How will I survive Rom dating someone else?
At home, I tuck my market goods away and pull a chair up to the window right as a fairly heavy rain starts up.
Watching the drops trickle down the glass, I sit with Spark in my lap. I am numb. I’ve cried every last tear I had in me, but it seems the sky has taken over the job of weeping. Rubbing at the mate’s mark, I wonder once again if I should talk to someone about it. I know very little about them. Most devoted couples end up with one if one of them is a creature and not just a human. Do they function differently depending on the creatures involved? How does my gargoyle mark’s magic vary from an orc or minotaur mark?
All magic has its limits. Tully can’t heal, but she can create many things, and she can definitely do some serious destruction. She can’t track people. I wish she could because I’d have her figuring out Rom’s whereaboutsimmediately. She tried when her cousin’s youngling went missing last year, but she failed. Luckily, the little female witch showed up at the candy shop. She’d been hiding in the storage room. The town healer can enhance his herbs’ ability to ease and mend, but he can’t save someone past saving.
Should I get up? I need to work on extending the tapestry that won me Rustion’s contract, but I am drained of all creativity. I don’t even feel like I know how to weave right now. I can’t stop thinking of one tiny moment in Rom’s sitting room—when he lifted his bag, the way his taloned fingers curled around the strap in the same way that hand had held mine. He’ll never hold my hand again. His breath won’t brush over my neck. His body won’t press against mine. No. Eventually, he might return, but someone will steal his heart, and he will hold their hand and kiss their mouth.
I touch my cheek, and as it turns out, I was wrong. I still have some tears to cry.
“I will always love you, Romulus,” I whisper at the rainy window. “Love has many shapes, and if you want a friend, that’s how my love will form around you. Even if it’s from afar.”
Spark whimpers and nudges my fingers until his snout is pressed into my palm. I lean over thedragonfox and inhale his charcoal and foresty scent.
A knock startles both of us. I ease Spark off my lap and onto the floor, then open the door to see Rustion. He’s soaked to the bone and looking at me with such deep pity that I actually feel bad for him.
“Come in, please. Quickly.” I usher him inside, where he shakes his feet over the entrance mat and squeezes out the ends of his cloak.
“I’m sorry for the mess, but this couldn’t wait.”
“What is it?”
“I hate to ask this, but do you have any idea where Rom is staying right now?”
My heart flutters and sags against my ribs. “No. I’m sorry.”
Rustion looks around the workshop and sitting area like he might be here, and I just didn’t notice him. He is more ruffled than I’ve ever seen him.
“What’s wrong? Let me make you some tea.”
“No time for tea, I’m afraid.”
I halt in the corridor that leads to the kitchen and turn back around. “Please, tell me. Maybe I can help in some other way.”
His tawny eyes find my face, and concern tightens the lines thatstretch over his temples. “A storm is coming. A very large, intensely magical storm.”
Spark yips and leaps onto my shoulder. I stumble a little at the sudden weight, my breath catching at the thought of a big system moving through.
“Is it as bad as the five-hundred-year one?”I ask, working to keep my voice even. “Surely not. We survived that.”
Barely. Six fell into the river that burst its banks. Twenty-five homes had to be rebuilt—not a simple task when the sparkles of magic work to undo every nail, notch, and attempt at masonry. Magical storms are so much more damaging than regular ones. It’s the only drawback to living here beyond the Veil.
Rustion’s pursed lips and silence are telling.
My mate mark burns and tingles.
“What do you know about mate marks, Mayor?” My cheeks burn as I ask.
His eyebrows bunch, but then he seems to process what I’m asking. “Oh, do you? I’m sorry. Not my business. I don’t know too much. Shifter marks let the mates know when the other is in pain by giving out a fraction of that discomfort. They also let us know when our mates are within hearing distance.”
“What do you mean by that?”
A gleam of pride flashes in his eyes. “We roar, you see. Lion shifters roar when we call for our mates.”
“I would love to hear that someday,” I say, firmly not thinking of his asinine son but of him seeking his pixie wife.
“What does it feel like when they are close enough to hear your call?”
