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Maia half wanted to turn around, find that pub, and get herself completely rat-arsed until she couldn't see straight, stand up, or feel the pain blazing through her ribs. Healers made her nervous; always had, since Etziel cut her apart. She swore her old scars throbbed as Azrail pushed open the heavy door and a little bell tinkled pleasantly. But she was just being jumpy and paranoid.
An arm draped across her back, and Maia sighed, taking comfort from the solidity of Kheir beside her.
"You're safe with us," he reminded her, ducking to kiss her cheek.
Maia mentally rolled her eyes at herself. Sheknewshe was safe; she had her own snaresong and could take control of anyone who tried to hurt her. But it was nice to hear Kheir's promise of protection, too.
"Fuckme," a bright, laughing voice yelled from inside the small, cluttered shop. "Visitors? Actualcustomers?What saint has smiled on me tonight?"
Maia raised an eyebrow, stepping over the threshold into a treasure trove of junk, clutter, and—she presumed but it was hard to say for sure—medical supplies. There were so many bottles, towering stacks of tubs, jars of dried plants, and battered old books on the shelves that the thick slabs of wood bowed in the middle.
On a wooden counter at the end of the long room, three mortars were filled with various types of sludge, one of them smoking suspiciously. Maia's eyebrows rose when she spotted the man sitting behind the counter: he couldn't have been younger than sixty-five, but his short hair was viciously, violently blue, and the smile on his face was sharp and youthful, too. Half-moon glasses perched on the end of his nose, luminous in the firelight coming from a drum in the middle of the shop. In the middle of the space, right where people were meant to walk.
"Seems a bit of a health risk," Maia said, nodding at the burning drum.
"Adds a dash of danger," the blue-haired man replied, his grin crinkling a deep scar on his cheek. "Gives the place some spice and intrigue."
Maia snorted, throwing a look at Azrail. This guy had the same cheek and flair for the dramatic as her mate.
"It's you in thirty years," she whispered.
Az's eyes narrowed. "I'd never colour my hair that garish shade."
Maia's eyebrows crept up. "Says the man with blue-black hair," she drawled.
“It’snatural,” Az replied, aghast.
"So what can I do for a dramatic and mysterious group such as yourselves?" the healer asked, propping his chin on his hand and watching them eagerly.
Maia skirted the flaming drum and followed her mates to the counter.
"Are you the healer?" Ark asked, watching the blue-haired man closely. As if he'd leap over the counter and attack them, at sixty-five-years-old. He could have had magic; Maia marked the pointed ears sticking out from his bright hair. But he seemed way too excited to have them in his shop to attack them.
And besides, he'd be a damned idiot for taking on all of her mates.Plusher. Who knew what their volatile magic could do?
"Heron in the flesh," the healer confirmed with a beaming grin.
"Just Heron?" Ark pressed. Maia turned to give him a fond look at his protectiveness, but a pain flashed through her ribs and she winced.
"What kind of things can you heal?" Azrail asked, stepping beside her and placing a hand on her lower back just below Kheir’s arm.
Maia inhaled slowly through her nose, jaw clenched against the pain.
"Anything," Heron replied, his eyes bright.
"Even things that can't be healed by others?" Az went on, as watchful as Ark.
Maia nearly sighed. Her mates had demanded they went out into the city to find a healer at saints knew what time it was, and here they were, narrow-eyed and glaring warnings at the healer.
"Anything," Heron repeated, sitting upright and scanning them with bright eyes.
Maia elbowed Azrail when he angled himself in front of her—what was the use in coming here if they wouldn't let Heron near her?—and stepped forward.
"I've got an injury that isn't healing, and it's getting worse," she explained, aware that evenJarowas watching Heron's every move. Thank the saints Bryon hadn't come along on this little detour; there was already enough testosterone in this shop to sink a ship.
"What kind of injury?" Heron asked, pushing his half-moon glasses up his nose. Light caught the glass in a strange way, as if the spectacles were made of moonstone, and Maia had the strange notion that he was looking through her skin to all her squishy, vulnerable insides.
