Page 58 of Woods of the Raven

“I can’t go,” the faun cried as she motioned for him to do the same. “If I go back, I’ll be sent to slaughter like the rest of my family.”

She lifted her crossbow, which was truly a beautiful weapon made of mahogany, inlaid with gold and rubies.

“Let him stay,” I told her. “We have questions for him.”

“You’ll be responsible, then.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“So be it. The others are the bounty anyway. What’s a faun worth?”

I smiled instead of arguing.

She glanced at Lorne, gave him an appraising look, missing nothing, and was about to take a step forward into the abyss when instead, she looked back at me. “Quick question: I’ve been looking for someone, and the usual scrying isn’t working, so I suspect he’s used glyphs or something else to shield himself. Any thoughts on what my potion is missing for divination?” When I didn’t reply right away, she added, “He’s a warlock accused of killing children. He does not deserve your pity or concern.”

No, he did not. “Have you added mugwort and goldenrod to your cauldron?”

She snapped her fingers and pointed at me. “Goldenrod. I knew something was missing.”

“Also, if you want to catch a psychopomp to aid you, add comfrey leaves and sugar to your perfume and they’ll be drawn to you.”

Her smile was like the sun. “Thank you, witch,” she murmured before jumping in after the men, the floor closing instantly.

The poor faun fainted, just done, out cold, dropping to the floor like a rock as Lorne slowly turned me around to face him.

“Hi,” I teased him, smiling.

“She liked me,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

I was stunned. Not at all what I thought he was going to say. “You really are amazing.”

He nodded in agreement. “Yes, I know. But you do realize I’m just baiting you so I don’t completely lose my mind and pass out like your goat friend over there.”

“Faun,” I corrected. “Most people don’t know the difference between fauns and satyrs, but fauns are always prettier, like he is.”

“Okay,” he said, sighing deeply, and then pointed at the space where the lovely rug used to be. “The hell was all that?”

“Oh, she was a nymph and—”

“What? No. Nymphs hang around with satyrs and wear white togas and—why’re you looking at me like that?”

“You’ve been reading too many pastorals.”

“I assure you I’ve never read a pastoral anything in my entire life.”

I smiled at him.

“What you’re telling me is that nymphs are actually badass and hunt things?”

“Some of them. The ones like Nott, who cross over from their realm to ours, are hunters. I’m sure there are those who hang out all day beside rivers, dancing with satyrs, but I’ve never met any of them.”

“How many different supernatural creatures have you met?”

“You want a list?”

“Yes, I want a list,” he snapped. He walked around the table and knelt down beside the faun. “You know, if you can get past the ears and the horns, he’s cute in a Narnia way.”

I couldn’t stifle my laughter and went to my knees next to Lorne, putting my head on his shoulder, enjoying not being alone for once when weirdness happened. He was a big, strong, powerful man, and it felt nice to lean on him.