his voice carries that dangerous edge I've learned to recognize as him losing patience. "Where's Arik?"
Maven sets down her strange glowing black rectangle. Her phone. She told me it was a communication device last night. "He was needed back in Avalon. Dugall will be your guide."
I catch the slight stiffening in Ares' shoulders before anyone else does. My wolf's hackles rise—danger coming, not from outside but from within. A stranger rises from beside Wraith—older male, grey touching his temples, laugh lines around his mouth suggesting frequent smiles. But those smiles aren't present now as he reads the room. Smart man.
The scrape of chair legs against the floor sets every nerve ending alight. Ares stands, his hands flat on the table, and the air grows thick with the metallic taste of his power. "We had an arrangement. I don't want a different guide."
My wolf paces beneath my skin, recognizing the threat of violence building in the room. But for once, we're in perfect agreement about what needs to be done—protect my brothers, even from themselves. I set the nearly empty jar of ambrosia on the counter, positioning myself where I can reach either Ares or the door in two strides.
"Arik was called back by direct order of Queen Nimue," Maven says, her tone careful but firm. "Dugall has been working with the rebellion just as long as that annoying elf has."
"I don't give a damn about his experience." Ares' voice is low, deadly. "I fought with Arik already. I trusted Arik." The emphasis on 'trusted' makes his meaning clear—trust isn't something any of us give easily.
Another similarly aged fae man steps forward from the kitchen prep area, but keeps the table between himself and Ares. "I give you my word?—"
"I. Don't. Care." Each word drops like a stone. The rage builds until even the humans can feel it. Static crackles along the walls. Light bulbs flicker and dim. Maven's phone screen goes black.
"Stand down." Wraith shoves a jar of ambrosia at Ares, but damage has been done. Everyone's heartbeats have spiked, pumping out fear-scent that makes my wolf snap and snarl against his chains.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, trying to block out the taste of their terror. Focus on other scents—coffee grounds, bacon grease, the lingering sweetness of ambrosia. My claws dig into my palms, the sharp points of pain giving me something else to concentrate on besides the predator inside me screaming hunt-chase-protect.
His glamoured brown eyes meet Ares' furious gaze. "We can't afford to waste energy on this. You need a drink."
For a moment, I think Ares might actually challenge him. But then the God of War’s shoulders drop a fraction. Not submission—never that—but acknowledgment.
"Fine." Ares straightens, his face smoothing into a dangerous calm. The silent menace rolling off him hits harder than his rage did—my wolf recognizes this kind of quiet, the deadly stillness before a predator strikes.
Even after Ares' anger subsides, the tension remains—a wire pulled too tight, ready to snap. I taste blood in my mouth, realize I've bitten my tongue trying to keep my own beast contained.
Maven clears her throat. "If you're done threatening my people, there's food. And we need to discuss your assignments now that all the guides are here." She gestures to the grey-templed man who approached earlier. "This is Dugall." Then to a man with similar features but darker hair and a warrior's stance. "His brother, Cormac." Her hand moves to indicate an older man with weathered hands and keen eyes. "Their father, Toran." Finally, she points to the youngest, who shares Cormac's sharp features. "And Bracken, Cormac's son."
I log each scent, each heartbeat as I move to the table and claim one of the closest empty seats. I grab a slice of bread, some bacon, and dish myself a helping of eggs and potatoes. Focus on the meal, not the strangers.
"It's better this way," Maven continues as I shovel a forkful of eggs into my mouth. "Toran and his sons have worked together for decades. Now Bracken's joined the ranks as well. They've helped dozens of our people evade both the Enclave and GUIDE's Inquisitors."
The mention of Inquisitors sends a ripple through the room—heartbeats quickening, bodies tensing. Even my fork pauses halfway to my mouth as the words sink in. Ares' head snaps up from his half-empty jar of ambrosia, and I catch Wraith's glamoured eyes narrowing.
"We know their patrol patterns, their detection methods, their procedures," Dugall explains, his voice carrying the weight of hard-won experience. "The Enclave tends to stick to major cities—they work through their corporate fronts and criminal networks. GUIDE's Inquisitors are trickier. They go wherever the reports lead them, but they have specific protocols we've learned to spot."
"Such as?" Wraith asks, his glamoured brown eyes sharp with interest.
"They travel in teams of three," Cormac says. "Usually pose as federal agents or police consultants. They'll sweep an area in a specific pattern—always splitting apart and moving toward each other. And unlike the Enclave, they use a lot of tech and they are heavily armed. And if you spot one team, there's usually another nearby as backup."
I swallow another bite of food, watching how the guides position themselves around the table. They move like a unit, these four fae men, the same way my brother knights and I do—that instinctual awareness that comes from fighting and bleeding together. Like soldiers who've fought so long they don't need words to communicate. It settles something in me, knowing these men understand what it means to protect their own. The knowledge they carry could mean the difference between finding our mates and ending up executed—or worse, imprisoned and studied.
"You've all been given a new identity," Cormac continues, pulling out one of those glowing rectangles like Maven's. "Earth identification papers. We've created backgrounds for each of you that explain your presence in various locations. The kind of covers that hold up to any local government official. Just don’t get arrested."
Ares snorts, but drinks deeply from his jar of ambrosia instead of commenting. The sweet scent of it reminds me how little I have left in my own jar. The thought makes my inner beast growl with hunger, forcing me to shove more bacon in my mouth as a distraction.
"What's my cover story then?" I ask between bites.
Cormac's eyes crinkle at the corners. "You, my friend, are going to be a travel writer working on a book about hidden gems and local legends in small towns across the world. It gives you reason to ask questions, poke around in strange places, and move frequently if we spot any Enclave or GUIDE agents in the area."
"Travel writer?" I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth. "I don't even know what that means."
