Witching Time (The Wild Hunt #14) - Yasmine Galenorn Page 0,10
working with both the Wild Hunt and Mielikki’s Arrow on the front lines. I’m on call for when the dead rise. Meanwhile, tomorrow, I need to go over to visit a tarot client who’s got some sort of poltergeist energy running amok in her house. I don’t know how long it will take. And tomorrow evening is the opening of the harvest fair, so I’ll be heading out to Marigold and Rain’s house. Kipa, would you entertain my father while I’m out?”
“I was going to go with you—” Kipa began, then paused. “Of course, I’ll be happy to.”
“Better than that,” Phasmoria said, “I’ll stay the night and tomorrow, while you’re at your client’s house, I know a little bar where we can get a drink and we won’t run into any Fae, humans, or magic-born, so Curikan, you’ll be safe to visit. Kipa, why don’t you come with us?”
I stared at her. “Where is it? Why haven’t I’ve heard of it?”
“It’s owned by one of the Ante-Fae—Yinny. The bar’s called Cellar Chain, and it’s out past TirNaNog, on one of the backroads. Exclusive to the Ante-Fae and deities.” She grinned. “I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of it. It’s a key-club. I’ll make sure to get you on the list.”
I was about to say I didn’t need access, but the oven timer rang. The eggplant parmesan was ready. I turned to Kipa. “Love, can you set the table while I see to dinner? We’ll eat in about ten minutes.”
As I headed into the kitchen, I glanced back. My mother, the Bean Sidhe, was chatting with my father, one of the Black Dogs, while my Lord of the Wolves boyfriend was listening. Yeah, families. Sometimes they could be the quirkiest groups around.
Chapter Three
The next morning, after a long evening of reminiscing, I woke next to Kipa. I turned to face him, hunkering down under the covers as the rain beat a steady rhythm against the window. It was supposed to clear up during the afternoon, and then be cool and crisp during the evening for the start of the harvest fair.
Kipa opened his eyes and murmured something, reaching for me. I slid into his arms, silently pressing my lips against his, fully intending to take advantage of him, when a knock interrupted any thoughts of morning nookie.
“I made breakfast!” My father’s voice echoed from the other side of the door and I quickly disentangled myself, pushing myself to a sitting position as I pulled the covers up under my chin.
“We’ll be out after we shower!” I called. “Don’t come in!” It never bothered me when my mother interrupted our sleep, but with my father, I felt the urge to hide Kipa in the closet. Curikan knew full well that Kipa had stayed, but even so, I had the disarming image of him charging in to save me from the clutches of a god.
Kipa laughed, lazily sitting up. The covers fell across his lap and his hair was tousled, trailing down his back. With his bedroom eyes, he looked sleepy and sexy and I wanted to wrap myself around him even more. I settled for wrapping my arms around his waist and kissing him on the neck.
“Morning, love,” I whispered, nibbling on his ear.
He glanced over his shoulder, arching his eyebrows. “Morning, gorgeous.”
We took a quick shower together, and while ten minutes wasn’t really enough time, we managed to slip in a quick tryst under the running water, with me pressed against the shower wall while Kipa ate me out, kneeling between my legs. I let out a sharp cry as I came—he knew how to work my body—and then lathered up with some shower gel and gave him a quick hand job as the water streamed over us. Momentarily satisfied, we finished rinsing off and while I blow-dried my hair, Kipa plaited his own into a French braid.
“Toss me my clothes, would you?” I asked from the vanity.
Kipa carried over the outfit I had chosen. I slid into black tights, then a kicky three-tiered black skirt. I fastened my bra—underwire was a must for my girls—and then pulled on a black sheer long-sleeved top over it. You could barely see the intricate designs covering my torso and arms through the shirt. I had elaborate birthmarks that rivaled the best tattoos. Scrollwork and Celtic knots trailed up my arms from wrist to shoulder, weaving across my chest and torso thanks to my father. My back was covered with the design of wings—a