At the word pizza, high-pitched yips sounded in the backyard. One cub popped up from the riverbed, an eager look on his face. There was no sign of the other cub.
“Matt!” Graham shouted. “Get out of there.”
The second wolf scrambled out from under the bridge. He gave Graham and Misty an innocent look, or as innocent as he could with a clump of Angelita daisies drooping from his mouth, their yellow heads bobbing in the sunshine.
• • •
Moonlight. The clear skies of southern Nevada ensured plenty of light once the three-quarter moon rose into the black night.
The moonlight poured down into Misty’s backyard, rendering her colorful flowers pale ghosts of themselves. The neighbor’s tree cast sharp shadows on the patches of grass, and the dry river’s dark rocks took on a dull glow.
The cubs, unbelievably, were asleep. They’d dropped off fearlessly on top of Misty’s bed after consuming more than their bodyweight in meat-lovers’ pizza.
Misty’s aching body begged for rest, but she was afraid to sleep, afraid to dream. What if she found herself facing the hiker again, the wave of ice? The cubs didn’t worry, but then they hadn’t drunk the Fae water. How the cubs had entered the dream, and whether they’d truly been there, neither she nor Graham knew.
When the moon had risen high, Misty and Graham went out to Misty’s backyard. Graham had told Xav and Reid not to join them. He didn’t know what the spell in the little book would do, if anything, and he didn’t want it messed up by unspelled humans or a Fae—especially not a Fae.
Reid agreed without argument. Xavier didn’t like it, but he stayed inside, saying he’d keep an eye on the cubs.
Xav’s men had not only brought the pizza, but water—glorious water. A case of it, which Misty had drunk almost half of.
Graham had drunk nothing. She knew he was feeling the thirst, because he kept wetting his mouth, or swallowing and turning away as Misty had guzzled water. Why he wouldn’t drink, she had no idea, and he wouldn’t tell her.
Graham helped her carry the accoutrements for the spell outside. Misty had harvested petals from two of the roses she’d brought home from her shop, washing them thoroughly and rolling them dry in a towel.
“You eat flowers?” Graham asked when she told him imbibing the petals would be safe. “Humans are weird.”
“Lots of flowers are edible,” Misty had answered. “Cake bakers paint them with sugar water and use them for edible decoration. Roses, pansies, carnations, squash blossoms. I went to a restaurant where they made sweet corn tamales in squash blossoms. They were awesome. You have to be careful to choose the right kind of flowers, though. Oleanders, for instance will kill you quickly.” She waved her hand at the thick, dark green bushes along her fence.
Misty set everything up at a table on the other side of her yard, which was reached by the little bridge. She spread out a white cloth, scattered the cut rose petals on it, inhaling their fragrance, and consulted the book.
Gather petals of red roses, washed three times. Check. Chopped with a fine-bladed knife. Check.
Immerse in alcohol . . .
That had been an interesting problem. Misty and her friends drank mostly wine and beer, saving hard liquor for martinis on evenings out. Misty wasn’t sure she wanted to gulp down rose petals in beer, or even in the nice white wine a friend had brought her last time she’d come over.
Then Misty had found a bottle in the back of her liquor cabinet. She hadn’t noticed it in a while and hadn’t drunk any for a long time. But it might work.
Now she put the chopped rose petals into two shot glasses, one in front of her and one in front of Graham.
“What is that?” he asked as Misty poured out the liquid. Graham only drank beer too.
“The good stuff.” Misty sat down across from him, lifted her shot glass and waited for him to lift his. “Tequila.”
CHAPTER NINE
Graham shrugged, raised his glass, and clinked it against Misty’s. “Down the hatch.”
“Cheers,” Misty said. They lifted their glasses at the same time and drank in one shot.
The tequila burned Misty’s mouth like liquid fire. The rose petals felt strange against her tongue, but she made herself not spit them out. Some stuck to the bottom of the glass, but that was all right, the spell said. They would bury the spent ones.
Misty swallowed, and the liquor shot down her gullet in a stream of flame. She coughed.
Drink four quantities.
Misty coughed again. One rose petal got caught on her tongue, and she fished it out and dropped it to the table.
Graham wiped his mouth, shaking his head. “What is this—lighter fluid? Humans actually drink this stuff?”
“All the time. Haven’t you ever had a margarita?”
Graham made a face. “You mean that frothy shit in fancy glasses? I don’t drink stuff with slices of fruit stuck in it. Drinks should be in a bottle.”
“You have no soul, Graham.”
“All Shifters have souls.” Graham spoke without humor. “Can you imagine me with my wolves? Hey, thanks for helping me fend off those hunters. How about we kick back, watch the game, and I’ll make some margaritas? Or mimosas. Or wine coolers. Girly drinks. They’d tear me apart and pick a new pack leader real quick.”
“I get it. You’re rugged.” Misty sprinkled more rose petals into the glasses and added another shot of tequila to each. “Four times, the book says.”