Threescore & Tequila (Toil & Trouble Book 4) Read online

  “Nope.” And I’m not asking him to translate it either, not with that smirk on his big mug. Who gives a shit what Schwarz wie die Nacht, sie ist mein Licht means anyway? We hash out font and placement, then it’s on to— “Color?”

  He blinks, then looks at me with a half smile. “You pick.”

  “Seriously?”

  “What can I say? I’m pathetically indecisive.”

  Sure he is. I’d bet my shop this bruin was born knowing his own mind at all times. I look at the snippet of German again, then back at Stephen’s skin. “Ash,” I decide. “Edged in aurora yellow and citrine.”

  His lips twitch as I point out the colors. “That’ll work.”

  I reach for the soap, then hesitate as something odd catches my eye. A crooked arrow is inked into his forearm. It’s ugly. Not at all like his other ones. Dark and smudged, it’s almost like a burn. He frowns when he sees where my gaze has fallen, dropping his arm into his lap. Okay . . . not going there. Instead, my eyes trail up to his shoulder and this time I can’t help myself.

  “What’s this?” I trace a symbol I’ve never seen before, about the size of my palm on his left shoulder. An upside-down triangle with dead-black lines meeting at the apex.

  “It’s called a dragon’s eye.” His voice deepens as he watches my fingers on his skin.

  I pull my hand back. “Looks like something a Harry Potter fan would ask for.”

  He blinks, then grins. “Actually, this would be a decent choice if Harry got tatted up. The inverted triangle symbolizes a threat, and these lines”—he taps the Y-shaped intersection at the shape’s heart—“indicate a choice between good and evil.”

  Another shiver runs over the back of my neck. I hide it by soaping him down a bit more roughly than I should. He doesn’t flinch. “Aww, what kind of a threat does a big ol’ shifter like yourself have to worry about?”

  Those blue eyes lift to mine. “I’m looking at it.”

  I freeze, unable to break his stare for the space of a long, slow heartbeat. Then I pick up my razor. “You’re not wrong, furface.”

  He only smiles as the blade comes down.

  I blink, pulling myself from the past to look down at Stephen. It’s like déjà vu, except he’s not all smiling flirtation this time.

  Something’s wrong. Something other than the shit storm we went through last month. I frown. “You look peaked, bruin.”

  It’s both true and not. Stephen is delectable. No force in the FTC world is going to dim that sexy, but . . .

  He’s lost weight. There are shadows under those blazing eyes. And under his rich, tanned skin is a greyish pallor that alarms me. Without thought, I put a hand on his shoulder before he can remove his shirt. “Are you sick?”

  Something horrid occurs to me—could Herne have created one of those awful concoctions for bruins, too? My demented father was responsible for both moon madness and wasting sickness, killing hundreds of werewolves and vampires. My chest tightens painfully.

  Surely not, though. Bruins are old school magic. The ‘right’ kind, according to my late, unlamented sire’s logic.

  He shakes off my hand, looking even more irritated. “I’m fine. Unless I have to worry about a sword in the back. That’s your style nowadays, right?”

  I take a step back from the chair as the blood drains from my face. “Get. Out.”

  For a long moment, I don’t think he’s going to move without a fight. Then slowly, he gets to his feet, his lips pressed into a tight line. I shove my hands behind my back and clench my fingers together to hide the trembling as I stare up at him.

  “Cruel doesn’t suit you, Stephen,” I mutter as he heads for the door.

  “Really?” He stops without turning, his shoulders bunched. “I heard it’s all the rage these days. Forget about finishing the tat, Jett. I don’t think it suits me either. Probably should have the damn thing removed.”

  The door shuts with a soft snick and he’s gone. I collapse into the seat he’s just vacated, unable to resist curling into the warmth left by his body. I even press my face into the leather to inhale his scent.

  Fucking bruin bastard.

  3

  I intended to get a drink after leaving Jett. I figured I’d need one. Or twenty. Not to mention I should go congratulate Seph on a triumphant return. But now I ignore the hallway that connects Bad Reputation to Toil & Trouble and head out the side entrance into the late spring night.

