We strengthen each other, our gifts, just by being in close proximity.
The bond between us thickens, then grows taut.
“Lord Williams,” Mirth says. It’s an outright claim, thrumming with power. “You’re standing on the wrong side of this.”
Centuries of seeking the missing sections of our souls stretch between us, but only seconds have actually passed.
I push away from the table, heading for the stage before I even decide to do so. But I’m not beguiled. No, I’m moving toward my soul-bound mate with pure need, pure protective intent.
The momentary hush that fell over the audience cracks wide open. Toffs start jumping up from their seats, scrambling for their belongings.
Getting in my way.
Mirth’s blazing gaze runs over all of them a second time. They literally freeze in place, mouths agape. Hands clutching at clothing or chairs or each other. All that power at their fingertips, all the privilege in the world, and Mirth’s mere presence has them too fearful to even flee. Let alone fight back.
And Mirth isn’t compelling anyone to do anything. Not yet.
A form of empathy, she called it.
I chuckle to myself, elbowing the assholes who’ve stumbled into the aisle out of my way. Empathy. That was the fucking understatement of the fucking century.
“Hold the phone a little higher,” a voice says from the stage. “Scan to the right …”
The young girl raises her phone obligingly, arm shaking.
The realization that they’re being filmed breaks the hold Mirth has on the audience. Essence begins to spark all around me. Most of the spells the mages are conjuring are defensive in nature, protection wards and the like. But some asshole mage in a three-piece suit and a flashy gold watch raises a hand toward Mirth.
I punch him in the back of the head. Hopefully not hard enough to kill him.
He goes down.
Then the screaming and the scrambling start.
Not unusual, honestly— at least not after I start throwing punches in the ring. Though the tenor here is more terror-filled than titillated.
A few more mages start flinging their essence all over the place, most of it hitting me as I shove my way toward Mirth on the stage. Being a giant of a shifter comes with pros and cons, but at least I partially block Mirth and the kids. My stupid suit gets singed. I’m fairly essence-proof, though, and well adapted to functioning under intense pain, so it doesn’t much register.
Mostly because I can’t really take my gaze off the awry goddess awaiting me.
Mirth’s nostrils flare in indignation — a response to me taking hits. The power that’s been protectively undulating around her, spilling over the edge of the stage but not reaching for any of the nearby idiots, now snaps out in multiple directions.
The screaming and scrambling shifts … into laughter.
Ignoring whatever the fuck is happening behind me, I vault onto the stage, easily passing through the energy churning between us. I hesitate, but only for a moment, before meeting Mirth’s gaze.
She smiles up at me sweetly, the expression a disconcerting contrast to the immense power still twined all around her. And the kids.
“Christoph,” a voice purrs over the girl’s phone speaker, “I haven’t seen you since our last raid in New York. You could have called.”
I recognize the voice now. Coda. How the awry hacker and Mirth know each other is something I don’t take the time to worry about, and I don’t break my gaze from Mirth when I respond to the not-so-veiled accusation. “It was a last-minute invitation. And I didn’t know for certain it was them. Not until I saw the kids.”
“Tommy needs your help,” Mirth says, seemingly not at all concerned about my presence at what appears to be a gathering, perhaps even a full branch, of an underground trafficking faction. The Möbius Group. “Please, my lord.”
The gentle request, threaded through with the weight of all the power at Mirth’s command, shudders through me. Still ignoring the stifled laughter and the chaos behind me, I instantly bend a knee and wrap my hand around the bar at the center of the cage door.
Essence protections sear across my palm, over my hand. Pain blazes in its wake, aching through my bones. I ignore it, steadily meeting the boy’s terrified blue eyes through the bars.
Tommy.
