by Nadine Mutas
“What was the griffin doing here?” she asked after sizzling silence filled the space between them for a few heartbeats, her hands languidly busy with tending to his “wounds.”
“I assume it sought you out.”
He could feel her frown.
“But,” she said, “how did it even find me?”
“Power draws power. It must have felt yours awakening.”
Her fingers glided over his shoulders. There were no scratches on his shoulders. “And where was it before? How come no one has…mentioned a beast like this roaming around? If it was out there already, it must have been seen by at least one person.”
“As to where it slept”—he tilted his head to the side when she stroked up his neck, her touch sending fiery pleasure cascading down his spine—“it was likely a natural place of magic. And I think it has not been awake for long, otherwise there would have been more widespread accounts of sightings. As it is, I am not aware of any reports, though it is possible a few humans saw it, but had their stories dismissed as fantastical illusions.”
“Like those people claiming to have seen UFOs,” she muttered.
“I suppose it probably spent much of its time in the air, and did not venture into or near human settlements, thus avoiding attention.”
More silence wove between them while her hands mapped his back, featherlight strokes and tentative caresses, each touch at once soothing and heightening the hunger clawing at him from the inside.
“What will happen now that it’s awake and…out there?” Her fingers curled into the hair at the back of his head. His eyes nearly crossed at the sensation. “Where will it stay?”
The griffin had flown off again soon after Lucía woke up, but he could still sense it nearby. “It will linger close to us, given that is has bonded with me and seems to feel some sort of kinship with you.”
“How did you bring it to heel?”
“Power recognizes power.”
An irritated tug on his hair. “Stop being cryptic.”
Most anyone else would find themselves choking on the floor for that. In Maeve, each moment of familiarity and daring annoyance with him was a step worthy of celebration, of praise.
“It senses that the strength of my magic is a match for its own,” he said. “And it will heed my command because part of my power lies in authority over all things wild.”
A beat of silence, her fingers stroking down his neck again. “Are you saying you’re some sort of horse whisperer for beasts?”
The laugh rising up from his chest surprised him. “That is one way to put it.”
The soft pressure of her leaning into him, her front resting against his back.
He held his breath.
Her arms slid around his shoulders from behind, hands gliding down to his chest. Playing with the hair that dusted his front, she kissed his nape. “Laugh again.”
He turned his head to the side. “Make me.”
The air between them sizzled, charged with the slow build of a force that could consume him.
“When I was drowning in the memory of my dream of you,” she said, her breath fanning over his neck, “and didn’t want to give in, I tried to fight it by imagining you dancing in a princess dress in the woods.”
He choked on another laugh, his shoulders shaking under the sweet weight of her arms. “It appears it did not work as intended.”
“No.” A dark grumble. “That dream superimposed itself on everything else.”
Chuckling, he reached for her hand, played with her fingers.
“I was wondering,” she murmured, responding to his touch with equal play. “What does the griffin eat?”
“In ancient times”—he shrugged—“anything and everything that moved.”
She stilled. “Humans, too?”
“I recall they were quite easy for the beasts to catch.”
Her breath left her on a whoosh. “That is…horrible.”
He frowned. “It could get messy these days, yes. Human casualties are notoriously hard to cover up.”
Silence.
“You don’t care about humans,” she whispered. “Do you?”
He didn’t like the chill that pinged along the bond. Half turning his head to her again, he said, “They are not my priority, no.”
“So you consider them dispensable.” Not a question, but a quiet statement, laced with a hint of bitterness.
She withdrew her hands from around his neck, and her retreat cut into pieces inside him that had been softened by her trust, her affection. When she moved out from behind his back, stepped off the couch, he itched to grab her and pull her to him again. He remained still, knowing the move would shred what was left of her appreciation for him.
He leaned back instead, laid both arms on the backrest of the couch, studying her as she looked out the window. “You care for them?”
“Of course I do.” Soft conviction in her tone, a silent backbone of steel underneath her gentle appearance. “I certainly don’t want them to be killed and eaten, whether by demons or some mighty beast.”
He could have figured as much. After all, she was brought up among witches, in a community long considered the last bulwark between the safety of humanity and the threats of otherworld creatures—not by accident, but by design.
He was about to reply when he received a mental message from Deimos.
Sire.
Speak. His second wouldn’t contact him while Arawn was with Maeve unless it was important.
Ms. Morgan is here.
He pursed his lips. Good. Is she ready to meet?
Yes, sire.
Bring her here.
Understood.
Deimos closed the mental pathway just as Arawn rose from the couch, stepped closer to Maeve, who was still gazing out the window, her arms crossed.
“I would like to introduce you to someone,” he said.
She looked up at him from underneath those glorious lashes. “Who?”
“Someone with the skills to help you.” He inclined his head. “If you wish.”
Her fine ginger brows drew together, but she followed his lead as he ushered her out the door and over the bridge to the slope beyond it. Deimos approached with his guest at that very moment, the fireflies’ glow above the forest path shedding enough light to reveal a petite female wearing business attire.
