Eira nods. "Most likely. She's based in Northern Canada these days. Works as a marine biologist by trade, but freelances as a druid. For a price."
Before I can open my mouth, before I can even wince, Asher nods once. "Bring her."
Damn it.
A druid from the Arctic Circle flown in on supernatural consulting rates? That's going to cost. And I'm not about to let them keep covering things for me like I'm some lost charity case with dangerous exes and a garden that blooms when she moans.
"I'll figure out how to pay for it," I say, too quiet for most of them to hear.
Astrid speaks up next, stretching her long legs out as she reaches for her phone. "I'll put out feelers on this crystal—celestite. If it exists in this state, or anyone's seen it traded, I'll hear about it."
"Thank you," I tell her, and Eira too. "Really. I appreciate it."
I look around at the people in this room. The last group I trusted with my life ended up betraying me.
I tell myself this is different. That these people are different. I need them to be. Because if it happens again, if I'm hunted, sold out or used by one more person I open up to, I might start thinking the problem isn'tthem. It's me.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Asher
As the mood in the room shifts from strategic to social, I excuse myself.
They're relaxed now, talking, joking, slipping into the rhythm that comes after shared tension. But Sage had slipped out somewhere between Astrid's fifth drink and Kayden's last jab. I noticed.
All I have to do is follow the scent of weed curling into the night air. It leads me around the side of the house, past the edge of the porch, until I see the tip of her joint—an ember glowing red in the dark.
She's perched against the siding, back to the cool wall, gaze tilted toward the sky.
"Helping the forest grow," I say, "or hiding?"
She exhales smoke and gives me a half-smile. "You know… I always feel like I'm caught doing something wrong when you corner me. No idea why."
I take a slow step closer, my voice quiet. "Maybe you want someone to discipline you for your missteps."
She freezes.
We hold the silence for a breath too long, the air charged between us. The porch. The way she said 'yes, sir' a day beforethat. The feel of power shifting between us, like a weight neither of us knew we'd been carrying.
None of it was planned. And yet, I'd be lying if I said I haven't replayed it a dozen times since. The way her voice softened around that word. The way she watched me, not with fear, but with curiosity. With want. Submission curling just under the surface.
My training says to step back. She's a runner. Wounded and not stable. Keeping my own disciplined distance is necessary.
But discipline's getting harder by the hour.
She gathers herself. Blinks the moment away. "As for your question… yeah. I'm hiding a little." She takes another drag, then adds, "It's just… all these people. They don't know me. Most don't even like me. But they agreed to help."
Her honesty always hits harder than expected.
"What makes you think they don't like you?" I ask, folding my arms, watching her.
"Well… Jace, for one. Pretty sure he'd toss me in a compost pile if no one was looking. He hasn't said a single word since he walked in."
"He rarely speaks in meetings," I say. "But yes, he's still stung. You hit where it hurts most—pride. Tricksters hate being tricked. Especially by outsiders. My guess is Winston's been chewing his ear off about how New York made him soft."
She winces. "I get it. I really do. Not wanting to fall in line with family expectations. Trying to carve out your own path."
I look at her. "Personal experience?" I ask.
