Winter Lost

Epilogue

Mercy

We headed home two days later—as soon as the roads looked passable. We had to guess because neither the Internet nor any of the cell phones, sat phone or not, were working yet. Probably some lingering effect of the storm or the marriage interfering. The lodge’s landline hadn’t worked in years.

As we drove through Libby, its citizens in the process of digging themselves out, Adam asked, “When do you think we’ll start forgetting the wedding?”

“I don’t think we will,” I told him. “I talked to Liam about it before the wedding.” I’d told him what Hrímnir had told me in the barn. “He thinks that because of the spark of divinity I carry because of who my father is, the forgetting part of the spell won’t affect me. He was pretty sure that our bond would keep you from forgetting, too.”

Adam’s shoulders relaxed a little. “Good. Having Sherwood in the pack makes the thought of someone altering my memories unwelcome.”

“Doesn’t it,” I agreed.

It wasn’t until we came down from the mountains at Bonners Ferry that our phones started working. We took turns returning calls.

I wasn’t surprised to hear that my brother had recovered just fine. He’d headed out as soon as they opened the interstate, and we’d probably pass him at some point. Mary Jo was still fighting with Renny, but Honey thought that relationship might still go somewhere, because people like Renny weren’t quitters. In New Mexico, Darryl and Auriele had killed the bad guys in a way that wouldn’t get anyone in trouble and were headed home.

“The upshot,” I said when we were done making calls, “is that the pack, your business, my business, and the Tri-Cities all survived us being away. It’s kind of lowering finding out we aren’t as important as I thought we were.”

Adam laughed. The winter sun struggled through the frost-edged windshield to love my husband’s face. I really didn’t care that he was beautiful—but I wasn’t blind.

“I love that dimple,” I told him, reaching out to touch his face.

His laughter quieted, his lovely eyes focused on the road ahead. He leaned his face into my hand, but I knew that he didn’t really enjoy compliments on his appearance—which, he observed now and then, was an accident of birth and nothing to do with him. He used his looks as he used every talent, every bit of knowledge, and all of his strength and cunning: to keep the pack—and me—safe.

“Ask me why,” I said.

“Why?” His voice was a little dry.

“Because it only comes out when you are happy,” I told him. “I like it when you’re happy.”

He glanced at me and away—but the dimple deepened.

My phone rang and I answered it. Silence drifted through the SUV’s speakers, and the dimple disappeared as if it had never been.

Its disappearance made me angry.

“Hi,” I said in a fake Southern accent. “Thank you so much for takin’ my call. Do you have a few minutes? I’d like to talk to you.”

Adam gave me a look, but the roads were still not good. He couldn’t take his eyes off them for long.

I didn’t pause long enough for the vampire on the other end of the phone connection to say anything.

“Life is short,” I said, “and we’re not getting any younger. What would you give if you could look ten years younger and increase your energy at the same time? Here at Intrasity Living, we are so proud of our products and the help they provide to people who are tired and beaten down by life.”

And I spent about five minutes doing my best imitation of Jesse’s best friend’s mother’s multilevel marketing speech—surprised at how much of it I remembered. I was waxing poetic about how our Good Vibrations essential oil blend not only had proven effective in fighting male-pattern baldness but also lowered blood pressure when Bonarata disconnected without ever having said a word.

“Take that, you bastard,” I said, still clinging to my fake accent. “Bless your heart.”

Adam cracked up. I was fiercely proud that it took him a good few minutes before he calmed down enough to talk.

“Where did that come from?” he asked.

“Did I mention that Grandmother Spider was urged to decorate Uncle Mike’s pub by her good friend Baba Yaga?” I said.

Intrasity Living was owned and operated by the witch Tracy LaBella—otherwise known as Baba Yaga. I had the impression that she was both amused by and passionate about her business.

“Ah,” Adam said, obviously making the connection.

I leaned over and put my forehead on his arm. “This didn’t solve anything,” I said.

“I know,” he agreed.

We traveled maybe twenty miles in silence. Bonarata wasn’t the kind of problem I could fight with essential oils, not even oils blessed by Baba Yaga for general public consumption.

Finally, Adam—still keeping his eyes on the road—raised my hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it. I sighed and kissed the closest part of his body, which happened to be the top of his shoulder.

“I kept waiting, but you didn’t tell him that the orange essential oil raises the humble brownie to ambrosia level,” Adam said.

“He doesn’t deserve good brownies,” I told him.