Page 42 of Impawssible Magic

“I’m saying we need more information.” His hand squeezes my shoulder. “But we’re going to find out. Whatever it takes.”

I look up at him. He means it. Every word.

“Why? Why do you care so much?”

The vulnerability that flickers across his face is there and gone so fast I almost miss it. “Because no one should have to face this alone.”

It’s not the whole answer. But it’s enough. For now.

“Partners, then.” I extend my hand. “In this investigation. In figuring out who these bastards are and making them pay.”

He takes it. His palm is warm, calloused from shifting and fighting and whatever else tiger shifters do with their hands. The contact sends a jolt through me—pure physical awareness. Heat racing up my arm, pooling in my chest, making my heart kick against my ribs.

His thumb moves against my knuckles. Could be accidental. Doesn’t feel like it.

“Partners.”

He doesn’t let go right away. Neither do I.

They want me to run? They want me gone?

They have no idea who they’re dealing with.

“So. Where do we start?”

His mouth curves—the closest he gets to a grin. “I know someone who might trace the magical signature on that envelope. And Elio mentioned having information about the Preservers in the old records.”

“Then let’s talk to them.”

I stand. My legs are still shaky, my eyes swollen from crying. But beneath the grief is iron. A reason to fight. A reason to stay.

Aslan rises beside me. His shoulder brushes mine as we turn toward the door. He doesn’t move away.

Neither do I.

“Ready?”

I think about Shadow’s empty eyes.

They don’t know me at all.

“Ready.”

We walk out into the mist. The Preservers wanted to drive me out of Mistvale. Instead, they’ve given me a reason to stay. And a partner to fight beside.

TEN

ASLAN

Elio has nothing that first night. No match for the signature on the envelope, no name to put to the woman who delivered it—just a promise to keep digging and a warning, delivered in that maddeningly even voice of his, that whoever orchestrated this won’t wait for us to catch up. So we don’t wait either. Patrols. Watching. The kind of vigilance that wears down a mind faster than any fight would.

Four days on her couch, and I’m losing my mind.

Not from discomfort—though I’ve grown intimately familiar with the couch’s particular cruelties, the cushions finding new ways to punish my spine each night. Not from exhaustion, though I’ve barely slept more than a few hours at a stretch since this started. No.

The problem is I have nothing to offer her that doesn’t come wrapped in danger—an active threat hunting her, an investigation half-finished, a war I’m supposed to be managing. I don’t tell someone I want a future with them while their present is still on fire.

So I wait. And every night, she’s right there. Twelve feet away. Up those stairs. In her bed.