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“They appeared an hour ago.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. You can tell.” Fiora studied the vibrating creature. “Margot.”
The creature’s glow brightened. Valene did not turn from the pastry case. “Don’t encourage them.”
“Margot,” Fiora said again, louder, cheerfully ignoring an instruction she disagreed with, as she always did. The glow brightened further. Mirelle gazed at it — this small, impossible, warm thing her loneliness had made — and her whole chest went quiet and certain.
Oh. I made you. You’re mine.
She could work with that.
The bell above the door chimed, and the room recalibrated. Three men, and the whole café felt it before the door finished opening. She recognized Drayce Waryn, the sheriff. He swept the room in one pass — raccoon, creatures, Mirelle — and his expression gave nothing away. Behind him: a man whose grin said he had walked into better material than expected.
And behind him — tall, dark-haired, with storm-gray eyes making a methodical sweep of the room. Marking all exits first, confirming they had not moved. Not cold, secure. A strong current, smooth on the surface and busy underneath. His shoulders wore the jacket like the jacket was grateful. His gaze finished its circuit and landed on her.
And stayed.
The ambient noise in her head, the low-grade hum she had been carrying all morning, dropped. It wiped clean, as if a sound she had stopped paying attention to had cut out.
Interesting. We are not doing anything with that.
“Can we keep it?” the grinning one said.
“No.” Flat. Immediate. He did not glance at the man he was answering; his eyes stayed on Mirelle. She looked back because she was a grown woman and looking back was her right.
Look at that jaw. Those shoulders. The way he’s standing there like gravity has a personal interest in him. No. Not today. Today has already presented multitudes.
“Tor Waryn,” Valene said from behind the counter, as if she’d been waiting to say that. “Head of security. Drayce’s brother. The entertained one is Pike — his deputy. Pike, you are on duty.”
“I’m always on duty,” Pike said, as if it were a philosophical position. Drayce moved to the counter and spoke to Valene in a tone too low to catch, and Tor moved to the far end of the room and stood with his back to the wall.
Locating exits. Every room, automatically. Like checking if your phone is in your pocket.
Her mouth got ahead of her. “Are you here to help,” she said, “or to look authoritative against the wall?” Drayce, at the counter, went quiet and gave the pastry case his full attention. Tor’s gaze came to her, unhurried. “Both, probably. The authoritative part is involuntary.” His voice was lower than she had expected, the kind that did not waste words. “The alert system flagged a surge,” he said. “We need to assess the event.”
“Assess the event,” Mirelle repeated. “Which is me. And my —” she gestured at the general situation, “emotional support zoo.”
“The awakening, and how much came out.”
“Right. And what does that tell you?”
“That something’s pushing it harder than one goodbye explains.” He said it like a fact. No drama, no build-up: information delivered and waiting to land. Which, honestly, was more alarming than if he’d sounded worried.
Mirelle set down her mug. “Fantastic. I am so glad I reorganized the spice drawer this morning. I really feel that prepared me for all of this.” Pike made a sound. Tor gave him a flat stare, and Pike found the ceiling fascinating.
“Outside pressure.” Mirelle met his eyes directly. “And you don’t know the source yet.”
“Not yet.”
“Apparently, emotional breakdowns are a summoning ritual — and someone might be helping. Great. Fantastic. Happy Tuesday to me.”
The corner of Tor’s mouth curved. It wasn’t a smile, but something close to one, held back with real effort. Mirelle turned away before she could do anything about how much she wanted to see the whole smile. She fixed her attention on Bexley, who was uncapping another pen.
“Is that an eighth pen?”
“I need a category for anomalous external pressure events.”
“And that gets its own pen because —”
