And Cold Creek was Donal’s choice for a home. “I’m interested.” He glanced toward the back where the Cosantir was serving the dwarves. “That was what he approved? For you to offer me a job?”
“Very good. Yes.” Alec smiled. “I checked you out with the Seattle PD; your captain and fellow officers think very highly of you. But Calum wanted to know what drove a wolf to the city.”
Tynan blew out a breath.
Alec’s eyebrows rose.
“Sorry. To you, he’s just your littermate. For the rest of us Daonain, being summoned by the Cosantir has a shifter wondering what he fucked up. Then you offer me a job. It’s like falling off a steep cliff, expecting to be splattered on the rocks, and landing in a lake instead.”
“Well, hell, sorry about that.” Alec grinned and rose. “If you’re not too badly drenched, let’s go start on the paperwork to make you official.”
Tynan grinned back, even the thought of paperwork not a deterrent. “Let’s do that.”
Oh, gopher-guts. Angie hadn’t lied, had she? Unable to move from the doorway, Margery stared into the house that she was supposed to live in. And clean.
Angie had planned to be here, too, but her daughter, who lived in a nearby town, had called for her help.
Hoping not to wait until she returned, Margery had asked for the key. She could manage.
Or so she’d thought.
The small house on Cumberland Street was filthy. An offense to her sensitive wolf nose.
Still…
Margery gave a happy hip-wiggle—the human equivalent of a tail-wag—and walked into the house. Mine, all mine. No one would yell her name with demands that she clean up their messes or their pups. No pushy males. No one expecting her to tend their injuries even as they called her gimpy and ugly.
She rubbed her face and dragged herself out of the paw-sucking swamp of pity. Part of her unhappiness there had been her own fault. Her cubling memories had turned Dogwood into a glowing haven of peace and belonging. The other captives had done the same.
The reality was that all villages had good and bad people, whether shifter or human.
Nonetheless, Cold Creek would be better for her than Ailill Ridge. Here, she’d be a waitress, not a banfasa. Here, she had her own house.
In her heart, she lifted a paean of gratitude to the Mother for the chance to start again. For being alive. For spring.
Smiling, she looked around the open living room. Brown carpet, off-white walls, dark blue couch, two comfortable-looking armchairs, and lamps on the end tables. A bookcase covering one wall indicated the previous owner had been a reader.
Story-hunger squeezed her heart. There were books to explore.
Later. Cleaning first.
An island with three tall stools separated the kitchen from the living room. The kitchen was a celebration of wood, from maple farm-style cupboards to butcher block counters. Off to the right, an oval table with ladder-backed chairs formed the dining area.
The fridge had been emptied—thank the Mother—but the cupboards held canned goods, rice, and beans. Angie said the food was all hers.
She wouldn’t starve.
However, the rancid smell and debris everywhere indicated she’d be spending a lot of time cleaning the kitchen.
She kept wandering.
The master bedroom was dominated by a king-sized bed with a blue and brown quilt. The tall dresser and heavy nightstands were dark wood. It was a very masculine room.
The closet was full of clothing.
The second bedroom was small, barely big enough to fit the queen bed. No need to deal with that today.
First things first. She needed a place to sleep tonight. After stripping the bed in the master bedroom, she found the laundry room behind the kitchen. The washer was like the one in Ailill Ridge. She sent up another grateful thought. Even if communal housing had been difficult, she’d obtained the skills to live on her own.
She located cleaning supplies so she could clean the stinky bathroom—ew—before starting on the kitchen.
Outside, a door slammed, making her jump, and she realized the sound came from the house next door.
Scolding herself for curiosity more suited to a cat than a wolf, she stepped to the window and looked out. Unlike her tiny house, her neighbor had a large two-story with a wide wrap-around covered porch.
“Demon choke you”—a skinny male on the porch shook his fist at the house—“you’re a piss-poor excuse for a healer!”
The healer named Donal stepped out. “I’m an excellent healer, as a matter of fact. What I lack is tolerance for rudeness and