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“During, mostly,” Hattie replied.
Wynter smiled, shaking her head. It was hard to believe that the sweet, fragile-looking woman had ever harmed a single soul. “Well, let’s go job hunting.”
When she walked out of the house soon after, the lycans had stopped arguing but were standing in their own front yards exchanging snarls. Their predatory gazes shot to Wynter, Delilah, and Xavier—none of whom did anything more than spare them cursory glances. Wynter would deal with the lycans later. For now, she had more important shit to do.
She wished the others good luck on their job-hunting adventures and then made her way toward Cain’s Keep, enjoying the feel of the artificial sun’s warmth on her skin. She couldn’t see much of the Keep, thanks to the stone, fortified walls that surrounded both it and the bailey. Stark and imposing, the walls had integrated bastions and watch towers.
Plenty of people passed her; none so much as tipped their chin her way. They merely stared, openly curious. She didn’t get the sense that they were being rude. It was more like they were reserving judgment for the time being. Well, all right.
She walked through the arched opening in the stark walls and then found herself in the bailey. A courtyard lay in the center. Workshops, barns, and stables were on the right. Some sort of quarters were situated on the left, along with a brewery, a bakehouse, and—aha—the blacksmith’s shop.
Ahead of it all sat the Keep. Unlike the curtain wall, it was constructed of black, medieval stone. Tall and intimidating, it loomed above all. Stained-glass windows—some small and square, some narrow and rectangular—dotted the stone edifice. It might have looked grim and gothic if each stone didn’t shimmer with power.
The sight was as impressive as the dude who called it his home.
She wasn’t gonna think about him, though. Getting her mind back on track, she crossed to the blacksmith’s shop. It was small and hot, and the air was thick with the scents of molten iron and coal. Workbenches, forges, and other large equipment were scattered around. There were tools just …everywhere.
One side of the shop was wall-to-wall with weaponry—small, big, modern, medieval. Her mouth fell open. There was everything she could think of. Cutlasses, brass knuckles, claymores, long-swords, pickaxes, hatchets, crossbows, sledgehammers, javelins—it was all there.
God, she thought she might come.
Rafe wouldlovethe collection. He’d made her learn how to dodge and even snatch weapons before he’d ever allowed her to use one. As a child, she’d had to seize a dagger from him over and over and over in the space of an hour.
Studying the weapons in front of her, she didn’t notice any runes or flecks of power ground into the blades. None were enchanted, then. Something she could easily change.
“Who are you?” a gruff voice demanded.
She turned to see a stout male glaring at her like she’d pissed in his shoes. Well, this was off to a good start.
The monster inside her raised its head slightly and eyed him carefully. Like her, it sensed that he was a berserker—an elite preternatural warrior whose race was all but extinct. Still, her monster wasn’t intimidated; it settled back down, intending to merely observe.
“Wynter,” she finally replied. “I’m guessing you’re Grouch.” She held out her hand. He only sneered at it.
“What do you want, witch?”
She lowered her arm. “A job. Here.”
“Here?” He burst out laughing, scratching his belly. “If you tell me you’re a smithy, you’re nothing but a liar. You ain’t got the muscle for it.”
“I’m not a smithy, but I can improve your weapons. Make them … unique.”
A broad-shouldered female who bore a slight resemblance to him strolled into the shop. “Pop, Dina says she ain’t got … Who the fuck is this bitch?”
Oh, these two were simply charming.
He laughed again. “You won’t believe this, Annette. Winifred over here wants to work for us. Says she can improve our weaponry.”
The female let out a derisive snort. “We don’t need no witch working for us. There’s a strip club up on the surface. Why don’t you go see if they’re hiring?” With that, they both turned away, dismissing her. Annette headed to one of the workbenches while Grouch crossed to the forge.
Wynter sighed long and loud. “Hmm. Such a shame you want to lose custom. But hey, I get it if you’re overworked. It happens.”
Grouch’s head snapped up. “Lose custom? You threatening to hex my shop?”
She frowned. “Who said anything about hexing?”
He grabbed a sword hanging from a peg and advanced on her fast, pointing it at her chin. “Witch, you fuckingdare—” He jerked back as she conjured her own sword and blocked his move. His face went slack as his eyes landed on her weapon. “What in the love of God?”
Annette sidled up to him, staring at the sword. “Is that … ?”
