sweater that called attention to her impressive bust line. Her straight, fine hair fell past her hips, dyed a shade of neon green so vivid, it clashed with Aislyn’s violet bob.
Adding to the rainbow effect, Conal’s huge red bird perched on his shoulder, its flaming tail spilling down his back. Aislyn cuddled the fat white cat with the Southern accent as Branwyn absently stroked Fin’s head. All six of them—Sidhe and familiar alike—watched the strange woman with obvious awe.
Who the hell
is
that?
The two Magekind agents turned as Miranda and Justice joined them.
“There you are. You had me worried, Fuzzball.” Tristan slapped Justice lightly on the shoulder. “But Belle swore Miranda would get you to Shift. And as usual, she was right.”
“I don’t suppose you killed Super Chicken,” Miranda asked.
“No. Ended up chasing the furry bastard halfway across Atlanta, though.” Tristan grimaced in disgust. “He gave us the slip.”
“We were about to gate back to help you when I sensed you Shift.” Belle gave Miranda a wicked little grin. “Somehow I got the feeling you wouldn’t appreciate being interrupted.”
Feeling her cheeks go hot in a redhead’s blush, Miranda gestured toward the stranger with Conal and his sisters. “What’s going on? Who’s the human?” She pitched her voice too low for the newcomer to hear; the woman didn’t give off even a whiff of power.
Until she turned and
looked
at them. The raw magic in her gaze seemed to burn right into Miranda’s brain.
Whatever else she is,
that
is definitely not human. She’s even more powerful than Warlock.
Panic blasted Miranda as the strange woman’s gaze reduced her to the frozen immobility of a rabbit cowering in a hawk’s shadow. She could barely breathe as every instinct howled in incoherent animal panic.
But as she fought to keep the terror from her face, a wave of magic rolled through her consciousness, warm and compassionate as a mother’s touch. The fear melted away like ice in the heat of August.
Miranda jolted back to full awareness with small, warm hands cupping her face. Blinking, she focused on the woman who was suddenly inches away, holding her in a kind, maternal gaze.
Nobody would call her pretty. There was too much strength in the strong-boned features, too many years in the crow’s-feet around those iridescent eyes. Yet somehow she had a wild kind of beauty, like sunrise over the face of the desert.
Miranda swallowed. Her throat felt raw, as if from unvoiced screams. “Why the hell did I think you were human?”
“Because I chose to seem so.” Her voice was surprisingly deep, with a curious accent Miranda didn’t recognize, faintly Gaelic, with a trace of French slur. The woman shrugged, the gesture carelessly eloquent. “Glamor is a skill I’ve had need of, on this world of mortals.”
Miranda knew she didn’t mean glamor in the sense of modern celebrity, but in the original meaning of the word: a spell to make one thing look like another.
Conal dipped his head in a gesture very close to a bow. “Maeve, this is Miranda Drake, the woman we told you about.”
“Yes, I know.” She shot him a glance laced with some impatience, before turning back to Miranda. “I am Maeve. Some call me the Mother of Fairies.”
And I just acted like a total fool
, Miranda thought, feeling her cheeks heat with scalding shame.
She’ll never help us now
. “It’s . . . ah . . . good to meet you.”
“Ah, child, play no such games with me.” Maeve’s surprisingly callused hands fell away from Miranda’s face and gave her shoulder a comforting pat. “Though I suppose it’s no surprise you feel the need. That fool father of yours did his best to break you, didn’t he?”
“And evidently he succeeded,” Miranda muttered, frustrated at her own cluelessness. She promptly cursed herself for revealing weakness to this fairy . . . queen? blacksmith? goddess? She wasn’t just Sidhe; Miranda had met
Adding to the rainbow effect, Conal’s huge red bird perched on his shoulder, its flaming tail spilling down his back. Aislyn cuddled the fat white cat with the Southern accent as Branwyn absently stroked Fin’s head. All six of them—Sidhe and familiar alike—watched the strange woman with obvious awe.
Who the hell
is
that?
The two Magekind agents turned as Miranda and Justice joined them.
“There you are. You had me worried, Fuzzball.” Tristan slapped Justice lightly on the shoulder. “But Belle swore Miranda would get you to Shift. And as usual, she was right.”
“I don’t suppose you killed Super Chicken,” Miranda asked.
“No. Ended up chasing the furry bastard halfway across Atlanta, though.” Tristan grimaced in disgust. “He gave us the slip.”
“We were about to gate back to help you when I sensed you Shift.” Belle gave Miranda a wicked little grin. “Somehow I got the feeling you wouldn’t appreciate being interrupted.”
Feeling her cheeks go hot in a redhead’s blush, Miranda gestured toward the stranger with Conal and his sisters. “What’s going on? Who’s the human?” She pitched her voice too low for the newcomer to hear; the woman didn’t give off even a whiff of power.
Until she turned and
looked
at them. The raw magic in her gaze seemed to burn right into Miranda’s brain.
Whatever else she is,
that
is definitely not human. She’s even more powerful than Warlock.
Panic blasted Miranda as the strange woman’s gaze reduced her to the frozen immobility of a rabbit cowering in a hawk’s shadow. She could barely breathe as every instinct howled in incoherent animal panic.
But as she fought to keep the terror from her face, a wave of magic rolled through her consciousness, warm and compassionate as a mother’s touch. The fear melted away like ice in the heat of August.
Miranda jolted back to full awareness with small, warm hands cupping her face. Blinking, she focused on the woman who was suddenly inches away, holding her in a kind, maternal gaze.
Nobody would call her pretty. There was too much strength in the strong-boned features, too many years in the crow’s-feet around those iridescent eyes. Yet somehow she had a wild kind of beauty, like sunrise over the face of the desert.
Miranda swallowed. Her throat felt raw, as if from unvoiced screams. “Why the hell did I think you were human?”
“Because I chose to seem so.” Her voice was surprisingly deep, with a curious accent Miranda didn’t recognize, faintly Gaelic, with a trace of French slur. The woman shrugged, the gesture carelessly eloquent. “Glamor is a skill I’ve had need of, on this world of mortals.”
Miranda knew she didn’t mean glamor in the sense of modern celebrity, but in the original meaning of the word: a spell to make one thing look like another.
Conal dipped his head in a gesture very close to a bow. “Maeve, this is Miranda Drake, the woman we told you about.”
“Yes, I know.” She shot him a glance laced with some impatience, before turning back to Miranda. “I am Maeve. Some call me the Mother of Fairies.”
And I just acted like a total fool
, Miranda thought, feeling her cheeks heat with scalding shame.
She’ll never help us now
. “It’s . . . ah . . . good to meet you.”
“Ah, child, play no such games with me.” Maeve’s surprisingly callused hands fell away from Miranda’s face and gave her shoulder a comforting pat. “Though I suppose it’s no surprise you feel the need. That fool father of yours did his best to break you, didn’t he?”
“And evidently he succeeded,” Miranda muttered, frustrated at her own cluelessness. She promptly cursed herself for revealing weakness to this fairy . . . queen? blacksmith? goddess? She wasn’t just Sidhe; Miranda had met
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