  The look on Jett’s face.

  Like I hit her.

  I stumble as soon as I’m out of sight of the building, leaning one hand against an alley wall, my stomach roiling. Seeing her was not a good idea. But I couldn’t take it anymore. Being away from her is killing me.

  Literally.

  I rub at the mark on my forearm that seems blacker and thicker these days, cursing under my breath. My temper is on an increasingly short leash, and right now it needs a run in the worst way.

  It’s dangerous, shifting in the city, but this is Duluth. It’s not like the residents haven’t seen bears within city limits before. And I need to shut this rage down before it consumes me.

  Between one step and the next, I leave the human and his pain behind. The beast I become sucks it away in a tide of sensation: Wind ruffling thick fur. Air scented with lake and fish and engine oil from the boats. The feeling of pavement, warm and rough, under heavy paws that slap down again and again. Faintly, I hear a scream that the bear ignores, heading instinctively up the hill where there is more cover.

  I sink deeper into the bear and let him have free rein. It’s a relief to get away from my own mind.

  To get away from her and bathe in the wildness. I run into the warm spring night and let it swallow me up.

  Hours later, I find my way home. I can feel the burrs tangled in my fur, the deep scratches on my paws, one bleeding steadily as I mount the stairs to the Den.

  Dominic is on the porch, sitting in one of our hand-carved chairs, a beer in one hand. His face is expressionless, though his eyes look somewhere between haunted and pissed.

  “Is this going to be a thing? You coming home at odd hours, strung out over a witch? Not very kingly, if you ask me. Oh wait.” He studies his beer, his lips pressing tightly together for a moment. “Scratch that. Just following in your predecessor’s footprints, right?”

  I stumble upright to fall next to him, human before my ass hits the wood. “I’m not Georg.”

  “Right. You’re not dead. Yet.”

  “Dom.” My tone is a warning. One he ignores.

  “This is bullshit, Stephen. We need your head in the game.” His voice is quiet, but firm. And he’s right. Gods be damned, I know he’s right. Georg was a young king, strong and beloved. Unity doesn’t come naturally to bears—especially ones in the New World—but with him at the head, bruins were becoming a force to be reckoned with. Losing him so sudden and bloody was more than painful, it was close to disastrous. Georg had a vision for our people and this land. I know that better than anyone. He made me his second the instant we both came of age. Our people know me and most of them trust me, but not the way they did him. Some of the elders remember my roots. I was not born of this continent and that’s the type of thing that puts more than one back up. Plus, I’ve already rocked the boat by not wiping out the local wolf pack entirely.

  We’re courting more disaster on that front when the truth of Ajax and Syana’s relationship hits the fan. Add one more scandal to this mix and I’ll be watching my already-fraying kingdom come apart at the seams.

  “Look, Stephen, I get it. You’re tore up over what Jett did. Hell, I am, too. But it worked out. Seph is fine—even that asshole Frost is fine.” It’s not common knowledge Jack Frost died last month, too, but our relationship with the witches across the harbor isn’t exactly common. Seph told Dom everything. And what he knows, Ajax knows. What Ajax knows, I know. “You need to talk to her about it. Get this thing between you settled before it causes real problems.”

  “It’s
too late for that. I can’t trust her. And if I can’t trust her . . .”

  He slams his beer down. “You and that freaking rigid spine of yours. There’s no give to you at all. A king needs that.”

  “My standards are mine. I don’t remember asking you to adhere to them,” I say mildly. “So fuck off.”

  He forces a smile, but the worry is still there. “That honor of yours can’t warm your bed at night.”

  “You worry about your own bed, I’ll worry about mine.”

  He shakes his head and gets to his feet, leaving me alone in the dark. I watch the stars fade as dawn approaches, my head pounding. I’m not hungover, just in witch withdrawal. Already. And it’ll get worse with every day that passes.

  For years now, I’ve known my way. Honor. Discipline. Loyalty.

