“That wouldn’t be difficult.”
He ignored the sarcastic voice of the not-cat and held her gaze, reaching out to hook a finger under her delicate little chin to make her look up at him.
“I was attempting to find out your name, my bride.”
She blinked, those beautiful amber eyes holding him spellbound for a second. He didn’t think she had enchanted him. No, this was a more ancient and primitive form of witchery—that between a man and a woman. It didn’t matter that she was a mere mortal, and wingless. She was beautiful and she was…
“Mine!” The growl slipped out before he could stop it and broke the spell. She looked up at him, her brows snapped together.
“I most certainly am not yours! My name is Daffi McGee, and absolutely, in no way shape or form, am I yours!”
“You said that twice.” His smile spread and he leaned in. “Methinks the lady argues too much.”
“Ain’t that the fucking truth!”
“I do not!” she said instantly and then growled in frustration, throwing her hands up in the air. “That’s it! Today needs way more cupcakes for me to deal with a stubborn hottie like you! We’ll have to take the long way home and swing by Daphne’s bakery.”
She broke from his hold and stormed ahead. Oberon slid a smug look at the not-cat. His wife-to-be thought he was hot. This boded well.
Then she swung around so quickly he almost trampled her underfoot and poked a sharp nail into his chest. “And,” she demanded accusingly, “how the hell is no one noticing you wandering around dressed like a reject from some epic fantasy film?”
“All fae have inherent illusion enchantments when in the mortal realms,” he informed her. “They see what they expect to see.”
“Plus,” the not-cat added from ankle level. “This is London. Believe me, twinkles here isn’t the weirdest shit people’ll see on the streets today. Not by a long shot.”
“Ohmygod… these are so good,” Daffi mumbled, stuffing her face with chocolately goodness covered in sprinkles almost before she had managed to get their little rag-tag group through the door.
After today and the spells she’d cast, she needed the boost. And it was totally worth the extra time getting home. Being a witch was awesome, but her crazy-high metabolism because of it meant she needed to eat… like a bodybuilder in an eating competition level eat… to maintain the curves that suited her petite frame. Otherwise she just looked dead and not in the current trend fashion-model-type skinniness, but “girl, you need an intervention, or the zombie hunters are gonna nab you” type dead.
Spotting movement out of the corner of her eye, she hooked a booted foot around the door and slammed it with a practiced move, right in the face of her pain-in-the-ass neighbor, Mrs. Askhole. She was a bustling, pretentious ego of a woman looking for something to be offended about. Unfortunately for Daffi, that was often her.
Just as she suspected, the woman hammered on the door, which did absolutely sweet nothing because the wood was spelled to be soundproof. All she felt was the vibrations through the wood.
“Hey, hey, hey, no touchy the cupcakes!” she hissed, spotting Oberon’s large hand reaching for the last double-chocolate, chocolate mousse and chocolate chip cupcake. Daphne called them “Genocide by Chocolate.”
“Touch it,” she warned the fae king with narrowed eyes, “and they’ll have to rename it to ‘Regicide by Chocolate.’”
“She means it,” Garlick commented from ankle height. “Oh, hey, her grand high bitchiness from next door sent us a note.”
Daffi gave Oberon a warning glare and looked down. Sure enough, a pink note was wiggling its way under the door. She snatched it up and read it while eating the last cupcake. Oberon could pull puppy dog eyes all he liked. Cake was cake.
She snorted at the contents of the note. Mrs. Askhole’s writing was as uptight as the woman herself in tightly regimented cursive with aggressive flicks.
“What’s it say?” Garlick asked, jumping up to sit on the console table by the door.
“Apparently we flush the toilet too loudly and you scream too much,” she told him, crumpling the note up and disintegrating it with a thought just in case. For a witch, Mrs. Askhole was careless. Her handwriting was a piece of her and something a witch with less scruples could use against her. Daffi was not that witch. No way, no how… even if she did know at least four curses she could cast using the pen and ink as a basis as well as three more using the bad feeling Mrs. Askhole obviously felt toward her and Garlick.
The cat paused his ongoing cleaning regimen and looked at her over the foot that was currently getting some in-depth attention. What he had between his toes that required a deep dive like that she did not—or did not want—to know.
“I do not scream,” he sniffed, offended. “I enunciate clearly, like a fucking lady.”
“You’re a cat.”
He flicked an ear. “Your point?”
“You can’t be a lady if you’re a cat.”
“Discrimination!”
“Based on what? You’re a cat and titles like that are for humans.”
Garlick huffed sulkily. “I identify as a lady.”
Oberon blinked and looked at the cat again. “You were once human? A human woman? What manner of foul sorcery is this?”
He took a step closer. “Did you have… as well?” he asked in a stage whisper, cupping his hands in front of his chest.
Daffi sighed. “He was never human, nor female,” she told Oberon, handing him the empty cake box. What the cauldron she was going to do with him, she had no idea. She looked at Garlick. She definitely didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with a cat who identified as a lady.
“You do you, your ladyship.”
She sighed as she stalked into the main part of her apartment. Then she froze, catching sight of someone out of the corner of her eye. Whirling around, she met her own gaze in the mirror over the fireplace. Wide amber eyes, dyed pink hair…yup, definitely her. Odd. For a moment she thought she’d seen Sybil.
The photo of her family on the mantlepiece went fuzzy, words starting to form in the picture. Her hand shot out and turned it over. They wouldn’t be having any of that. Today had been weird enough, thank you very much.
“Garlick,” she called out, dropping onto the sofa with a groan. “I think it needs to be takeout night. Be a love and order something yummy for us. Would you?”
“Woohoo! Takeout!” the cat yodeled. “Come on, muscles. Let me introduce you to the wonders of Chinese takeout.”
The two wandered off and Daffi stared at the ceiling as she tried to make sense of what had happened during the day. From the elation of realizing she’d interpreted the ancient sigils correctly right through to the panic of the fae dragon and now having Oberon in her apartment.
“I am so screwed,” she murmured, raking a hand through her hair. In her head it had been intended as a nonchalant movement worthy of the movies—the one where the plucky heroine takes a moment to reflect while looking all elegant and interesting. Yet, all she managed to do was mess up half her messy bun as pink hair fell around her face in loops and snarls.