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“Does iron hurt you?”
“Definitely not. It has no effect on reapers. I used it in my own wards to keep you safe. Give me a moment, and I’ll deal with these intruders.”
“No.” I move to the gate, pressing my fingers as best I can to Glenda’s ghostly ones. “Wren won’t hurt me. Just like he won’t hurt you, right?” I call to him over my shoulder.
“Depends,” he mutters. “Will she interfere in my wooing you?”
“I don’t need wooing,” I say.
“Ooh, wooing,” Glenda announces at the same time with a not at all scarywoooooghost sound. “Every woman deserves wooing.”
“See,” Wren argues. “Your friend agrees with me.” Suddenly, he’s a Glenda fan. Sort of. Close enough.
Maximus chooses to appear that very moment in his fuzzy chihuahua form, tongue out and tail wagging.
“The legendary black dog,” Bertie the Bard calls out on a wheeze. “A portent of death. We’re doomed.”
Okay, theooohghost noise is getting old. Also, I’m pretty sure Bertie choked on that turkey leg he’s waving around.
“We’re already dead, dummy,” Glenda says.
I pick Maximus up and cuddle him before the weird medieval-wannabe ghost creeps him out. It doesn’t matter that the pup can transform into whatever wee three-headed beastie he became before. No one needs to be picked on. Especially not by a doomcaster like Bertie.
“Wren isn’t here for you,” I tell them. “Nor is Maximus. They’re after the revenants.”
“Sure.” Bertie huffs a mean laugh. “Like anyone will believe those exist. You’re just lying to cover for your soul-eating boyfriend.” He disappears before Wren can get past the arm I fling out to stop him.
My Render has magicked his purple skull mask on and he looks ready to tear through the Veil to get to the little weasel. The sneer that stretches from ear to ear across Wren’s face shouldn’t be so scary. Or so hot.
“Bertie’s a crackpot,” Glenda says, interrupting my lust fest over my thirst trap of a boyfriend who is totally rocking the Special Ops Reaper look right now. “No one’s buying what he’s selling. Right, guys?” One by one the ghosts behind her vanish, leaving her standing alone on the other side of the gate. “Chickens,” she mutters.
“Thanks for checking on me,” I tell her. “Seriously, you risked everything and came to rescue me. You’re the best friend ever.” I glance at Wren. “It doesn’t matter that I didn’t need saving.”
He makes a stiff bow that seems oddly gentleman-like considering the contempt in his voice earlier when he’d been talking about the ghosts in general and Glenda’s lack of pants.
Maximus leaps from my arms, through the iron bars, and into my friend’s waiting hands. Her face immediately lights with a giant grin. “Who’s a good baby ghost dog, huh?” she asks on a coo. “You are. Yes, you are.”
I glance at Wren, startled because Glenda can hold the dog and—what the hell—I’ve held the dog, things that should be mutually inconsistent. “How come your tiny dog is a ghost with a corporeal form?” I keep my voice low which is likely unnecessary between the dog’s excited yips and Glenda’s steady praise. “Did Maximus make a deal with a demon, too?”
Wren’s mask contorts into a look of shock before he drops it altogether. “No, but my bargain probably explains your ability to pick him up right now. When I found Maximus, he’d been abused and abandoned in his life in this realm, and his spirit was fading on the other side.”
“He’s a rescue?”
“I couldn’t just leave him there,” Wren says as though he’s explaining a simple fact.
Except the truth has to be that someone else did. Probably multiple someone elses. “So you saved him like you did me?”
“You weren’t a rescue. You’re my mate. You also had a life to return to. He didn’t. I imbued him with some of my magic to keep him from fading into nothing. Look closely at his coloring, and you’ll see it.”
I do as he asks, taking in the pup licking my friend’s face from his pointed ears to his curled tail. His fur gleams black, but in the sunlight, the deep purple undertone beneath the glossy ebony is obvious.
My Render shared his magic, his essence, his friggin’ life force with a rescue dog. Talk about a massive moral compass.
Suddenly, his insistence that he be allowed to woo me before we go further physically makes an odd sort of sense. It could even be considered charming and old-fashioned instead of condescending.
I stare up at him, his face hooded and undetectable now except for his eyes. “How long do you plan for this wooing to take?”
“The month Theodopolis has given us. Time enough to make sure you’re convinced we’re mates destined to spend whatever time the gods grant us.”