  It’s never faltered, that straight and narrow path they all make fun of me for while secretly depending on it. It’s why Georg made me his second. It’s why they made me king.

  The funny thing is, if Dom knew the truth—if they all knew the truth—they’d know my honor is a sham. That I should never have accepted the crown.

  That I’ve been lying to them all.

  I close my eyes, forcing my mind away from that minefield only to envision another. And it’s all her.

  Jett, raising her sword. Settling easily into her stance.

  The morning sun backlights her silhouette in white light as she flows from one form to the next.

  A beautiful, deadly dance that takes my breath away.

  It doesn’t hurt that she isn’t wearing a goddamn thing.

  I put my hands behind my head and watch, eyes slitted. Her lips curve, but she doesn’t glance my way. Jett’s no shifter, but her instincts are deadly sharp. Just like her crystal blade.

  “Enjoying the show, bruin?”

  “You naked, or the fencing demonstration?”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Both?”

  “Never seen anything I like better.”

  It’s faint but I catch the hint of color in her cheeks. My witch likes to pretend she’s impervious to such things, but compliments please her. The jagged tips of her dark hair brush her chin as she lifts it.

  This is the first time she’s deigned to come to my bed. We’ve done her house and many varied outdoor locations, but never here.

  I like her here. And I intend to keep her here permanently but only when she’s ready to admit what I already know.

  “Should I sell tickets?”

  My back stiffens at her light words. A possessive growl slips past my lips before I can shut it down. She turns into the next stance without missing a beat, but I see the spark in her eyes. Jett insists on taking these little stabs at my bear, taunting that wild, instinctive side of my nature. I get that it’s her way of keeping me at a distance. But I still don’t know why.

  She’s a hard nut to crack, my little witch. I may finally have her in my bed, but she’s still got that shell mostly intact. Though I’m putting more cracks in it every day.

  Mine.

  Someday she’ll accept that. Someday soon.

  But there is something different in her voice today, something tight and strained. I’ve heard it more and more often lately. I frown. Then her naked backside flexes, derailing my train of thought. I get to my feet, padding silently behind her.

  She knows damn well I’m there—goose bumps feather her skin at my approach—but her concentration never wavers. The sword swoops to a point high above her head, lean muscles in both arms quivering as she holds the pose for long, quiet seconds.

  A single bead of sweat works its way down her spine, tumbling down creamy skin and past occasional bursts of bright ink. When I kneel down to catch it with my lips, she shudders.

  “You’re distracting me, bruin.” Her tone starts out cool and scolding, but when I squeeze her ass in both hands, it fades to a strangled moan.

  “Distraction can be a good thing.”

  “What if I disagree?”

  “Give me a minute and you’ll change your mind.” I run my lips over soft flesh. Then my tongue.

  “I don’t have time. I have to go.” But she’s already quivering.

  “More of this Council business?”

  “You could say that.”

  I wish she’d confide in me, but I don’t press. Unless you count my fingers sliding between her legs and stroking softly. “Well, make time.”

  She takes a breath, then lowers the sword.

  “Ten minutes, bruin.” She bends over to retrieve her scabbard. I can’t help but growl again at the sight in front of me, all sweet curvy ass and pretty pink pussy. She’s baiting me again, seeing how far she can push before I snap. As soon as she slides the blade home, I’m done playing. Wrapping one arm around her middle, I stand up, swinging her off her feet and back to the bed. She’s a powerful woman, my witch—physically, mentally and magically—but she’s also tiny. I know she’s not used to anyone manhandling her the way I do, but I also know she loves it. She wouldn’t be able to stomach a partner who is intimidated by her.

  Respect, yes. Kid gloves, fuck no.

  I toss her over the edge of the mattress.

  “Bend over again.”

  She does, spreading her legs brazenly and wiggling her ass at me. I slide both hands under her hips and kneel, lifting the sweetest part of her to my mouth with a low curse. I’m addicted. I’ve been addicted since she showed up on that pier at the harbor, drew her sword and asked if I wanted to dance. I could say that’s why she ran circles around me and took me out. But it’s not. She’s that good. She knows it, too.

