could give her any information on her kind, but a tiny spark ignited in her chest anyway, defying her. She thought about her feelings towards elves and realised the reason she had thought them aloof and distant, unfeeling and vicious creatures, was because she had always heard that from her parents, who in turn had heard it from their parents.
What if the reason her kind thought elves were so cruel was because they had refused to help them in the past?
Besides the demons, elves were the oldest species in Hell. If there was a possibility that the elves could help her find the key to unlocking the gate between this plane and the one where her kind lived, she had to pursue it.
She checked that need, tamped down the fire that burned inside her, quelling the urge to go to the elf prince right that moment and shake answers out of him. She pulled down a long, slow breath and then another, seeking calm. Purging the need to seek a way to unlock the gate.
She didn’t want to end up mad, twisted by a pursuit of knowledge that might not bear any fruit.
Too many phoenixes had lost their lives that way.
She wrapped her arms around Hartt’s waist. Besides, as much as she was curious about the world her ancestors had come from, she was happy in this one and was in no hurry to leave it.
Hartt dipped his head and kissed her, a soft slow one that made her feel light inside, warmed by the love she could feel in it and in him.
“Oh, good grief. I leave you alone for two seconds and you’re at it like rabbits. Newly-mates.” Rosalind spoke that last word like it was a curse and Mackenzie could practically hear the eye-roll that accompanied it.
Hartt reluctantly released Mackenzie and looked as if he wanted to scowl at the witch for interrupting them. Rosalind gave him a pointed look, one that dared him to do it. He huffed instead and stepped aside as the blonde approached them, didn’t stop her as she seized Mackenzie’s wrist again and tugged her forwards.
“Knew I shouldn’t have let him take you from me. Honestly. Come along now.” Rosalind looked back at her. “I don’t bite. I leave that to my husband. You’ll find me perfectly charming, absolutely sweet, and adorably acerbic.”
Mackenzie glanced back at Hartt as she tripped along the hallway behind Rosalind.
He shrugged and whispered, “She’s not wrong.”
Rosalind huffed again. “You want to wait outside with your pals? I don’t think so. Dial it back.”
Mackenzie was beginning to like Rosalind with her take-no-crap attitude. She had the feeling that aspect of her personality wasn’t the product of being mated to a powerful male. Rosalind felt powerful in her own right, had clearly lived in the cottage for some time, and ran a business from it by the looks of things.
The witch released her and gathered a cardboard box filled with glass vials into her arms, causing them to clink together as the box bowed and bent and she struggled to lift it. “Bloody things. You’d think the supplier could have used something sturdier. I just don’t know why clients can’t have potions in neat, square bottles that fit together nicely. No… they need the colourful curved bottles with pretty stoppers that look the part.”
“Here, allow me.” Hartt took the box from her, effortlessly lifting it from her arms and waiting for her to direct him.
When she pointed to the far corner, beyond the fireplace, and Hartt headed in that direction, Mackenzie looked there and raised an eyebrow. There were five other boxes like it stacked in a neat pile. How many vials did the witch need? Was this a year’s supply or a month’s?
“Business is booming, I take it?” Hartt set the box down in front of the others, nudging aside a few old tomes.
“No better marketing than word of mouth. A few love spells to the right person, a case of warts on a business or romantic competitor here and there, the odd toxin overdose in an enemy. Before you know it, everyone wants a potion from Rosalind the Great.” The hint of sarcasm in her voice made Mackenzie question the title she had claimed to have, giving her the impression it was something she called herself more than something others called her. “It’s that bloody Atticus’s fault. I swear, you tell a guy to bugger off a few times and then agree to help the persistent bastard,