Arawn nodded at his second, and Deimos left with a murmured word to Ms. Morgan before they reached the slope where Maeve waited, her widened eyes not on the female but on the male accompanying her. As soon as Deimos disappeared down the path again, Maeve’s posture relaxed.
“Ms. Morgan,” Arawn said. “Welcome to my lands. I assume your journey was uneventful?”
“Smooth sailing, my lord.” The female bowed, the light of the will-o’-the-wisps floating over the bridge gleaming on her jet-black hair, which she’d pulled into a tight chignon.
“I would like you to meet Maeve.” He nodded at his witch beside him. “Maeve, this is Tashia Morgan. She is a licensed psychotherapist who specializes in counseling survivors of trauma.” He made a pause. “Incidentally, she is also a demon.”
Chapter 23
“Hello, Maeve.” The female demon—Tashia—held out her hand, her elegant smile enhancing the beauty of her light brown face. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Maeve shook the other woman’s hand, her mind and heart spinning trying to catch up. Of all the perplexing, poignant things Arawn had done, this ranked among the most astounding. He found an otherworldly therapist for her, so she’d have someone to tell her story to. All of it.
Arawn seemed to absorb her tiniest tells, his evergreen eyes piercing in their perceptiveness. “Ms. Morgan will be around for you, should you choose to talk to her. It is entirely up to you. You do not need to see her if you prefer not to.” He nodded at Tashia. “One of my enforcers will be waiting for you at the fork in the path when you are ready to return to your quarters.”
Facing Maeve, he gave her a look tha
t could very well have singed the clothes off her and burned deeper, to the bottom of her heart. Shadows swirled in the depths of his eyes, like dark mist spreading in the woods. “I will see you tomorrow.”
She didn’t reply, simply watched him turn and walk down the path, the fireflies’ soft light caressing the taut muscles in his broad back…the way she had just minutes earlier. Before the flame he kindled chilled at the reminder of the sort of callousness she should not have forgotten to expect from the Demon Lord.
Tashia cleared her throat. “I’d like to reiterate that there’s no obligation to see me. I want you to know that you shouldn’t feel pressured to talk to me. I’m here if you want to try a session, or we could always have a casual chat over coffee first, so you can get to know me. Or”—a shrug of her graceful shoulders under her black blazer—“we needn’t meet at all. It’s entirely your choice, and if you decline the offer, I won’t take it any way other than you choosing what’s right for you, and what you feel comfortable with.”
Maeve’s hand itched to pull her hair in front of her face. She crossed her arms instead. “What do you know about me?”
“Just that you had a traumatic experience you’re struggling with. Nothing more than that. Whether or not you want me to know more, and how much, is totally up to you.”
Maeve nodded absent-mindedly, pressing her lips together.
“You can sleep on it,” Tashia said, her voice gentle. “If you want to see me, simply send word. I’ll be ar—”
“Would you like coffee?”
The female demon didn’t miss a beat, simply gave her a graceful smile. “Yes, thank you.”
In the cabin, Maeve prepared the coffee in the small machine stocked in her kitchenette, set sugar and cream—from her mini-fridge—on the table in the corner, where Tashia had taken a seat. While the aroma of the brew wafted through the room, Maeve turned to study the female demon.
“Where are you from?”
“Los Angeles,” Tashia replied. “Although I lived in Atlanta for a while. Originally from Boston, though.”
“And you came here…just like that?”
“Well.” A small smile played around Tashia’s mouth. “Lord Arawn made me a very generous offer for relocating here. To be honest, I wouldn’t even have to work anymore thanks to his generosity.” She shrugged. “But I want to. And I like the area. I used to come up to the Pacific Northwest to hike.”
When the coffee was ready, Maeve poured two cups and carried them over to the table. “What about your clients back in LA?”
Tashia nodded. “Perceptive question. It’s always a bit tricky to move when you’re a therapist and have clients who trust you—sometimes even depend on you for their mental health. None of my cases are truly critical in that sense, which made the move easier, but I made sure to recommend my human clients to trusted colleagues who match the client’s individual profile. As for my otherworldly clients, I’ll still be seeing them until their therapy needs are fulfilled, because finding another non-human therapist for them is so difficult. We are few and far between.”
Maeve frowned. “So you’ll fly down there regularly to see those clients?”
“Yes. I don’t mind traveling.” Another elegant smile, the female’s brown eyes glowing warmly.
Taking a sip from her mug, Maeve pondered for a moment. She didn’t know what to make of the feeling spreading in her chest at the sheer thoughtfulness and effort Arawn had put into making this possible for her.
We are few and far between. She didn’t know hard numbers, but chances were good that otherworldly therapists were indeed a rare breed, probably only a handful of them in the entire United States. And Arawn managed not just to find any one of them, but a female who specialized in dealing with trauma, plus he had succeeded in recruiting her for permanent relocation—so there’d be no deadline for Maeve to decide if she wanted to see her. If the therapist lived and worked in this area from now on, Maeve would be free to go to her at any time, even if it was months down the line.