  In a minute that arrogance will shatter, and she’ll be mine. Screaming and crying out my name. It’s what I crave, more than this gorgeous little body, more than the taste and feel of her. It’s Jett’s absolute submission.

  Because right now, it’s one step closer to her trust. Once I have that, I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her everything.

  She gives a soft gasp at the first brush of my tongue, but her tone is commanding even as her hands fist the sheets.

  “Stephen?”

  “Yeah?” I snap, impatient against the hot, wet sweetness of her.

  “Use your fingers, too.”

  My fingers clench on the wooden armrests of the porch chair, and one comes off in my hand with a crack. I toss it aside in disgust and get to my feet. That was the last time we were together before Georg died. Before everything started going to shit.

  I lost my best friend.

  I lost my woman.

  And I’ve most definitely lost my way. Watching the sun rise over the distant lake, I wonder how many dawns I have left to find it again.

  4

  “You again? For the love of—” Merry glares at me as he emerges from one of the tunnels up at Enger Tower, dirt clinging to the top of his red gnome hat like chocolate sprinkles on a strawberry ice cream cone. “Can’t you take a goddam hint?”

  He dusts himself off as I sit there. I don’t have a lot of friends. Actually, make that none. I’m not particularly sorry about that either. Friends are a good way to get dead. But . . . if I did have friends, Merry would be on that list.

  At least before.

  He’s maybe four foot ten in his boots, the hat giving him another six inches or so. His lack of height doesn’t detract from his presence in the least. Merry projects an air of don’t-fuck-with-me that you can catch a mile off. He’s not the leader of his people for nothing. Humans think of gnomes as chubby-faced drunk guys that bowl a lot, which is almost as stupid as the idea that leprechauns lurk at the end of rainbows carrying bowls of gold. Those little green fuckers are evil and more likely to crack your head open with said bowl and wash your brains down with a pint of Guinness.

  Gnomes, however, are just tough, sarcastic buggers with an agenda as unpredictable as Mother Earth itself. But Merry has always been there when our family needed a hand. I could use one now. So I do what I never do. I plead.

  “I need your help, Merry.” I ig
nore his rolled eyes and sarcastic snort, watching him stride past me without a glance. Dammit.

  I’m no assassin of the realm—that ship sailed a long time ago. But I have a habit of taking the occasional bit of work that interests me. I hung out my metaphorical shingle a few years back, and word gets around fast in the FTC world. The combination of hired muscle and a fair amount of brains is always in demand and it keeps me from getting bored. Ink is great as an artistic outlet, but this job feeds my more ruthless, fucked-up side. My latest gig is something that hits very close to home, for both me and the gnome.

  “Someone’s been using your tunnels.”

  He stops in his tracks.

  “Someone,” I continue, “that has been running back and forth to the Old World. One or two times every couple of months. There’s never any blood. But the magic smells like—”

  “Copper.” Merry is facing me now, his face hard.

  I nod. “There you go.”

  “Do you know who it is?” The anger rumbles through his voice like a cave-in far below our feet.

  “Not yet, but I know what they’re hauling. Or rather who.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Witches, Merry. They’re kidnapping witches.”

  He stares. “I thought that was your father. Or at least his minions.”

  “It probably was. Is.” Dear old Dad is dead, thanks to Seph. But his network isn’t. Merry frowns.

  “But why keep it up with Herne gone?”

  “Good question. I’ve no idea, but I’d sure like to find out. And I bet you’d like to know who’s trespassing, am I right?” Of course I’m right. But Merry’s brown eyes are about as relenting as the stone around us.

  The silence winds out, finally broken as down below us, the aerial lift bridge lets off the familiar salute to a departing laker: two long mournful blasts of a horn and one short. The rust-red ship heads out into the deep blue expanse behind Merry’s brown curls. It’s well into the horizon before the gnome finally nods.

  “Fine. I’ll do it. But you’re going to tell me everything you have. And I do mean everything, Jett.”