Page 5 of Let Slip the Dogs of War

She snatches up her bag. “Oh, I’ll be back,” she says. “Have fun!”

I wave her off and go and flick the kettle on as she closes the door. Sam will feel her pass through the wards he placed around the building, but he’s in with his mates tonight, as far as I know, so he won’t come and disturb me.

I smile and look over at the book. What a fun night ahead.

I wake the next morning and frown at the purple smudges on my pillowcase. They’ll wash out, but when I drag myself into the bathroom, I see it’s all on my ears too. Boo. As I shower, violet water cascades down the drain, then I study my blurry reflection as I brush my teeth in the now steam-filled room.

I didn’t hear Ophelia come back last night. This morning. I was up reading until two, which was an enlightening experience. The book Grant has lent me is literally over a century old, but he’s left scraps of paper throughout with his own notes scribbled on them. I haven’t spent much time with him, but I know he and Quinn are friends, so I might see if we can all hang out and I can pick his brain some more.

When I let myself back out into the living room, I see that Ophelia’s door is firmly shut. I huff a laugh, get dressed, and go through my usual morning routine—a cup of tea, a slice of toast, and watering all the plants. Not all of them are mine. Ophelia is a skilled healer, so she uses a lot of them, but out of the two of us, I’ve got the greenest thumb.

They seem restless this morning, sparks of life reaching for me as I wander around, tiny orange watering can in hand. The basil trembles and I run a finger absently over one leaf. They only get this way when the weather is about to change, usually, but when I glance out the window, the air looks fairly still.

I shrug off the thought. The more our pack grows, the more the magic in this building increases, and the plants might just need to become accustomed to that, too. I set the watering can down and flick the kettle back on. Maybe I’ll have coffee, considering how late I was up. We have a half-full jar of instant coffee, which is secretly my favourite type.

Ophelia knows that. Our best friend from school, Felix, knows that. He used to tease me mercilessly for it, for being Italian but hating ‘real coffee’.

Lark doesn’t know that. I swallow hard and drop a spoonful of coffee granules into my mug. I haven’t been back to Hallowed Grounds for a week. No real reason for it. I just… I keep going there, day after day, and if he were interested in me the way I am in him, he’d have come out and said it already.

Not to mention, soulbonds. Quinn mentioned those… a week ago, actually, which might be what’s had me all moody. Fae have them. All of them, he said, though that doesn’t mean they’re all romantic.

That means Lark has one, too.

I shake my head when the kettle boils and let out a sigh. Then a bitter laugh. He’s so out of my league anyway, it’s not even funny. I mean, he’s literally one of the fae. And a high fae, at that. Posh—not that I don’t know how to navigate posh people, Felix—and kind of cold and off-putting…

I let out another, louder huff. No sounds of movement behind Ophelia’s door. I like that he’s off-putting, though. Mostly because he’s never really been that way with me.

I shake my head, taking a sip of my now prepared coffee, and almost drop the mug when someone bangs on the door.

“Dante? Dante, let me in!” It’s Sam. I set down my mug and make my way over to the door. He’s breathing hard when I unlock and open it, panic pinching the edges of his expression.

My heart gallops in response. “What’s going on?”

“Ophelia. Did she come home last night?”

“Yea—” I swallow the word. Did she? I was asleep, and—I look down. Her heels aren’t here.

I stride over to her bedroom door. Not like it’d be a surprise if she came home drunk and decided to take her shoes off in there, or if she forgot to take them off at all. I rap on it twice. “Ophelia?” No answer. “Hey, I’m coming in!”

Sam is right behind me, and I feel the pulse of his magic as I swing the door open. I wince. I’m not even sure he knows he’s doing it, but it feeds my own panic, which surges when we both step inside and realise that no, Ophelia isn’t in her room.

“I—I don’t—”

“She went out last night?”

“Yeah. Yeah, with Cecile and…” I trail off. “Fuck, I don’t know who else.”

Sam already has his phone in his hand. I glance around Ophelia’s room again. Her phone isn’t here; it doesn’t look as though she came back during the night and then left again for whatever reason. An uncomfortable, jittery feeling surges through me. My eyes land on the photo frame displayed prominently on her chest of drawers.

It’s the only photo she allows from our school days, and I know it’s in here because she likes it, but she doesn’t want it on display for everyone all the time. It’s me and her and Felix, when we were twelve. We all roomed together at the same fancy public school—exclusively for those of a magical persuasion—and that was the summer she came out and ran away from home for six weeks and stayed with me and my mums instead.

“You’re sure she got in it?” Sam’s sharp voice brings me back to the moment. My hands are shaking. “You’re sure?”

I can’t make out exact words, but I know who he’s speaking to. Cecile. She won’t have been drunk last night. She’s a wolf; she can’t get drunk, not without some serious magical effort. She’ll have made sure everyone got home.

“What happened?” I ask when Sam gets off the phone.

“That’s what I’d fucking like to know.”