Page 142 of Threadbound

When Jamie carried this back up to their shared room, he was greeted by Bran, Rob, Trixie, and a massive tan-colored wolf with icy blue eyes.

Rob was pressed against the wall by the window, and Trixie had her feet pulled up where she was sitting on the bed, her eyes fixed on the wolf, which was sitting politely between the two beds, large fluffy tail curled around its front paws.

Bran sat on the end of their shared bed, elbows resting on his knees as he studied the wolf from only a few feet away. Everyone—wolf included—looked over when Jamie came through thedoor. Jamie swallowed, set down the tray, and then said the only thing he could think of.

“Tea?”

The others all looked at him as though he’d lost his mind. Including the wolf.

Jamie shrugged and began making himself a cup of tea.

“White, two sugars?” Trixie asked, and Jamie added an extra lump to the cup—he took his with milk and one lump—then walked it over to her.

“Don’t put that crap in a perfectly good cuppa,” Rob grumbled, then got up and made himself a cup. Jamie made one for Bran—sugar, no milk—and then looked down at the wolf.

“You?” he asked it.

And then the wolf stretched—not like an animal stretches, but like it was being pulled like taffy, bones and flesh elongating, twisting, reforming like putty. For a moment, a naked man crouched in the middle of the room, and then, with a swirl of what could only be magic, he was fully dressed in brown slacks and a camel-colored greatcoat over a heavy cream sweater.

It was good Jamie wasn’t holding a cup of tea, because he would have dropped it.

It was like looking at his own face.

“Holy bloody fuck,” Rob rasped out. Jamie couldn’t disagree. He had no idea how Trixie and Bran were reacting to this—he couldn’t tear his eyes away from this complete stranger who so very clearly looked like him.

The wulver cleared his throat. “Yer Nell Weaver’s son,” he said, his brogue thick and his voice rough. “How is she? Nell?”

Jamie blinked rapidly. “Dead,” he blurted, then flushed.

Something that might have been regret slid across the big blond man’s face. “Oh. I’m sorry for yer loss, lad.” He drew in a breath. “All our loss. Nell—was a good woman.”

“Yeah,” Jamie said softly. “She was.”

“I’m sorry I couldna be there,” the wulver said, his blue eyes never leaving Jamie’s. “But I’ve been—working.”

“Working,” Jamie repeated, the word flat.

“You’re Madadh Allaidh,” Bran interrupted suddenly, and the tone in his voice was filled with awe.

Jamie had no idea what that meant, but if Bran was impressed, then he should probably be terrified. Of his own father.

“He’s what?” Rob asked.

“Call me Mad Ally,” the wulver said, still not taking his eyes off Jamie. It sounded similar, but not quite the same as what Bran had called him.

“Why now?” Jamie asked him.

“TheBean Nighesent me ta bring ye back ta the Court.” He finally turned away from Jamie to look at Bran. “Darach mac Craobh-na-Beatha marches on the Court of Shades. Whatever yer meant ta do, ye must do now.”

Bran went even more pale, so much so that Jamie felt a surge of worry.

“We don’t have everything,” Jamie told Mad Ally. “We still need a witch’s blood.”

The wulver turned back to him. “And why doesna yers work?” he asked.

“Mine?” Jamie heard his voice rise sharply. “What do you mean,mine?”

“He doesna have magic, Madadh Allaidh,” Bran said softly.

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