Page 33 of Welcome to Blackbird Hollow
“Whatever,” I grumble, taking the handkerchief and doing exactly that. My mouth is sour as he helps me to my feet. Despitethe projectile vomiting, I’m pretty steady, but I’m not gonna ruin the moment.
I drag the back of my hand across my forehead and glance at Caden’s door. To my utter delight, a group of tiny winged creatures is lined up on the porch railing. They shimmer with some kind of iridescence or maybe even bioluminescence, blue-tinged and lovely. Their wings are gossamer-thin, and maybe I’m seeing things, but I swear They’re dressed in little outfits that look like flower petals.
“See!” I near-shout, whipping around to stare at Wyatt as I point toward the porch. “That’swhat I thought They were gonna look like! Cute little guys! In little flower dresses! Not decapitated corpses!”
Wyatt looks between me and the pixies. “They’re laughing at you, I think,” he says.
“Rude,” I reply, pulling my coat closer as I shiver again. “Can you tell Them I’ve just been through something very traumatic and also deeply gross?”
He shoves his hands in his pockets and shakes his head. “We can’t speak to most of Them, pixies included,” he explains. “We don’t know Their language, and They’ve no interest in learning ours. Most of the witches can communicate with Them due to their Changeling blood, and there’s some hedgerider records of Them occasionally choosing to speak with us, but it’s always on Their terms and usually temporary.”
“Huh,” I say, watching one of the pixies dive off the porch railing and zip around the yard. “Do They have any written records? And if so, has anyone tried translating?”
Wyatt stays close, one hand on the small of my back, as we make our way up the porch steps. “Even if They did,” he says carefully, his gaze slipping toward the pixies, who are absolutely watching us with Their beady, black eyes, “I imagine They wouldn’t take kindly to that.”
He lifts his arm and knocks on the door—three quick knocks, a long pause, then three more, followed by one final knock. “Cade, it’s me,” he calls. “Let us in.”
There’s no answer. Wyatt grumbles and knocks again while I look at the pixies. But as magical and earth-shattering as They are, it’s the completely mortal and mostly normal human man I find my attention going toward, no matter how much I fight it. I can’t stop thinking about the way he handled that couple on Main Street. The way he saw that little girl crying and didn’thesitate. I don’t know him that well, but I have no doubt in my mind that Wyatt Hayes can and would absolutely throw the fuck down if push came to shove.
I swallow hard when warmth blooms low in my belly as I recall the way the autumnal midday light sharpened his deeply distracting features. I know he said something to the man—I saw his lips move—but it must’ve been really low, and a strange part of me yearns to hear him speak in that dark, threatening tone, barely more than a growl from the back of his throat.
I hear the door creak open, at which point I get my shit together. “Inside, Blythe,” Wyatt says, gesturing for me to go first, his gaze sweeping the yard and the border of the forest a little ways off.
I oblige, stepping over the threshold and into the front room of the little stone cottage. It’s surprisingly cute, considering a boy lives here. Caden’s got a few framed family photos, a really cool vintage banner with decorative embroidery spelling out “Blackbird Hollow,” and some posters from old horror movies.
A cozy lamp with a fringe-trimmed, bell-shaped shade flicks on, and I find myself looking at Caden Hayes. The youngest Hayes sibling is built like a goddamn linebacker, but with the face of a hero from a gothic romance. He’s got the same dark, gorgeous eyes as his siblings, but his features are a little less rugged than Wyatt’s—like he got more of his mom, maybe.
“What the fuck is with this family?” I mutter under my breath.
“Hey,” Caden greets with an awkward wave. He’s tense, I realize, all those powerful muscles standing out from beneath his thin sweatshirt. “Nice to meet you, Alice. Fallon called me from the house. Would love to let you use the internet. Just a little frazzled. You know. The moon.”
“You’re all good, Cade,” Wyatt says in a soothing tone, coming to stand next to me. “I know you aren’t gonna hurt us.”
“Ha, well,” Caden replies, rubbing the back of his neck in exactly the same way his older brother does. “I’m glad one of us is confident about that.” He pauses, that absurd jawline flexing, his gaze darting to me. “I’m just gonna get the dial-up going. Be right back.” Then he turns and strides down a shadowed hallway, moving like a goddamn Greek god.
“What thefuckis in your genes?” I demand, turning on my heel to look up at Wyatt. He’s closer—closer than I realized—so I see every moment of his confusion as he looks down at his pants and then at mine.
“What’s inyourjeans, Blythe?” he asks, his admittedly very kissable lips curving into an expression that I like very, very much.
I, an adult turning thirty in a few months, turn bright red. I pray fiercely that the cottage’s low light hides the fact. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” I reply. I mean it to come out like a joke, like maybe I’d stick my tongue out after I say it, but it sounds insanely flirtatious.
Anxiety climbs up my throat, and I quickly add, “No,genes, Wyatt.” Then I gesticulate wildly for some reason. “Like, why is everyone in the Hayes family hot? Your little brother looks like he could be on the cover of one of those historical romance novels.”
Wyatt considers this, though his eyes linger down by my hips for a heartbeat before he drags his gaze back up to meet mine. We’re very close, all alone in the cottage’s front room, and he smells wonderful—like pine and woodsmoke.
“Everyone in the Hayes family?” he echoes with a dangerous smile. “Would that include little oldme, Blythe?” He leans closer, so close I can feel the heat of him through his jacket. “What kinda novel would I belong in, do you reckon?”
“Ew,” Caden announces loudly, materializing out of the shadows. “I thought you came here for the internet. Flirt in your own house, Wyatt.”
“We weren’t—” both of us protest, but Caden goes entirely still in a way that sends fear skittering down my spine. I watch as he throws his head back and takes a long, deep breath. For a long moment, I don’t understand. I sure as shit don’t smell anything.
But I’m also not giant and muscly and jumpy around the full moon.
“You’re a fucking werewolf,” I say with glee.
“Yeah,” Caden replies in a low voice, not looking at me. “Could you be quiet so the werewolf can concentrate?”
I almost say “sure” out loud before realizing how stupid that is, so instead I just nod, probably too vigorously. Caden creeps toward the window by the front door, and it does not escape my notice that someone that big shouldn’t move that quietly.
