Page 153 of The Black Witch

Wynter shakes her head resignedly and lifts her wings. “My wings, they are too thin.”

I turn back to glance at Aislinn and Jarod. They’ve finished organizing the hardware Aislinn pilfered and look about ready to start hanging the tapestries.

“We don’t have any tools,” Aislinn laments, looking around.

“I have tools,” Jarod informs her.

“You do?” she asks, looking confused.

Jarod hesitates. “I...don’t want to shock you.”

“What do you mean?” Aislinn inquires.

“My claws. They’re...useful.”

Aislinn swallows and looks at him, wide-eyed. “I...I won’t be afraid.”

Jarod rolls up the right sleeve of his tunic and lifts his hand, keeping his eyes on Aislinn. We all watch, mesmerized, as it morphs and grows furred, with curving claws for nails.

Jarod walks over to the wall and uses a claw to quickly hollow out multiple areas in the stone, then morphs his hand back to normal and screws the hooks in. He turns to gauge Aislinn’s reaction.

“That’s very...useful,” she observes, her understated words at odds with the stunned expression on her face.

Jarod studies her reaction for a moment longer before repeating the process, Aislinn’s shock softening as he works.

* * *

Well past midnight, we all rest on the floor by the fire.

The room is completely transformed. Warm tapestries now hang on every wall, and a series of sculptures and paintings line the upstairs hallway and spiraling staircase. The North Tower has become a small but impressive private gallery of fine art.

I make tea and pour it for everyone. Everyone except for Ariel, who’s still passed out on her messy bed.

Jarod and Aislinn are taking turns reading from Jarod’s poetry books as Wynter sits on the windowsill listening.

After a time, Aislinn’s lids grow heavier, and she keeps interrupting herself with yawns when it’s her turn to read, so Jarod takes over the reading in its entirety, his deep, steady voice pleasant to listen to as I drink my tea.

I watch, amused, as Aislinn’s eyes close, little by little, until, like a flower folding its petals in for the night, she eventually gives in, lets her eyes fall shut and leans into Jarod.

Jarod pauses in his reading. He gently puts his arm around Aislinn to steady her. She breathes deeply and snuggles in close to him, her hand finding his waist.

Jarod raises his eyebrows in surprise, frozen in place, the poetry book now lying forgotten in his lap. Wynter has retreated under her wings, perhaps asleep, as well.

Jarod’s eyes dart toward mine warily. And his wariness is not unfounded.

My heart speeds up slightly at the sight of them so close, so intimate, and I suddenly feel worried about my friend. It’s one thing to wish Jarod was Gardnerian in the abstract. But he isn’t. He’s the son of his people’s alpha, and Aislinn’s from one of the most conservative families in Gardneria. Our people hate each other.

No, this isn’t good. This is a road best not traveled down—a road leading straight off a cliff.

“Jarod,” I say, a cautionary note to my tone, “Aislinn’s become a good friend to me.”

He cocks one eyebrow and regards me coolly. “I know, Elloren,” he says slowly. “To me, as well.”

“I can see that,” I reply as I glance pointedly at the arm he has wrapped loosely around her. “I just don’t want to see her get hurt.” The atmosphere between us grows chilled, the tension palpable.

“And you think wandfasting to Randall is the best way for Aislinn to not get hurt?”

I don’t know what to say to that, and am momentarily unnerved by those glowing amber eyes of his boring into me.

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