Page 27 of Real

I glance at the silhouette on his pocket. It’s a fox. Maybe he’s half fox, half red wolf. I wonder if his jailers know he’s part red wolf. If they did, they’d likely throw him in The Cell.

Now I understand why the sanctuary is involved. There must have been a policeman who recognized the pull of Candlewick’s thrall and called us. Steppe didn’t tell me because Candlewick is keeping his status a secret for now. But every prisoner is genetically tested. Candlewick will be flagged as a red wolf shifter before long.

“You’re from the sanctuary,” Candlewick says when I continue to avoid his gaze. The last thing I need is to fall under his thrall right now.

“Yeah.”

“Fox shifters get their own cells, except during burrowing season.” He’s trying to explain why he’s chosen to be categorized as a fox shifter for now, but I already understand.

“Was your omega parent a fox shifter?” I ask.

“My alpha dad. Bit of an asshole, I’m afraid. Most alphas are. What about you? Are both of your parents red wolf shifters?” His tone is clipped and cold. I don’t blame him. His red wolf ancestry isn’t any of my business.

“I’m sorry. I came here to give you a message from Buddy. He offered to return to Dorian in exchange for your release.”

Candlewick blanches. “No. Don’t any of you get it? Dorian wants Buddy back so he can kill him. He told me himself. I should have gotten Buddy out of that house years ago, but I was afraid of what Dorian would do to me. I thought the police would be able to see Buddy’s humanity. I never imagined they’d put him on a shelf like a fucking stapler.”

I can see why Dorian was taken with Candlewick. He isn’t just beautiful, he’s confident in a way that has nothing to do with his thrall. He sits with a straight back and tight jaw, just waiting for me to argue with him.

“What if I told you I agree with you?” I say.

Candlewick narrows his eyes. “About what specifically?”

“Buddy can’t go back to Dorian. Even if that means he has to run.”

Candlewick looks back at the guards waiting for him a few paces away. “It isn’t that simple.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dorian wants to reverse the spell that created Buddy. A warlock doesn’t need Buddy to be present for that. Buddy could be on a beach in Guam, and he’d still die if Dorian’s warlock ever figures out how to perform the spell.”

“Then why did you run off with Buddy? What would that accomplish?”

Candlewick presses his lips together. “Dorian’s a powerful man. It’s difficult to get the police involved when you’re up against a powerful man unless…”

Unless Dorian wanted them involved. Did Candlewick get caught on purpose so the police would look into Buddy’s case?

“Here’s the thing I’ve never understood,” Candlewick says. “Dorian’s security was over the top, even for a rich guy. Cameras in every room, guards at every entrance. Every time you opened a window or a door, he got a ping on his security app. He must have known I was spending time with Buddy for years, and he never said a word about it. Maybe he didn’t think it was worth his time to address it. As long as I didn’t damage anything at his place, he let me do whatever I wanted. But the second I took off with Buddy, he called the cops. They caught us within thirty minutes. Why do you think he cares so much if Buddy’s location doesn’t matter for the spell?”

I shake my head. None of Dorian’s actions make sense to me. I’d love to have a mate too, but I’d never pay a warlock to make one for me, even if I did have the money. Love doesn’t mean anything if it’s bought and paid for. What exactly was Dorian after? A man who would worship the ground he walked on? Someone whose entire world would be Dorian?

That’s not a mate, that’s a pet.

Candlewick leans in closer. “About a year ago, I read an article in theNew York Timesabout a strange post on Craigslist. Someone has been posting the same ad weekly for ten years, and it wasn’t one of those scammy offers for free sex or anything. It was a missed connections ad that had only two sentences: ‘You don’t have to be plastic forever. I can help you.’”

Candlewick pauses as if this is some kind of amazing revelation.

“That could mean anything. Maybe they were talking about a dildo or something.”

“I thought that too until I saw the photo. It was of Buddy. Well, Buddy before he was animated by magic. His eyes were closed, and he was in a box with a clear plastic top. The picture freaked me out. He looked dead.”

That’s how Buddy will be again if we can’t stop Dorian.

“Did you respond to the ad?” I ask.

“Yeah. I said I knew Buddy and wanted to help him. Someone messaged me back, but they were reticent to arrange a meeting through me. I think they were worried I was Dorian or something. They said if Buddy wanted help, he’d have to go to the Den of Dreams.”

The Den of Dreams is a notorious club in New York City where Illusors create immersive illusions from the light magic that emanates from their fingertips. A ticket for a single night costs thousands of dollars, and that only covers the show on the main level. Clients can pay extra for private illusions on the upper floors. The club is popular with young trust fund ice dragon shifters.

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