Chapter 9

Aidan heard the words, said and unsaid; he gathered the story, at least some of it, without asking. The herd. Which self-evidently wasn’t here. Leaving this pooka, his pooka, alone.

He said, “You could’ve just said no. But you like complications.”

“I must,” his pooka muttered, “if I’m here with you. Not running.”

“You don’t want to.” Aidan twitched the leash again, drawing attention to it; those huge smoky eyes danced in reply, and got more exuberant about the immediate future. “How do you feel about Ink?”

“What, to write with? It’s helpful. Nice in pens. Long history of use.”

This time Aidan put out a hand and tapped fingers against the closest faerie cheek: not quite a slap, more than a brush, a scolding, and a private joke. His pooka made a sound, a moan, a sigh, and nuzzled into the hand after. “Yes, please…”

“You do like that, don’t you? Being scolded.”