Page 42 of Wolf, Willow, Witch
“Hey.” Lincoln finished taping a new bandage over the handprint—hishandprint—and brushed his knuckles across her cheek. “You good?”
Tehlor chewed her bottom lip. “Tired.”
They hadn’t talked about it. Not extensively, at least.
The night she’d become death, met death, escaped death, Tehlor had startled awake, confused and terrified, reaching for Lincoln. He’d fumbled for her quaky hands. Made a sound shaped like severe relief. Kissed her desperately.
She was alive, Haven was destroyed, and Lincoln hadn’t left.
Fuckin’ hell.
Nothing else mattered, really.
She pushed her shirt into place and sat up, grimacing.
“I made Sophia some toast earlier, but she won’t come down," he said.
Tehlor remembered Sophia slinking through the doorway after she'd lurched into Lincoln's arms. Remembered pitch-black eyes, gnashing teeth, how an hour before that, the strange, magically compromised girl had pierced through Fenrir's shield and managed to enter Tehlor's mind.Powerful little thing. Fear paralyzed her, but she swallowed and steeled her expression.
“Fair. I wouldn’t come down either if…” She gestured between herself and Lincoln. “We were waiting.”
Lincoln sat on the edge of the coffee table. Sometimes when she looked at him, she saw blood where there wasn’t any. Flashbacks from the revival came and went, snapping around her heart like a beartrap. For seven days, she’d avoided her reflection, afraid Rose Whitman might look back at her. She glanced away, focusing on a ritual candle melting on the windowsill. She’d etched runes into the wax and prayed for flowers on her bed again. But the candle burned, and the house slumbered, and her gods did not grant another audience.
"Maybe you should talk to her."
Tehlor stood, bracing on the armrest, then the back of the couch. She glanced at the ceiling. “I'll give her another day."
“We might nothaveanother day,” he said, sighing.
Gunnhild squeaked. She climbed out of the snuggle ball tucked against the corner of the couch and hopped over to Tehlor, asking to be held.
A car door opened and closed. Another did, too. Ice crunched under weighty steps. Shoes made hollow, hoof-life sounds on the sturdy, renovated porch.
Tehlor placed Gunnhild on her shoulder and inhaled a long, deep breath. Her lungs tightened. She glanced at Lincoln and lifted a brow, shifting her jaw back and forth.
The lock twisted. Afternoon light streamed into the foyer followed by a dusting of fresh snow.
“Welcome home,” Tehlor said.
Colin Hart paused mid-unlace of one polished Oxford. Shadows purpled the thin skin beneath his sunken eyes, and a bruise marred the angelic ink creeping above his collar. Whatever he’d been dealing with, it looked exhausting. He tilted his head, inquisitive gaze flicking around the quiet house. Tehlor stepped into view, leaning her shoulder against the closed closet.
“Oh, hey. What’re you…” Colin’s question disintegrated.
Lincoln followed Tehlor’s lead, walking around the back of the couch to stand at the end of the hall. He leaned against the kitchen table with his thumbs curled through his beltloops, chin held high, staring at Colin down the slope of his human nose.
Bishop shouldered through the front door and dropped their backpack. Snow clung to their denim coat, and they plucked their glasses off to clean the lenses with their sleeve, shooting Colin a tired, confused smile.
“What…” They slid their glasses back on and followed Colin’s harsh gaze.
The moment Bishop Martínez laid their eyes on Lincoln Stone the air turned electric. Their pupils stretched into diamonds. They reached into their waistband and drew a sleek, black pistol, swinging the weapon forward without pause. They held the gun firmly, chest-high, and stepped in front of Colin.
“Be for real,” Tehlor barked. She rolled her eyes and scratched the top of Gunnhild’s head.
Above them, hinges creaked. The landing at the top of the staircase wheezed beneath cautious footsteps. Once again, the house on Staghorn Way began to tremble.
Bishop did not lower the gun. Colin held his breath. Behind her, Lincoln hummed, soft and thoughtful.
Great, she thought.Here we go.
Tehlor sighed. “We’ve got bigger problems, brujo.”
