Page 56 of Witches and Wine
Invigorating.There was no other word I could think of to describe the way being bonded to Dion made me feel. I never realized how incomplete I was until accepting the bond with him. I’d thought it was due to my wiry personality and tendencies to overthink everything in my life, but those hadn’t. I think that was the best part about this entire situation. Not only did I inherit a mate, a lifelong partner, but I didn’t lose any of myself in the process. I’m a better version of myself with him, and I’d found mytrueself as a lunar witch.
I’d awoken the next day curled into my mate’s arms, my hand lazily dangling from one of his horns. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t extremely fascinated by them. It also astounded me that he felt compelled to keep them hidden until recently, as if the sight of them would appall me when I positivelylovedthem. We’d made love again because we couldn’t seem to get enough of each other before Dion ported us to the sheriff’s office soon after.
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting it to look like, but I didn’t imagine something out of the American Old West. It was a quaint building with wooden paneling and three posts holding up the shingle overhang above a dark brown door. The word “sheriff” was displayed in all capital letters in the same font one would associate with the Old West. A stone chimney puffed smoke from the roof, and wooden stairs with a simple banister led to a second floor of an attached part of the building. A giant oak tree shaded the building with its vibrant green leaves and sturdy trunk.
As we made for the entrance, I pointed at a hitching post. “Is that for a horse? Does he ride?”
Dion shrugged and held the door open for me. “Herb’s an older soul, if you couldn’t tell by the building design, and doesn’t own a car, so I’d say yes.”
“He doesn’t ride it in porcupine form, does he? I feel like that’d be dangerous for the horse?” I asked, the absurdity of how it sounded out loud no longer phasing me.
Once I stepped inside, Dion entered behind me, chuckling. “I’d like to see him not only mount a horse but stay on the saddle as a fucking porcupine.”
“Don’t you go pokin’ fun at me, boy. I’ll quill your ass,” a gruff male voice thick with an American southern accent said.
Dion leaned on one of two wooden pillars situated between several desks, chairs, and a wall of four separate holding cells. “Pipe down, you prickly old timer. It’s called a joke.”
A shorter male, standing a height between me and Dion, emerged from a backroom, his gait wide as he walked, legs slightly bowed. He wore a tan ten-gallon hat, dark blue duster, boots with spurs, and a silver sheriff’s star pinned to his blue filigree satin vest. A leather belt slung over his hips, a single six-shooter hanging on his left side. He had his thumbs hanging from the belt, and if a human could ever look somehow likea porcupine at the same time, that would be Herb. His nose was broad and close to his face, nostrils thin and the width of his nose. Herb’s eyes were so dark they almost appeared one color, glossy, with wrinkled eyelids. The way his salt and pepper mustache stretched to each side simulated quills.
“Lookie you with your bits out.” Herb pointed at Dion’s prominently displayed horns.
I couldn’t be certain if it was my pride for his horns or his, given our connection now, but I had to pin my thighs together when he stroked one with a smug grin.
“Figured it was about time. Besides, they itch like a flea-infested werewolf when I keep them hidden.” Dion winced and scratched where the horn met his forehead.
Already missing his skin pressed to mine, I curled my arm through Dion’s and brushed our shoulders. Dion kissed the side of my head.
“Well, to what pleasure do I owe this rare visit, Dion?” Herb hitched his belt, and his wiry mustache bristled.
“We wanted to warn you that Rumpelstiltskin is in town for the foreseeable future,” Dion answered, his hand finding my lower back and pressing his palm there in a claiming gesture.
“Rumpelstiltskin? What in tarnation is that meddling warlock doing in the Cove? Figured he’d hate it here.” Herb shuffled through papers chaotically sprawled on a desk at the head of the room.
“He’s been cursed and apparently can’t leave here unless the sorceress lifts it. Be prepared for a lot of complaints.”
Herb’s wide, stubby nose twitched as he nodded. “I see, I see. I’ll keep it in mind. But I’m afraid there’s much bigger fish to fry than a trickster playing a few pranks now and again.”
Dion’s hand stiffened at my back. “What do you mean?”
“A pixie was murdered last night.” The hair sprouting from Herb’s head hardened and raised.
“Murder? Here?” Dion pointed at the floor, surprise evident in his tone.
“Not here in the sheriff’s office, but out in the woods where they host their little festivities.” Herb jutted his thumb behind him.
“I didn’t mean here as inrighthere, Herb. I meant the Cove. There hasn’t been a murder reported in years, right?” Dion asked, his growing impatience stirring anxiety in my gut.
Herb shifted the hat back far enough for him to scratch his head. “Last I can recall is when that wraith went rabid, and that was over two years ago. Plenty of bad eggs here, but not murderous ones.”
“Any witnesses?” I asked, my magic humming, desiring to help.
Herb shook his head. “If there was, none have come forward.”
“Wait a minute,” Dion started, snapping his fingers. “Do you know who else is new to town besides Stilts? Erebus.”
Herb’s black orbed eyes widened. “That shadowy feller?”
“Yeah. He ran an organized crime ring in Chicago before moving here. No telling what shit he’s already managed to get into.” Dion wrapped a hand over the grape charm on his necklace.
