Page 48 of Wooing the Wiccan
There’s an awkward little silence, and I look down at the cutlery in front of me. Great. A bunch of strangers know I’m a dumbass who got lied to by his boyfriend.
“Sammy would never blab personal stuff,” Alistair starts, but Noah cuts in.
“He said you’ve been dating King Raðulfr but hadn’t met the legal requirements yet for him to tell you about everything, and that you found out by accident last night. And yeah, you’re right—I don’t personally welcome every human who learns about the community. Neither does Sam. Alistair doesn’t give tours as part of his job. We’re doing that because we like the king and we think it’s awesome that he’s finally met someone he wants to date. Also because Sam liked you, and he has good taste—present company excepted.” He gestures to Alistair and Andrew.
“I’d be offended by that, but he’s not the first one to say it.” Andrew meets my gaze. “Alistair and Noah might’ve come as a favor to Sam and Raðulfr, but I could’ve stayed at the office. I came because Al and everyone else you talked to this morning said nice things, and I’m nosy.”
I’m still not sure how to feel about the fact that everyone I’ve met in the community so far is connected to Raðulfr, but I guess I shouldn’t let it stop me from learning what I can. If I never want to see them again after this, I don’t have to. “Thanks. I think.”
“Now that I’ve met you, I like you,” he assures me. “I’ll probably even still like you if you decide to dump the king.”
I flinch. It’s still so odd to hear people refer to him that way. The king. King Raðulfr. His Majesty, the King of the Elves. Would it be different if his title was something else? Something like “president” or a completely new-to-me title, like Sam’s “lucifer”? Even though I know it’s the equivalent of an elected position and that he won’t hold the title forever, “king” has specific connotations and associations that I can’t unlearn easily.
“I’m not going to talk about that,” I say. “There’s a lot for me to think about, and you know him personally. I don’t want Ra—the k-king”—I stumble over the word—“to feel like I’m gossiping about him.”
All three of them smile at me. They’re nice smiles, but it’s still weird.
“We weren’t testing you, but if we had been, you would have passed,” Noah says. “Just one thing—Xiao Wei told you about the lifespan thing. Is there anything you’d like to know about elf lifespans specifically that might factor in to all the thinking you’re going to do?”
It only takes a few seconds for his meaning to sink in, and my stomach does a nervous flip. He thinks there’s something about elf lifespans—about Raðulfr’s lifespan—that’s relevant. I swallow dryly. “I’m not sure. Xiao Wei said elves and dragons choose how long they want to live because they can self-heal, and that humans can do the same.”
Noah nods. “Yeah. I hope you don’t mind, but I had a quick look at the notes for where you’re at in the program. It won’t be long before you can do that kind of magic, too, especially now that you know you’re capable of a lot more. The program is kind of rigid because we didn’t want to scare people off.”
That’s reassuring, in a way. I’m excited to learn more about what I can do with magic—it’s a definite upside to everything. “So it’s not out of the question for elves to live as long as the other species? About twelve hundred years or so?” That was the average Xiao Wei told me.
Andrew and Alistair exchange glances. Noah looks at his plate and sighs.
Not good.
“Just tell me.”
“Have you met any other elves?” Alistair asks. “Other than the king?”
“N— Well,” I change my answer, “sort of? I briefly exchanged insults with the head of his security team. Eoin, I think.”
“I’m going to ask for details on that later,” Alistair promises. “But okay, how old do you think Eoin is?”
I snort. “Yesterday I would have said mid-thirties. So, I don’t know… three hundred?” It’s a random guess. He looks a little older than Alistair, and he’s nearly two hundred.
Andrew and Alistair exchange another glance and say nothing.
“Tell me.” I brace. Andrew grimaces but still says nothing.
“Cowards,” Noah mutters, scowling at them. He looks me straight in the eye. “I’ve never asked Eoin exactly how old he is, but from things he’s said, you need to be thinking thousand, not hundred.”
Thousand.
Thousand?
Eoin isthousandsof years old?
And Raðulfr is clearly older than him.
“Oh,” I say faintly.
I have so much to think about.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
