“For the walls. And white wooden furniture. A chest of drawers, a bookcase, a nice comfy armchair…”
Ash clearly had other things than interior decor on his mind. She gasped as he pushed her against the aforementioned wall, his body hard against hers.
“And…” Her breathing went ragged as his strong fingers skimmed under the waistband of her skirt. “And a cradle.”
He stilled. His hand spread, very gently, across her still-flat stomach. His eyes met hers, pure joy kindling in their dark depths.
“Yes,” she whispered, putting her hand on his.
Our mate, her swan murmured, in utter contentment. Our mate.
Epilogue
Twenty-three years later…
Rory couldn’t help grinning as he turned the last corner. As always, the sight of the Full Moon pub filled his chest with warmth—the solid, comfortable instincts of den and safe and friends.
In a way, the old, whitewashed stone building was more home than any of the places he’d lived as a child. He’d grown up in a succession of different, ever-expanding houses—a necessity, given his parents’ irritating habit of continually presenting him with new siblings—but the Full Moon had always been a constant in his life.
“So many firsts here,” he said out loud, to thin air. “First drink. First kiss. Even my first flight. See up there?” He pointed up at one of the top-floor windows. “Conleth pretended to fall out, so I leaped after him. Didn’t cross my mind that he’d been flying for a year while I was barely fledged. He got grounded for th
at. Literally. Took months for his clipped feathers to grow back in. Good times, good times.”
The empty space next to him said nothing in response. Not that he’d expected it to.
Rory started to head for the front of the pub, but checked himself. The oak door stood ajar, a narrow beam of yellow light striping the street. Even from a distance, he could hear the mingled laughter and chatter of a party in full swing. The evening was still young, but from the sound of things, the pub was already packed with celebrating shifters.
“Let’s go round the back,” he said, switching direction. “It’ll be less crowded.”
A narrow alleyway ran round the side of the pub, barred at the end by a high wooden wall. Rory’s grin stretched wider as he threaded his way round the dumpsters.
“Used to come this way all the time when we were kids,” he said, looking up fondly at the numerous claw-marks scoring the top of the fence. “We were only allowed into the pub itself on special occasions. Naturally that just made us more determined to sneak in at every opportunity.”
Backing away a few steps, he let his animal surge up from the depths of his soul. Golden fur and feathers swept away his skin. The alleyway was too narrow for flight; furling his wings close to his body, he crouched down on his haunches. The claws on his back paws dug into the worn cobblestones.
With a single fluid leap, he cleared the fence. His front talons didn’t even clip the top of it. He frowned as he pulled his griffin back into his human body.
“Huh.” He glanced back at the fence wryly. “I remembered that as taller.”
Nobody replied out loud, but his griffin abruptly sat up in his soul. It tugged at his mind, feathers bristling in anticipation.
Rory laughed at his animal’s eagerness. “Of course he’s here. Where else would he be?”
He didn’t need his griffin’s urging to hurry round the building, to the wide courtyard behind the old pub. With the cold of winter not yet giving way to spring, the picnic tables and benches were empty, umbrellas tightly furled. The rose bushes in the decorative stone planters were just bare, thorny sticks. Stacks of empty beer barrels lined one wall, waiting to be shipped out.
One of his earliest memories was playing hide-and-seek in this courtyard garden. Ducking behind barrels, stifling giggles, yelling at the pegasus triplets when they inevitably used their powers to cheat. Everything was just as he recalled. The only thing that had changed was himself.
Well, and one other thing. Rory touched one of the casks in passing, smiling at the bold yellow logo. The stenciled letters underneath proudly proclaimed: Lionbird Brewery.
The outer door to the cellar was open. Succumbing to a sense of mischief, Rory slowed down, padding as softly as he could down the steps.
Inside it was cool, the air thick with the scents of malt and hops. A single small light bulb illuminated the racks of casks. In the dimness, Rory’s eagle eyes picked out a stocky form kneeling next to one of the fermenting beers.
The man didn’t show any sign of having noticed Rory’s presence, completely focused on his work. The sleeves of his checked flannel shirt were rolled up, exposing heavily tattooed arms. His strong, square hands caressed the oak barrel as if it was a lover’s body. As Rory watched, the other man frowned, rubbing his bearded chin in thought.
Rory folded his arms, fighting down the sappy grin that wanted to spread over his face. “You look like a damn hipster, you know.”
His twin didn’t even glance up, let alone jump. “I am a damn hipster.”