Shaking off that train of thought and the unsettling—for it was far too warm—feeling that went along with it, she returned her attention to Tashia. “What kind of demon are you?”
“A reflector.” The other woman sipped from her mug. “My power is mirroring. I can sense people’s feelings and reflect them back to them, which enhances that particular emotion at the expense of others.”
Maeve gasped softly as a full understanding of that kind of power sank in. “You could drive someone mad.”
“I choose to do the opposite.” A small smile. “A lot of my kind deliberately mirror negative emotions to feed on them. There is a certain rush when absorbing feelings on the darker side of the emotional spectrum, but feeding on positive emotions is just as nourishing for us. Many reflectors simply go for the high of negative feelings. I refuse to do it.”
“So you…use your powers during therapy sessions? How does that work?”
Tashia shook her head. “I only mirror with my otherworldly clients, because I can ask their permission beforehand. With humans that’s not possible, for obvious reasons, and I’d never just reflect without the client’s consent. That would be inappropriate. There has to be a foundation of trust between the client and me, so they’ll feel safe allowing me to decide which emotions to reflect.”
The petite woman took another sip of her coffee. “With those who give me permission, I mostly mirror the feelings they need to nurture in themselves with regard to whatever issues they have. Someone who is struggling with a negative self-image from years of verbal abuse, for example, would need to feel good about themselves and nurture self-love. So I’ll mirror those feelings when they arise while we talk.”
Maeve stared at the demon, her coffee nearly forgotten on the table. “That is incredibly fascinating. I’ve never heard of reflectors, much less how their powers work.”
A sparkle in Tashia’s smile. “Would you like a demonstration?”
Maeve considered it for a second, nodded, her heart aflutter in her chest.
Tashia’s eyes shifted from warm brown to quicksilver. The air hummed with power, a gentle buzz, and then… Excitement pounded through Maeve’s veins in prickling, sparkling waves chased by the astounded awe of fascination on steroids. Her heart jumped into her throat, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears. Skin flushing hot, she nearly wanted to leap to her feet and dance for the sheer force of her overjoyed agitation.
Tashia regarded her out of eyes that were back to their usual brown, then winked at her. “I overdid it a bit for the sake of example. It can be much subtler.”
Maeve cleared her throat. “I’m ashamed to admit that if I had that power, I might use it for baser motives. Making the guy who looks at you all creepy on the way to school suddenly cry for no apparent reason sounds way too tempting.”
Tashia smirked, rubbed her nose. “Well, I never said I’ve always been a saint.”
Maeve grinned. “I think we’ll get along well.”
They drank coffee in companionable silence for a moment, before Maeve ventured, “How…how would it go, if I did want to talk about…”
Tashia set down her mug. “First of all, you need to know that you can tell me as little or as much as you want. Actually, I don’t even need to know details of what happened—unless you want to share them. Sometimes, it’s important to unload, to get it out there, especially with someone neutral, someone you don’t have to worry about hurting with your pain.”
Maeve lowered her eyes. Damn, Tashia was good.
“Second,” the other female continued, “apart from talking about it if you need to, therapy is mainly about helping you deal with whatever PTSD symptoms may be impairing your life and comfort. That’s really the big deal for most of my clients. They have open wounds impacting how they go about their daily lives, and sometimes those wounds make it difficult to have any sort of normal life at all. So my questions would really be about what negative effects your trauma has had on your life, and then w
e’ll figure out how to deal with that.”
She didn’t realize she was crying until a tear plopped onto her hand. Sniffing, she wiped at her cheeks, her face heating. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” Tashia pulled out a tissue, handed it over. “I want you to know that this—talking to me—is a safe place for you, okay? There’ll be no judgment from me, and my oath as a healer stands that I will not pass on anything you tell me here—to anyone. Not even Lord Arawn.”
Maeve sniffed again, nodded. “Okay.”
“Whenever you’d like to start,” Tashia said, leaning back in her chair, “some things I would ask you about are how you’re sleeping and whether you have intrusive thoughts or flashbacks. I would try to gauge how severe the PTSD symptoms are for you, so we can work on reducing them.” A pause. “Take your time to answer—if at all—and just know that I’m here for you. You’re safe.”
Those last two words sent more silent tears rolling down her cheeks, her chest both filled and hollowed out by the promise of a catharsis she hadn’t seen coming.
Chapter 24
Arawn found her and Kelior in a clearing bordering a stream—with the griffin languidly sunning its wings between them.
The fae male lingered a healthy distance from the beast, kept glancing at it with unabated shock written all over his face, whereas Maeve sat between its feathered front legs, a book on her lap, and she seemed thoroughly unconcerned by the nearness of claws the size of sabers. The griffin inclined its head as Arawn approached, a glint of welcome in its primeval gaze.
Guard her, his powers whispered to the Old One. Protect her when I am not near.
The griffin gave him a look that clearly said it didn’t need to be told that.
Some invisible weight lifted off his shoulders at knowing he could rely on one of the most formidable forces in the world to keep her safe, and he nodded at Kelior, sending him away.