mutter, "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore."
Not that we were in Kansas before; we were in our house in Massachusetts. And Hunter isn't Toto, at least. He now looks a lot like Basil Rathbone, in fact. And the old-world décor of the foyer we're standing in matches my Victorian gown.
I hate pixies.
It's too bad, really, Hunter isn't Toto. Canines, I understand, after all. Besides which, I wouldn't mind dressing as Dorothy. But, oh no, it's just my luck he's been hexed into someone as enigmatic as his real self. Another crime fighter with a superiority complex, wouldn't you know. Even his initials, H. S., are the same, albeit inverted.
If we ever see home again, I'm gonna flatten Toby Buttercup.
The character beside me stands as tall as Hunter, but leaner in build and swaying slightly. Spell-shocked. A dazed look clouds his eyes. Gray eyes, I notice. Cool gray, where before they were hot amber. Other than that he really hasn't changed much, just a bit thinner and paler. But still handsome, still smart, obviously powerful and predatory. Still a hunter if not exactly Hunter himself.
And, yep, he's still sexy as sin.
And still mine!
Wolves mate for life, damn it. Pixie magic may be potent and perverse, but no magic is stronger than love. There's got to be a way to reverse the hex. I just have to find it. I can do that.
I hope.
Hey, I wonder what would happen if I laid a lip-lock on him. Other spells have been broken by a kiss. Worth a try, right? What have I got to lose?
"Your teeth," he says, snapping alert.
And answering an unspoken thought?
"Don't forget I'm an expert at fisticuffs," he adds by way of warning.
My heart skips a beat.
"You're an expert at telepathy, too," I tell him. At least his former self was. All shifters are natural telepaths, but Hunter was better at it than most. If he's retained that ability, maybe he's not too far gone yet. Maybe I can reel him back with words, reason. "You just read my mind, didn't you?"
I peer into his eyes, looking for the man I married, searching the gray for a glint of amber--and getting a black stare in return.
"Nonsense," he scoffs. "I read your posture, the gleam in your gaze, that's all. To the keen observer, small details reveal much. I can deduce your thoughts from your demeanor. A kiss, indeed. Hah. Don't let that disguise go to your head, old friend. It's but a ruse. Bait. There's no need to practice your planned act on me. Save it for the quarry."
Who is?
He must think he's working on a case. Figures. His current persona wouldn't be complete without a mystery to solve. All business, he pulls a magnifying glass from his coat pocket, then kneels to examine the Persian carpet under our feet.
Dare I ask why?
Oh hell, I've made it this far. In for a penny, in for a pound...
I lean over him. "Mind telling me what you expect to find?"
"Clues."
Duh.
"Yeah, I figured that much, ace. Clues to what ?"
"I'll know when I find them, of course."
Of course. Silly me.
I lean lower. "So, um, let me get this straight. You're investigating a crime, but you don't know what the crime is?"
"Specifically, no, but logic dictates it's a foul one."
"If you say so."
"I know so. There's obviously dirty work afoot, or we wouldn't be here, would we?"
Is there a psychiatrist in the house? How about an exorcist?
Sigh.
Actually, I understand his point, though I doubt he does. Having been transformed into a fictional character, he has to have a story to act out. He can't function without one. So he's making it up as he goes along, but doesn't realize he is. It's part of the enchantment. He's just following his bewitched nose. And I have no choice at the moment but to follow his lead.
At least he's assigned me a role in his improvised drama. He's even invented a reason for my costume--wrong, but one that works for him in his present state. He's fishing for trouble, and I'm his bait, apparently. God help us all when he decides who we're trying to catch.
"I hope you
Not that we were in Kansas before; we were in our house in Massachusetts. And Hunter isn't Toto, at least. He now looks a lot like Basil Rathbone, in fact. And the old-world décor of the foyer we're standing in matches my Victorian gown.
I hate pixies.
It's too bad, really, Hunter isn't Toto. Canines, I understand, after all. Besides which, I wouldn't mind dressing as Dorothy. But, oh no, it's just my luck he's been hexed into someone as enigmatic as his real self. Another crime fighter with a superiority complex, wouldn't you know. Even his initials, H. S., are the same, albeit inverted.
If we ever see home again, I'm gonna flatten Toby Buttercup.
The character beside me stands as tall as Hunter, but leaner in build and swaying slightly. Spell-shocked. A dazed look clouds his eyes. Gray eyes, I notice. Cool gray, where before they were hot amber. Other than that he really hasn't changed much, just a bit thinner and paler. But still handsome, still smart, obviously powerful and predatory. Still a hunter if not exactly Hunter himself.
And, yep, he's still sexy as sin.
And still mine!
Wolves mate for life, damn it. Pixie magic may be potent and perverse, but no magic is stronger than love. There's got to be a way to reverse the hex. I just have to find it. I can do that.
I hope.
Hey, I wonder what would happen if I laid a lip-lock on him. Other spells have been broken by a kiss. Worth a try, right? What have I got to lose?
"Your teeth," he says, snapping alert.
And answering an unspoken thought?
"Don't forget I'm an expert at fisticuffs," he adds by way of warning.
My heart skips a beat.
"You're an expert at telepathy, too," I tell him. At least his former self was. All shifters are natural telepaths, but Hunter was better at it than most. If he's retained that ability, maybe he's not too far gone yet. Maybe I can reel him back with words, reason. "You just read my mind, didn't you?"
I peer into his eyes, looking for the man I married, searching the gray for a glint of amber--and getting a black stare in return.
"Nonsense," he scoffs. "I read your posture, the gleam in your gaze, that's all. To the keen observer, small details reveal much. I can deduce your thoughts from your demeanor. A kiss, indeed. Hah. Don't let that disguise go to your head, old friend. It's but a ruse. Bait. There's no need to practice your planned act on me. Save it for the quarry."
Who is?
He must think he's working on a case. Figures. His current persona wouldn't be complete without a mystery to solve. All business, he pulls a magnifying glass from his coat pocket, then kneels to examine the Persian carpet under our feet.
Dare I ask why?
Oh hell, I've made it this far. In for a penny, in for a pound...
I lean over him. "Mind telling me what you expect to find?"
"Clues."
Duh.
"Yeah, I figured that much, ace. Clues to what ?"
"I'll know when I find them, of course."
Of course. Silly me.
I lean lower. "So, um, let me get this straight. You're investigating a crime, but you don't know what the crime is?"
"Specifically, no, but logic dictates it's a foul one."
"If you say so."
"I know so. There's obviously dirty work afoot, or we wouldn't be here, would we?"
Is there a psychiatrist in the house? How about an exorcist?
Sigh.
Actually, I understand his point, though I doubt he does. Having been transformed into a fictional character, he has to have a story to act out. He can't function without one. So he's making it up as he goes along, but doesn't realize he is. It's part of the enchantment. He's just following his bewitched nose. And I have no choice at the moment but to follow his lead.
At least he's assigned me a role in his improvised drama. He's even invented a reason for my costume--wrong, but one that works for him in his present state. He's fishing for trouble, and I'm his bait, apparently. God help us all when he decides who we're trying to catch.
"I hope you
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