Page 21 of Warlords, Witches & Wolves

Chapter 9

The sweetest words had come out of Anise’s mouth, but Caraway couldn’t give her the answer she needed. Not only was the cold in his system taking over, but he didn’t know if mating was in his future as a Guardian.

He shivered uncontrollably. Concern replaced the light in Anise’s eyes.

“We have to get you somewhere warm,” she said.

He nodded. “P-Portal stone in my p-pocket-t.”

She dug into his pants pocket and drew out a smooth stone that she placed in his cold, shaking fingers. He gave the frozen museum a scathing once-over—there had been no evidence that the witch had been working with the humans, but Caraway hadn’t really had time to conduct a thorough investigation and those gargoyles definitely weren’t natural.

Now he’d been here, he could create his own portal stone back. All he needed was something native to the place.

“I need to c-collect some s-snow,” he said. “F-for a portal stone.”

Anise nodded and rifled around her bag for her waterskin. She emptied it and scooped some snow in. It would do.

He activated the portal, right there inside the hall. The transference of energy ripped a hole in space and time. He held out a hand to Anise. Before she took it, she collected her dagger from the throne and gave the dead witch one last look. Caraway thought he saw pity in her eyes and wondered what had transpired while he’d been frozen.

Then Anise took his hand and together they walked through the portal. They arrived not at the Order, as he’d thought, but on the snow-dusted sandy banks of a sacred lake near Rush’s cabin. Rush and Clarke had lived here for two years while they raised their newborn away from society.

The sun dipped beyond the horizon, and darkness loomed.

Caraway searched in his pockets for the other portal stone, the one that would take them back to the Order, but Anise stopped him.

“Look,” she said and pointed to the wooden cabin set near some trees.

Smoke curled from the chimney.

“It’s Rush’s c-cabin,” he explained, still stuttering from the cold. “Before I left the Order, Clarke s-sent me a portal stone that came here.”

Anise grinned. “Gotta love that psychic human. Wish all of them were like her. It’s getting dark and the cabin looks warm. Let’s make camp for the night.”

He gave her a quizzical look.

Anise elaborated. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Come on. Let’s get you warmed up.”

She took his cold hand and pulled him toward the cabin. On the porch, they kicked the snow from their boots and then entered the one-room cabin. Inside was a bed, a kitchen counter, and a crackling fireplace with two small fire sprites dancing on a log to keep it smoldering. One male, one female. They paused upon Caraway’s and Anise’s entry and squeaked at the intrusion.

Caraway showed them the spent portal stone. “C-Clarke invited us.”

The sprites—glowing red and orange figures made of flames—stared and then resumed their dancing, ignoring Anise and Caraway.

But the heat... it was divine.

Caraway shuffled closer to the fireplace and crouched low. He held his palms out and let the warmth suffuse his body, vaguely aware of Anise’s bustling behind him in the kitchen. When she brought a ceramic pot filled with soup over to the fire, he realized she’d been cooking and a few minutes had gone by.

“There were root vegetables under the counter,” she explained and placed the pot so it would cook.

The sprites grew curious and looked over the pot at the contents.

Once satisfied the sprites weren’t going to cause mischief, Anise turned to Caraway with a determined look on her face.

“Time to get you out of the wet clothes.”

His lips twitched. The fire was doing its job superbly at warming and drying him. He didn’t need to, but hewantedto, so he let her systematically set about helping him out of his Guardian uniform. First, she removed his baldric and sword, then his boots. When she got to his jacket, he was already warmed up and getting hotter by the second. Her touch took the chill away more than any fire could.

This female, his friend who’d shared so much with him, was taking care of him. No one had done so since his youth—since before his mother and father had branded him as a violent anarchist.

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