as impatient as Romulus himself, but doing a terrible job of masking it.
“Devon,” he said at last, and another gush of power drenched the room.
Romulus’s mother sucked in a startled breath and forgot herself for a moment, looking down on Charity with wide eyes. Her decorum was slow in returning.
“Why wasn’t I summoned sooner?” she demanded, turning to the healers. “This young woman is on her deathbed, with enough power to take you with her.”
A sort of green magic rose from Devon like a mist, curling through the air before disappearing. It was gone so fast that Romulus almost thought he’d imagined it. Charity’s magic was subdued quickly even as spikes of pain flayed Romulus where he stood.
His mother reacted blatantly again, turning her wide eyes on Devon this time. “My goodness. I had no idea your kind could handle this sort of onslaught.” She didn’t waste time looking for an answer. “Healers, quick, ready the draught to awaken her. Bring in more anchors. It will take the strongest in the village to turn her from this destructive path.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Devon stood at Charity’s side, his placement indicating something of value he couldn’t quite pick up on, while subdued—though clearly excited—fae filled the room. These people communicated similarly to shifters, using their posturing and movements to relay most of their directives. It occurred to Devon that he’d probably fit in here better than Charity until she could get a handle on it.
That was, if they would let him. After the demon battle, and after they’d used the fae’s supplies for a funeral fire, saying goodbye to their pack mate and friend, his pack had been assigned a spot slightly removed from the fae’s fire. Not much removed—Penny hadn’t thought anything of the separation—but Emery had noticed. He’d just smirked and shaken his head, happy to be aloof with a people who didn’t value his company.
Devon didn’t have that luxury.
These were Charity’s people, without a doubt. The man in her mother’s picture was standing opposite him, and he didn’t look a day older than when the photo had been taken. This was Charity’s new world. These fae already accepted her as one of them—he could see it in their concerned expressions. In the joy in her father’s eyes. She’d have a new family, a new community. If Devon was ostracized from that community…
He pushed down his uncertainty and ignored the memory of Karen’s words. That wasn’t a concern right now. They had to get Charity out of danger.
He pumped out his power, mixing it with the incredibly potent fae magic around him, and pushed it through the link with Charity.
“We are ready, First,” said a rosy-cheeked woman in a white robe. She cradled a plain wooden bowl in her hands.
“Close the door,” said the woman who stood at Charity’s head. Her grandmother, it had to be. She had auburn hair streaked gray at the temples, wise, knowledgeable eyes, and a few creases around her eyes and mouth. She looked like she was in her forties—like she could be Charity’s mom. Clearly these people didn’t age like humans. Or maybe it was the land that acted as a fountain of youth.
The assassin posing as the Second’s assistant turned ever so slightly. He’d already been blocking the door, but he did so with a slightly more assertive stance. Clearly, he was the door.
“Second.” The rosy-cheeked woman handed the bowl to Charity’s father, who hadn’t had a chance to introduce himself. He took it with steady hands, as though nothing whatsoever troubled him. These people were excellent at masking their feelings. In fact, it seemed to be expected.
“Now,” said the rosy-cheeked healer as she took her place at Charity’s feet. “Given the seeps and surges of her magic, it’s nearing its peak. It is trying to flower into its true potential. This draught will help that.” Her eyes flicked to Devon.
Ah, so this explanation was meant for him.
He minimally shifted to show that he was taking it in.
“She will awaken, and then we will get the first true example of her power,” the healer went on.
“Second,” the assistant at the door said, his posture regal and firm.
“Yes, Halvor,” Charity’s dad said, the quirk of his eyebrows indicating he was annoyed by the interruption.
“Hallen has grave warnings about letting Miss Charity’s magic flower without the proper protections.”
“Bring him,” the First said, not looking back.
Hallen, his arrogance dimmed and his white-blond hair released from its hold at the back of his neck, appeared at Halvor’s side. His