“I could never touch you intimately.”
I realized then what options he’d offered me with this bargain. I could not end it without losing him, and he could not end it at all. So, my options were marriage in about two weeks, or to ask for a request that was so carefully worded that I would have time. We would still court, but with no intent—on my part—to marry.
“It’s exhausting, dealing with the nuances of the fae,” I muttered before pushing him down and snuggling into his arms. “I like dating you, though.”
Eli laughed. “There is much to be said for dating.”
“I could do it for a very, very long time,” I whispered.
“Indeed.” He kissed my forehead. “I do enjoy our dates.” He paused and in a low voice asked, “Where do witches stand on orgasms outside?”
“Pro. Some witches, in fact, are distinctively in favor of this. Was there one in particular witch you were asking about?”
He rolled me onto my back as he moved over me. “Mine.”
I’m not sure I’d have objected to the possessive tone in his voice, but it didn’t matter because he covered my mouth with his and kissed away any words I might have had.
Chapter Twelve
When I returned to New Orleans, I was worn out, weary, and ready to ask for a time-out on my life—as much as I was ready for the next week to pass so I could test my plan on my faery bargain.
I’m pretty used to drama, and the holidays are full of it for most folks. Between the three types of beings in my life—human, draugr, and fae—I was ready to propose a time share for future holidays. One species per year. Of course, my humans included my witchy mother and friends, so given my wish, I’d stick with just them.
Still the money, wisdom, and favor from Beatrice were useful.
And maybe the swords from the faery king were nice.
But I was ready for a nap after dealing with everyone’s agendas—which was why I was anything but charming when Beatrice flowed to my table at Bill’s Tavern.
“Really? Don’t you have a daytime nap or something to attend? Beauty sleep? Minions to frighten?”
“Invite me to be seated.”
“You need an invitation?” I perked up. Draugr rules were as hard to find as rooster’s teeth.
“No, Geneviève.” Beatrice’s pale lips curved in a mimicry of a smile. “I simply have manners.”
I sighed and gestured to a chair across from me. Beatrice, ever the cooperative dead lady, sat next to me.
“There are those who would wish you dead no matter what,” she started.
“You must be a riot at parties.”
“The last party included beheading vermin.” She met my gaze. “Did you receive my gifts?”
I nodded. What exactly was the protocol for a box with the head of man? Or the antique jewels from a man who undoubtedly became dust and ash? I figured I’d go for subtle and said, “It was a very you”—I made air quotes—“gift.”
Beatrice smiled. “I have another gift, Geneviève.”
She slid a book to me. It felt heavy with magic, and I knew that it was a grimoire of some sort.
“I understand from your friend’s shop that the buyer for this would be you,” she said. “I’ve supplied others you or Lauren sought, but this is not one you could afford even with Harold’s jewelry.”
I couldn’t even joke that I had nothing to give her. There were gifts, and then there were gifts.
“Why?” I managed to ask.
For a moment, Beatrice appeared centuries old; not that she suddenly amassed wrinkles, but that she looked weary in a way that reminded me that bitch though she could be, she was a woman in a man’s world—and had been for centuries.
“I have removed threats, but there are those vile men or draugr every generation that seek my descendants out. You, Geneviève, are more of a target than most. You are witch and mine, but you carry other traits.”
I swallowed.
“Threats will come. They are a storm, waves pounding as if they will wear us down in time.” Her eyes were glimmering with a light that was eerie to behold. “I do not lose. I will not. And you, daughter of my daughters’ daughter, are the last of my line. They will come, and you will be able to win.” She tapped the book with a finger. “Learn.”
Then the draugr queen stood to go.
Before I could think too long on it, I asked, “Would you want to have dinner with Mama Lauren and me? I mean sometime . . . maybe not dinner, but—”
“I will”—she smiled wickedly—“BYOB, as they say. Bring my own blood.”
I laughed, more at her delivery than her bad sense of humor. “And we could talk. I think my mother would like that. I would, too.”
I was still sitting there with my book in silence several hours later when Eli joined me. “Frosting?”
I looked up.
“Are you well?”
“Beatrice brought me a book.” I stroked the cover again. I wasn’t prepared to open it yet, and certainly not here.
“I see . . .” He sat beside me. “Alice had this sent by courier.”
The hot pink canteen he handed me looked more practical than I would typically have thought of when thinking of Alice, but when I opened it, I recognized the scent. I’d already begun to be able to tell the owner of cocktail by the scent. My body had changed.
A server brought us both mugs of what appeared to be tea for Eli and vodka for me. It made a weird sense. Alice’s blood worked well with clear liquor; Eli’s was more suited to whisky.
I poured a generous shot from my hot pink canteen into my mug of vodka. I tossed the whole thing back and looked at him. “I am ready to claim the request at the end of our bargain.”
“It’s still December and—”
“I know.” I stared at him, and I saw the anxiety there. Did he doubt me so much that he thought I would give up what we shared? I wasn’t easy to love, but I suspected he loved me. I wasn’t going to lose that.
Carefully, I explained, “I’m already exhausted. I feel like there are disasters at every turn, and faery bargains are hard, so I want to do this while I think I can say it right.”
“Geneviève, please, don’t—"
“I do not forsake you,” I said. “I do not agree to enter a marriage on that date. By the terms of this bargain, I can make a request. Eli of Stonehaven, my request of you is that the courtship we have begun here continue until such time as we both agree that marriage must and should happen. To each other or you to another.”
He was smiling as he took my hand. “At this time, I understand that you will not release me from my pledge to you, but neither will you enter marriage.”
“This is my request.”
“And so the rules of courtship shall continue between us, and you have willingly entered this courtship with me,” Eli added.
“I have.”
“Your request is granted, Geneviève Crowe,” Eli whispered. “My betrothed.”
“So, mote it be.”
Somehow, it felt as if nothing and everything had changed. We were still engaged, and I was still masquerading as a viable partner, but by way of a faery bargain we had secured a modification to that betrothal that not even the king could overrule.