The Frozen Prince (The Beast Charmer #2) - Maxym M. Martineau Page 0,17

in my mind. “Are you sure that’s it?”

He stopped and clasped my shoulders. “Would you cut it out?” Ahead of us, Noc, Kost, and Gaige halted. “Listen, Leena. I’m okay. Stop blaming yourself.”

I let out a brittle laugh. “I’m trying.” But as much as he wanted me to believe he was fine, nothing could dim the subtle glow of mercury around his irises. Whatever Kaori’s beast, Stella, had done to save Calem’s life was still evident in his eyes. And we had no idea exactly what ramifications he’d face because of it. “Why does it feel like we’re all on the edge of an explosion?”

Calem sighed and wrapped me in a one-armed hug before leading us down the path again. “We’ll figure it out.”

Noc searched my face as we approached. But as much as he wanted to help, there really wasn’t anything he could do. I offered him a reassuring smile and inclined my head. Some of the tension roiling across Noc’s face faded, and he started again toward Midnight Jester, the local black-market tavern, with Kost and Gaige.

“How’s Noc holding up?” Calem’s hands swung by his sides, long hair bouncing along his shoulders in time with his gait.

“I’m not sure.” I hadn’t been the only one battling through the night. “Probably worse than he’s letting on. You know him.”

Calem sighed. “We don’t know much about what happens when an oath is ignored. Hopefully, this mage will help.” He slowed as we hit freshly laid stone pavers marking the entrance to the tavern. My brows drew together as I toed the first slab and was met with a solid thump instead of the rolling squish of dirt.

How long had it been since I’d been back? Enough time for pavers to be laid. What else was new? A shiny iron doorknob glinted in the sun, no longer dented and barely hinged to the door. My gaze flitted to the stone masonry and shuttered windows. Weathered, sure, but was that fresh paint? Ivy shrubs clambered against the walls, and I searched for any other signs of change. It wasn’t like Dez was lazy, but—

Dez. A different flavor of unease hit me as Noc wrenched open the heavy oak door and disappeared inside with Gaige and Kost. Spinning to Calem, I gripped his hands in mine.

“I need a favor.”

Calem raised a brow. “Okay?”

“The bartender is going to cause a scene when he sees me.”

“What kind of scene?” His body went rigid, and his lips peeled back in a perilous show of teeth.

“Not that kind. I’m safe. It’s just…” Meeting Calem’s muted-red eyes, I willed him to catch my drift. It’s not like I’d talked about my previous relationships with any of them. But if anyone would understand, it’d be Calem. He studied me for a moment before realization hit him, and the angry growl brewing on his lips turned into a full-blown laugh.

“Does Noc know?”

I shook my head. “He’s on edge lately, thanks to the oath. We can’t have him going off when we desperately need the information this mage can give us.”

Calem sighed, dropping my hands and gripping the iron doorknob. “You’re asking a lot of me, you know that? Just try to keep this bartender in line. I’ll do my best with our new hothead.” With a subtle smirk still lingering on his lips, he opened the door and walked into the dim lighting of my old stomping grounds. As I followed in his steps, a man with cropped red hair rushed out. He knocked into me, took one look at my annoyed expression, and bolted toward the Kitska Forest.

Manners didn’t apply to those who dealt in black-market information, apparently. Suppressing a scowl, I shut the door behind me. The rush of stale booze and dirty dealings welcomed me, and I hid behind Calem for a moment longer to avoid the inevitable and savor the familiarity of what had once been my home. A few patrons near the door glanced up at our entrance, but they seemed otherwise unmoved. No one asked questions in a place like this.

Iron wall mounts with flickering candles clung to the shiplap, and heavy plank tables with murmuring patrons were scattered across the creaking floorboards. But aside from the errant cobweb here and there clinging to out-of-reach rafters, the place felt remarkably clean. The signature filigree pattern of mold on the windows had been scraped; the pilings of wax on tables were gone; even a few of the booths’ black cushions had been patched. They didn’t