Stretching, Bard had never felt so satisfied in his life. With a roll of his shoulders, he stepped out of the shower—his second of the day—he found his face grinning stupidly back at himself, reflected in the mirror.
Better than that, though? The sight of his own silver mate marks forever branded into the crook of his shoulder, right where it met his neck.
Best day ever.
He was going to cling to that thought, since the mediation didn’t start until midnight, so technically it would be a different day.
Wolf logic. You either understood it, or went mad trying to follow it.
Shrugging into a set of fresh clothes he had managed to retrieve from his truck while he had been bringing in Harper’s stuff, he got dressed. Like many shifters, he kept a travel bag in his vehicle, filled with a couple of pairs of jeans and shirts; and since he had been planning on spending a few days with his new mate anyways, whether she let him spend the night again or not, he had felt perfectly justified in bringing it along with the rest of the luggage.
See? Wolf logic. There was always a rationale behind it, even if it involved a convoluted twist of logic and the slightest bit of delusion.
Stepping out of the bathroom, he followed the spiritual thread tugging him towards his mate. He clomped down the stairs to find her sitting at the small desk she had set up, where she was pouring over the documents she had received from her grandparents’ solicitor.
Coming up behind her, his hands came to rest on her shoulders, gently moving his massaging grip unerringly for the tense muscles straining her back and neck.
“Mmm, that feels good,” Harper purred, rolling her shoulders into his touch as she stretched with feline grace. Er, she-wolf grace? Bitchy grace would just sound wrong. Wolf logic.
“Find anything interesting?” Bard inquired, leaning down to press a kiss against the top of her head. He had taken a brief glance at them before he had hoped into the shower, but the legalese was dense; it was worse than trying to read Russian or Japanese. Those, at least, he could understand!
“Hmm,” Harper said thoughtfully, leaning back against him as she rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Perhaps. I’d have to double-check a few things, but I think I’ve got the gist of what they want.”
“Bad?” Bard tried not to growl. He really did.
Shrugging, Harper laughed, reaching up to rest her hands atop of his as they gripped her shoulders. “Actually? Not really, not in the way you think, anyways. But I need to think it over a bit, to make sure I’m not missing anything.”
Tilting her head, he pressed his lips to her forehead. “You’ll figure it out, darling.” Looking into her upside-down face, he gave her a cheeky grin, one that kicked up her left eyebrow. “Besides, we’re well and truly mated now, my Harper.”
Laughing, she turned around so she was no longer stuck staring up at him upside down. Rising to her feet, she wrapped her arms around his neck and drew his head down to give him a kiss.
“Yes, yes, we are,”
Unfortunately, even the best of things had to come to an end, and Harper’s cell phone chimed. With a heavy sigh, she drew back and stopped the timer, staring blankly at the phone for a few moments before she straightened her shoulders and tilted her chin up.
“Time to face the firing squad.”
With a sigh of his own, Bard offered his arm and escorted his mate to the amphitheater.
They had conferred and agreed to get to the amphitheater a little early, to get there so they could present a united front against his parents and the arbitrators. While the Leanaí may not have much of a concept of time, they were notoriously grumpy if they were forced to wait.
Despite that, however, by the time they arrived at the amphitheater, they found a small crowd had already begun to form. Brightly illuminated by the electric torches, the entire amphitheater was aglow, creating an oasis of golden light in the otherwise absolute darkness of the Colorado Rockies at night.
Stationed around the top of the amphitheater were the Twilight Knights, the tongue-in-cheek nickname given to the Village’s night patrol, the security guards that patrolled the Estates and protected the Sanctuary.
As they walked hand-in-arm down the stairs, Bard caught Strange’s eye. The vampire was uncharacteristically serious, his partner standing at perfect parade rest beside him, though he did send the two of them a cheeky wink as his alert gaze swept over the grounds.
The lower rows were mostly filled, and clearly divided into two distinct groups. On one side of the stage, every single member of Bard’s pack milled about, conversing lowly with one another. A few of the braver members of the pack cast glares towards Harper, though Bard’s answering look quickly had them turning away.
Opposite of the pack was Ace and his contingent of Travelers. Compared to Bard’s pack of mostly Nordic wolves, most of whom were dressed like they had stepped out of either an LL Bean catalog or had just arrived from Sturgis, the Travelers were a far more eclectic bunch. Each one was as different from the one beside them as possible, encompassing a broad range of races—both Mortal Guise and supernatural heritage. Likewise, their dress and bearing ran the gamut, from Goth to British Punk to College Freshman, and everything in-between.
If the wolves were restless, the Travelers were downright rowdy. Laughing, teasing, tossing what looked to be a frisbee with reckless abandon. As Ace had explained to them, while he might officially be the “chief” of this merry band of misfits, it was more that they all just happened to be tripping along together, instead of having any rigid hierarchy, unlike the wolves, where your place in the pack defined your place in life.
You could claw your way, literally, to the top as long as you could hold it, and risked being challenged at any time by someone who sought to take what you had claimed. It’s made the wolves both feared and hated, for while they might jostle each other for position, they fought together as a pack. Anyone outside the pack, however, was fair game.
Yet, while dealing with a wolf pack would make some supernaturals hesitate, far fewer supernaturals dared fuck with the Travelers. Mess with one, you brought down the wrath of every Traveler, regardless of band, species, or world. Even gods tended to avoid dealing with the Travelers, when they could.
