Wolf Moon Rising (Beaux Rêve Coven 3)

Logan kept silent as they followed the paved road leading toward town. The walk was only a quarter of a mile and unless the weather was brutal, she preferred walking to driving, with her feet touching the earth. She preferred bare feet, but the weather was cooling.

She was glad of her companion’s silence as they walked. She thought about that morning, waking inside Sigurd’s embrace. Not since she was a child when she would crawl into her mother’s bed had she slept with another person. At first, she’d been startled to realize she wasn’t alone, and then she’d been thrilled.

Sigurd had yawned behind her, kissed her cheek, then left the bed. He’d dressed, then sat on the side of the bed to tell her he had an errand to run that day, and that he wouldn’t see her until later in the evening.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” she asked.

He caressed her cheek. “Are you disappointed I didn’t?” His dark eyebrow rose.

She blushed. “Not…exactly. I’m just surprised.”

“I wanted you rested. And…recovered.”

“Oh,” she said in a tiny voice, knowing that her cheeks were now glowing.

“Are you happy, little fairy?”

“I’m all witch,” she’d said, wrinkling her nose.

He touched her ear. “Except for these…”

“I’m very happy, Sigurd.” She’d stretched and let the sheet fall away to tease him with a glimpse of her breasts.

His low growl had been very gratifying.

She and Logan passed the first small, whiteboard houses as they entered town.

Logan cleared his throat. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m happy for you and Sigurd.”

Warmth spread across her cheeks, and she gave him a smile. “Thank you. Nothing’s settled…” Sigurd hadn’t mentioned marriage, but she assumed they were at least exclusive.

“Sigurd informed the demons. Said you were as good as claimed and that there would be no room in your relationship for more partners.”

Her blush deepened. “Well…he was certainly thorough.”

Logan chuckled. “He didn’t have to tell us anything. We’ve known for months.”

“Well, thank you for letting me know.” She gave him a mock frown. “Sigurd wouldn’t have mentioned a word to me.”

Thankfully, they arrived at the tiny church and that topic of discussion could be shelved for now.

Logan settled on the steps to wait while she entered. Despite the small stained-glass windows near the rafters, the interior was shadowy. The priest was a frugal man and preferred to keep the lights off except on Sundays. She walked through the pews and headed straight to the altar, setting her vase in the center, and then removing the one she’d left the previous week from beneath the lectern.

With a spring in her step, she headed toward the kitchenette in a room at the back. She busied herself heating water for tea, placed bags and the marigolds in the bottoms of the cups, and poured steaming water over them. Then she went in search of the good father.

She found him brushing off the narrow sidewalk at the side of the church, dressed as always in his black shirt and trousers, his white collar ringing his throat. “Good afternoon, Father,” she called out.

He glanced her way, and a smile spread across his narrow, homely face. Of Cajun descent, he skin was as swarthy as most of the town’s people.

“I’ve made tea.”

“I was hopin’ you’d say dat,” he said in his deeply accented voice. “I’m ready for a break, Aoife.” He led the way back inside, and they sat, as was their custom, around the folding table inside the kitchenette, sipping their tea.

“Marigolds, hmmm?” he said, his bushy eyebrows rising.

“They won’t poison you. And they are very pretty,” she said, widening her eyes. She found most people thought she was a little dim-witted, and she didn’t mind. Most, but not Sigurd. If she’d given him that look, he would have narrowed his eyes in warning.

“Aren’t marigolds for grief?”