Page 60 of Fang Fatale

Dandy says it quietly.

Matter-of-factly.

Like commenting on the weather.

"I can tell."

Birdie sighs.

"Dandy..."

Too late.

He presses two flour-dusted fingers against the table and murmurs something under his breath.

The spell doesn't feel magical.

It feels inevitable.

Like trying to hold water in your hands.

Truth simply slips through anyway.

"Weir will find you by morning."

The words leave my mouth whether I approve of them or not.

"He doesn't have the forest restriction."

"He has absolutely no reason to be careful with you."

A pause.

One I don't choose.

"I have every reason."

Silence.

The room seems to inhale.

"Every reason," Dandy repeats with the unbearable satisfaction of someone who's just won an argument no one realized was happening.

Birdie looks at me.

I look very deliberately at the floorboards.

"...Forget I said that part."

CHAPTER 10

ALARIC

By the time we crest Phantom Ridge, the backseat of my ancient Crown Victoria smells like a thrift store fire: wet wool, gunpowder, petrichor, and the nervous sweat of two people who have survived only because the universe enjoys a good farce. Rain throws fists at the old windshield, occasionally outdone by Birdie's teeth chattering in the seat behind me, her jaw moving so fast I half-expect her molars to send up sparks in the dark. I'm not even cold, but I keep the heater on full blast anyway, buying her a little comfort wherever I can. It's the sort of gesture that would've mortified my former self, the one who believed stoicism bordered on godliness, but these days I'll take any excuse to break a silence.

The safe house squats on the edge of a cliff, dark and square-jawed, with a roof as uneven as my record of good decisions. It's belonged to the Grimhaven coven since the railroad first gutted the mountain, and honestly, the place looks it—rocks shivering loose in the mortar, the lone window eyeballing us with the dull suspicion of a man who's seen too many trespassers. I guide Birdie toward the door with a hand at her elbow. It's neither necessary nor particularly appreciated, but the gesture buys me two seconds of close proximity and the faintest, soapiest whiff of her hair.

Theo and Trent are already stationed on the porch like forgotten chess pieces, dressed alike in worn canvas jackets and the kind of boots that could stomp a wolf to confession. Theo nods at me, the movement betraying nothing of the kinship between us, and Trent's mouth tightens just a fraction in Birdie's direction before smoothing back into its default mask of apathy. If you didn't know them, you'd think they didn't care whether we lived or died.