The area between the two groups? The center area of the amphitheater was mostly empty, except for a few familiar faces. Rikard Leon and his anam cara, Sam something or other, were set front-and-center, with Rik’s arm protectively curled around his small, curvy fiancé. Bard hadn’t really met the fiery red head, but he had witnessed the woman dealing with one of Rik’s ex-girlfriends with a thorough ferocity his wolf had approved of. Granted, things had gotten a bit weird during that whole thing, but things always got weird when Sidhe were involved.
Fucking Sidhenaningans.
Next to Sam, the living Mountain, Betrand “Bertie” Goyle sat like the gargoyle he was, absolutely still, yet without a doubt absolutely aware of everything around him. That was the problem with gargoyles. Very, very few things escaped their notice, not when they were in full-on sentinel mode. Bertie was even bigger and meaner looker than Reggie was, but then again, Bertie was the oldest of the Goyle Brothers, and rumored to be the meanest after having to help raise the little fucks.
That said, Bertie made the best desserts Rik had ever tasted, so he could be as loom-y and sentinel-ly as he wanted.
Rik’s sisters were also present, Clara, who oversaw affairs in the Village, and Gen, who was the Estate manager. Glancing around, Bard also saw that Jean-Paul and his wife, Judith, the founders of the Sanctuary and its designated Guardians, were both standing on the stage.
Some of the oldest Sidhe that Bard personally knew, Jean-Paul and Judith appeared to be a couple in their mid-to-late 60s, but elegantly so. Jean-Paul wore slacks and a button-up shirt, with a fitted vest with a subtle damask pattern. His steel-gray hair was slicked back, and he wore an elegantly trimmed and shaped beard. His wife, with her long mane of white hair flowing free, wore a loose, flowing dress, with a delicate lace shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
It was towards them that Bard led Harper, and he had to give his mate a mental high five in her own choice of battle attire.
Figuring that wearing one of her business suits would seem wildly inappropriate, only further driving home her status as an “outsider” and as one of the blue-blood Llewellyn witches, she had instead carefully selected an off-shoulder white blouse, which displayed the silver mating mark on her clavicle for all to see. An ankle-length denim skirt was paired with a pair of low flats. She had also forgone any jewelry, quietly explaining that it would show she wasn’t wearing any talismans or charms.
Despite the chill in the air, his mate showed no sign of discomfort, but as they walked up towards the stage, he wrapped a warm arm around her bare shoulder, tucking her close and sharing his more than available body heat.
“Bon nuit, Mademoiselle Llewellyn,” Jean-Paul dipped his head formally, greeting them as they approached. “Bårdr. I regret the circumstances, but it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Waving his hand towards his wife, Jean-Paul said, “This is my lovely wife, Judith, and you must call me Jean-Paul.” He flashed a charming grin, one that had charmed men and women alike for more than a thousand years.
“Monsieur and Madame Leon,” Harper dipped her head, seemingly unaffected by the Sidhe Lord’s infamous charm. “I apologize for disturbing the peace of the Sanctuary. I do hope we can resolve this situation swiftly and amicably.”
“We’ll see about that,” a growled voice that was sadly all-too-familiar to Bard came from behind them.
With a sigh that quickly morphed into a growl of his own, Bard turned his body, placing himself firmly between his parents and his mate.
Emerging from the ranks of the pack, his parents came to join them on the stage, just to the other side of the Leons.
Bristling with hostility, Roar’s glowing eyes were damn near feral as he glared at Harper, while Karin’s gaze was far more appraising, studying both Bard and Harper equally. When she paled, and her eyes widened in shock, Bard knew his mother had seen not only seen the clearly visible mark on Harper’s neck, but had also caught the one on his own, which he may have revealed by casually reaching up to scratch at the collar of his V-neck Henley shirt.
“Now, Roar,” Judith’s voice was light, chiding, as she turned to face the older wolf. “Please remember, this is a Sanctuary. We’re here to talk and decide if there’s any weight to your belief that your son is under an enchantment.”
“She is a Llewellyn! Of course, she is guilty, it’s in her blood!” Roar snarled. Yep, his father really did come by his name naturally.
“You will have an opportunity to present your case, just as she will have a chance to defend herself, Roar Ulvfang,” Judith responded, her clipped voice dripping with all the disdain only a Sidhe Lady, one from the British Isles, could infuse while still being absolutely polite.
“Yes,” Killian Sinclair’s voice broke in as he walked up to the stage. “Let us get this underway so we can move on to other issues.”
Seeing his father stiffen at Sinclair’s voice, Bard had to admit, he was intrigued. Few living creatures could halt his father in the middle of a rage. Apparently, Sinclair was one of them.
The crowd grew silent as Sinclair moved to center stage. When he turned, and with only the most casual flick of his hand, cloaked the entire amphitheater in the visible manifestation of his indigo-silver misty glamour, his quicksilver eyes pinned Roar for a few moments before they moved to Harper.
“Miss Llewellyn, Roar Ulvfang, please, present yourselves for mediation.”
Sliding out from beneath his arm, Harper drew herself up proudly. When he caught her hand, she gave him a small squeeze before stepping forward.
“Very well. I am Harper Llewellyn, recently of the Atlanta Llewellyns, a daughter of the Morgan Witches, and I am here to prove that Roar is full of bullshit.”
The crowd went wild.
Roar roared in anger.
Bard could not have been prouder.