Then there was Juniper. I was glad she was part of this mix now in a more official way. Her coils were wrapped around my ankles in a loose figure-eight. A couple times throughout the night I awoke to the feeling of a loss of circulation, but it quickly went away each time. She was already awake. I knew because the bond was feeding me her mood, and she was calm and focused, already chewing on some problem before the rest of us had opened our eyes.

  I left the pile with great, superhuman effort. Elysia made a displeased noise and grabbed for me, caught a fistful of pillow instead, and pulled it to her chest without waking, tongue lashing at it mercilessly. Portia rolled into the warm spot I’d left and her tail picked up speed as she deeply inhaled. Juniper’s coils loosened. She cracked one crimson eye open, looked around, and closed it again.

  Downstairs, I got coffee going and started on breakfast, like I usually did. Eggs first for Juniper’s plate, then pancake batter, then bacon, yada yada, I’ll spare you the details. The routine had calcified into something I could do on autopilot, which was good because my brain needed the spare bandwidth to process the fact that I now had a permanent emotional radar for four women’s feelings. Five, counting my own, though I only had three moods these days, and two were just variations on “painfully erect”.

  Sigh. I lead a difficult life.

  Clementine’s hooves announced her on the stairs before she appeared. The sharp clack of them against the hardwood was something I was slowly getting used to. She was wearing my flannel with the sleeves rolled up past her elbows and the basketball shorts with the tail hole she’d cut without asking. The flannel was unbuttoned one button too many, giving me a view of cleavage that the System had been very generous about when it redesigned her. I forced my eyes back to the eggs. She grabbed the coffee pot, poured a mug, and leaned against the counter to watch me cook.

  She didn’t say anything for half a minute. That was a long time for Clementine to be quiet. I started counting.

  “You look fucking disgusting in that wifebeater right now,” she said at the thirty-two second mark. “Like a friend’s hot dad I simultaneously want to teach me how to drive and how to fuck.”

  “Jesus Fucking Christ, good morning to you too, Clementine.” I cracked an egg one-handed into the skillet, trying to maintain whatever aura she saw in me while slightly recoiling from the way she chose to describe it. “Also, your definition of disgusting is growing increasingly distorted and nonsensical.”

  “Your face is ridiculous. Such a fucking chair, it’s obnoxious.” She took a sip and nodded at the stove. “You want help?”

  Assuming she meant breakfast, I slid the bacon pan toward her without a word. She took over and adjusted the heat by instinct the way she always did. We worked side by side in the kitchen for a few minutes without talking. She bumped my hip with hers when she needed the burner, and I handed her the spatula before she asked for it, then flicking a boob to watch it jiggle, making her snort. This was our version of boyfriend-girlfriend shit, I guess.

  Breakfast of course brought the full circus to the table. Elysia came down the stairs in her nightgown, which was sheer enough to make Little-But-Not-Really-Little Josh perk up. She claimed her chair, claimed my arm, and then attempted the coffee maker on her own. It was her second try since yesterday’s lesson. The result was drinkable, if slightly fucking awful, and her pride through the bond was enormous even as her face gave nothing but performed composure.

  “I have once again subjugated this primitive device to do my bidding,” she announced.

  Progress was progress.

  Portia was quieter this morning. Her tail wagged at standard speed but the performance dial had been turned down a few notches since yesterday’s field conversation. She ate her breakfast in her combat outfit, for some reason, and started sharpening my sword at the table. When Elysia began arguing about shower priority, Portia just said, “You go first, Princess.”

  Elysia’s fork froze mid-air. She stared at Portia in shock. Through the bond I felt a spike of genuine confusion from the princess, followed by suspicious gratitude.

  “Well,” Elysia said, recovering. “Obviously.”

  Juniper ate her eggs and bacon while reading something on my tablet. She’d been deep in research mode for days now, and the crease between her brows had been getting deeper each morning. She didn’t bring up whatever was bothering her at breakfast. She ate, she read, and every few minutes her tail bumped against my calf under the table.

  After the dishes, Clementine and I trained in the field the way we did every morning. She transformed in the yard and I vaulted on, and we ran drills for an hour. The Cavalier bond had tightened to the point where verbal commands were mostly unnecessary. I’d think hard right and she was already banking. She’d feel my weight shift for a strike and adjust her stride to maximize the angle before I’d even raised the sword.

  You’re leaning too far forward, her mental voice said as we ran a charge pattern toward the practice post I’d set up. If you fall off at this speed you’ll break your stupid neck and then I’ll have to explain to three grieving fantasy women why their boyfriend is a quadriplegic.

  “At least I won’t have to read the Presbyterian Catechism.” I adjusted my balance and she accelerated.

  I told my mom you’re Presbyterian, not a theologian.

