“Sickens?” The prospect of life as a Lykae was that repulsive to her? Losing the reins of his temper, Munro rubbed his throat again and snapped, “You know what, sweetheart? We’re under the gun here, and I’ve had a day. So I’m just going to lay this out there for you: I know better than you do.”
Her lips parted.
“You think like a human, only concerned with the short term. My view is looong. And it’s right. You’ll understand once you gain some wisdom and perspective with age. Until that time, you’re bound by the vows you made me, so let’s no’ waste any more time.”
“Oh, really?” A cunning glimmer lit her gaze, like he’d just picked the wrong shell in her carnie game. “Original Ren made those vows in another era, and the past remains in the past. I am a clean slate. No vows here. This replica is outside of time—and outside of the rules.”
Ren was enjoying Munro’s bemused expression—realizing I’m not to be controlled, wolf?—when a trio of females swerved from the shop.
Munro exhaled. “Witches. With impeccable timing.
According to the Book of Lore, the witches were mystical mercenaries who sold their spells and services to the highest bidder. These three looked human, but Ren sensed power in them. And alcohol. Was anyone in this city sober? When the trio ogled Munro’s bared and bloodied chest, irritation grated at Ren.
“Hotter!” one of them called to him. “Or are you only Hot? I can’t tell!”
He muttered, “That never gets old.”
“What are they talking about?”
As if the words were dragged from him, he said, “Some in the Lore have nicknamed my identical twin and me Hot and Hotter. They debate which one is which.”
“As in more attractive?”
“Again, we’re identical.”
When the females closed in, one hiccupped and said, “Hey, why’re you hanging out with an organic?”
Ren raised her brows. “Organic?”
“Another term for a human,” Munro explained. “It means you’re highly perishable.”
The third witch slurred, “I sensh tenshon ’tween you two. Is she the one who knocked your dick in the dirt?” That female raised her palm to Ren. “High fiiiiive.”
Ren frowned. “Pardon?”
“Low five!” The female pouted. “No five?”
Huh?
“A little privacy, ladies,” Munro said, and they finally filed around him, blowing kisses as they departed. To Ren, he said, “Replica or not, you’re still you. Do your vows mean nothing?”
The nerve! “Oh, you’re one to talk. You put the lie in Lykae! But for your information, my vows mean everything. If the ones I made to you still count, then the wedding vows I made to Jacob do too, and I made those first.” She would never forget how valiantly Jacob had fought all the way up to what they’d thought was the end.
“The groom released you from your obligations. Besides, he’s long gone now. You’re a widow, free to be with me.”
Jacob had been ready to give her over to the wolf to keep her safe, had always put her needs above his own. He’d had secret dreams for them both, and he loved her—unlike Munro, who only wanted to possess her and who looked down on her very species. Jacob was as honest and forthright as the wolf was dishonest and scheming.
From inside the shop, a woman called, “Munro, you had better come in.” Was that Loa? “The warlocks will be lookin’ for you here first.”
He said to Ren, “The devil you know?”
Despite Munro telling her it was impossible to return to her time, she had three reasons to believe otherwise. One, she didn’t trust anything he said. Two, even if he’d told the truth, she could return to the past without fading—if she’d died back then. And three, she feared she’d go crazy if all hope was lost.
Unfortunately, she needed immortal help to return to her time. To complete her mission, she had to risk him completing his. “Fine.”
He took her arm and ushered her up the stairs. Small signs plastered the door of the ramshackle structure, and a bell rang overhead. Munro had to duck under the doorframe.
The interior smelled of incense and looked no different from any of the gift shops she’d passed earlier. He led her toward the back, to a shelf of dried alligator heads and black candles.
Which wasn’t a shelf at all, but an optical illusion. He walked them through it, and another candlelit store spread out before her. The fine hairs on Ren’s nape stood up. This was the Lore store.
Aisles were stocked with unfamiliar goods, and books lined the shelves. What did monsters buy or read?
Signs throughout the shop heralded:
Accession sale!
Not one iota cheaper! (but do you care?)
Everything must go (because apocalypse!)
Ren glared at Munro. “Naturally, you brought me to the End Times. This gets better and better.”
“That’s nothing more than marketing. Probably. Just ignore it.”
“I know what an Accession is.” Occurring every five centuries, Accessions were dangerous times in the Lore, rife with battles between immortal species. Which was great for humanity—unless mortals got caught in the crosshairs.