Page 21 of Impawssible Magic

The corners of his mouth lift. On Elio, that’s practically hysterical laughter. “Veren’s taking bets. On how long before you crack.”

“I’m not going to crack.”

“He’s giving you two weeks.”

“Tell Veren to focus on his own disasters.”

“I would, but watching yours is more entertaining.”

He melts into the shadows before I can respond. Panthers. Always dramatic.

FIVE

LEIRE

Three days of Aslan Nexis being everywhere.

He doesn’t speak. Barely acknowledges my existence, actually. Just... appears. Leaning against the fountain in Moonthread Square when I open the shop. Browsing the window display at Thornwick Books when I step out for lunch. Sitting on a bench near Honeyveil Tea House, newspaper in hand, looking for all the world like a perfectly normal citizen enjoying a perfectly normal afternoon.

Except he’s not normal. And neither is the way my skin prickles every time I feel his attention on me.

“You know I can see you, right?” I call across the square on day two, arms full of supplies from the apothecary.

He doesn’t respond. Just folds his newspaper with infuriating precision and watches me unlock my door.

I’ve given up pretending I’m not aware of his presence every single second. My magic has developed other ideas entirely.

The citrine on my counter pulses when he walks past the window. The wind chimes near my door—not enchanted to respond to anything except ill intent—tinkle softly whenever he’s within fifty feet. And my wards...

My wards are acting drunk.

Not failing, exactly. Just... enthusiastic. They flare whenever he gets close, then settle into a warm humming when he stays put. Like they’re happy to see him. Like my magical defenses have developed a crush on the tiger shifter assigned to protect me.

This morning, I’m reorganizing my back room for the third time this week—nervous energy has to go somewhere—when I hear the bell chime. Customer. Finally. I smooth my hair, paste on my professional smile, and step through the curtain.

Not a customer.

Aslan stands in the center of my shop, filling the space in a way that should be illegal. Dark clothes, sharp cheekbones, those eyes taking in every detail of my displays. He’s holding a paper bag in one hand.

“This is new.” I stop behind my counter, maintaining distance. “You’re inside. Has hell frozen over, or am I just special?”

The barest hint of movement that might, in another universe, be called the beginning of a smile appears on his lips. “Grandmother Peach sends these.”

He sets a paper bag on my counter—scones, from the smell of it—and he’s already moving toward the door. “She says you haven’t been eating enough.”

“How does she—” I start, but he’s gone, the bell chiming behind him.

The man communicates in pastry. The rose quartz on my counter hums smugly. I ignore it.

The scones are perfect. Obviously. Sunny Clearwater’s baking is legendary, and whatever mood-enhancing magic she works into her pastries is definitely affecting me, because I’m almost cheerful by the time the bell chimes again at noon.

“Hello! Welcome to Whisper—oh.”

The woman in my doorway is not what I expected.

Tall. Elegant. Skin the color of warm earth, dark hair pulled back in a severe twist that somehow manages to look effortlessly beautiful. She’s dressed in deep burgundy—practical but expensive—and she carries herself with the quiet authority of someone who’s never had to raise her voice to be heard.

I know who she is before she speaks. Everyone knows who Anouk Darkwater is.