  We hit the practice post at full gallop and Mounted Charge activated. My sword went through the four-by-four like it was cardboard, and the momentum carried us another forty yards before Clementine slowed to a trot and stopped.

  That one felt stronger, she said.

  “STR 20 will do that. Everything hits harder now. I’m a beast.”

  Cool. I actively choose not to get horny for you in this form. Let’s do that again.

  We ran the drill six more times. By the end, the field had a line of demolished posts, and Clementine was grinning through the bond even if she’d die before admitting it. She loved running, and the Cavalier link broadcast that to me whether she wanted it to or not.

  She transformed back and we sat on the fence catching our breath. She looked good after a run, with her flushed cheeks and wild black hair, body slick with sweat, and my flannel had magically come open another button during the workout even though that didn’t make sense since she was a horse the whole time.

  “I had a dream last night,” she said, looking at her hooves. “I was a full horse, just standing in a field eating grass and carrots.” She paused. “I woke up and checked my teeth.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. The dreams are getting less scary and more just, like, annoying horse shit. My brain won’t let me forget what I am even when I’m asleep.” She picked at a splinter on the fence rail. “But I was happy in the dream. Chill. Like I belonged there.” She glanced at me. “Is that fucked up?”

  “Doesn’t sound fucked up at all. I had a dream last week that I was a Jewish detective, and for some reason I looked like a young Martin Luther King Junior.”

  “You were… a black Jew? In your dream? How did you even know you were Jewish?”

  I shrugged. “It came up a few times.”

  She punched my arm. “You’re so weird.” She hopped off the fence and her hooves thudded into the grass. “Come on, fuckface. I wanna shower before Lewd Luthien uses all the hot water.”

  My eyes widened. “Wow. Luthien is a deeper cut. Mad respect.”

  The afternoon turned into lazy and comfortable activities, as it usually does. Elysia had decided she wanted to do her own laundry, which was a first. She had a whole wardrobe’s worth of clothes from an online shopping spree I’d let her have back in the early days, but she spent most of her time half naked and usually used magic to clean her own body, making laundry largely unnecessary.

  She stood in front of the washing machine in the mudroom and studied it like Juniper studied ancient texts. “This device.” She tapped the lid twice. “It cleans garments through water manipulation, yes?”

  “Pretty much.” I leaned against the doorframe and crossed my arms, ready for the show. “Sort by color, add detergent, pick a setting, press start.”

  “Simplicity itself.” She loaded the machine with confidence. She did not sort by color. She added roughly four times the recommended detergent. She washed my good jacket on hot.

  Ten minutes later the mudroom floor was covered in suds. Elysia stood ankle-deep in foam and looked absolutely betrayed.

  “The machine is openly hostile, possessed by some manner of spirit—one which despises the fair folk, I should think,” she declared. “It has rejected my command and I demand it be replaced with one that respects royal garments.”

  “That’s okay, we’re learning,” I said, chuckling.

  I helped her mop up and walked her through a second load properly. When the clothes came out normal she held up a t-shirt, turned it over twice, and gave a nod of cautious approval.

  “Acceptable. Though a princess should not be expected to labor over garments. I did this only to prove a point.”

  I took the shirt from her and folded it. “And you proved it.”

  She tried to hide her smile and failed. The bond confirmed what her face was already telling me: she was proud as hell. So cute.

  She carried the laundry basket three steps toward the bedroom before declaring her arms had failed and setting it on the landing. “Someone will need to finish this journey,” she said. “My contribution was the washing itself, which is the intellectually demanding portion. The folding and putting away will be someone else’s task. In the name of justice.”

  While Elysia was battling the washing machine, Portia and Clementine had claimed the living room. Clementine’s Korean drama was on again, and Portia was cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV, fully locked in. Clementine had the couch with her legs tucked under her.

  “Wait, why is she crying?” Portia’s ears were flat with distress. “He literally just told her he loved her! That should be a tail-wagging moment!”

  Clementine grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl between them and threw a piece at the screen. “Because she knows he’s dying, dummy. He’s got the terminal illness. They set it up in episode four.”

  “He’s dying?!” Portia’s amber eyes went massive. “That’s so sad! I forget sometimes that humans die so young.”

  “Well. He’s dying young because he’s sick.” Clementine popped another kernel into her mouth. Her eyes never left the screen.

  “The Packlands have very serious customs regarding death.” Portia turned away from the TV long enough to deliver this with full conviction. “In my homeland, the honored dead are preserved through ritual mummification and displayed in the Great Hall with their favorite stick in their mouth so their pack never has to say goodbye! It’s very beautiful, actually. You can visit them whenever you like and brush their fur. But stick theft in the tombs is a serious problem.”

  Clementine stared at her for a solid three seconds. “That’s the most insane thing you or anyone has ever said to me.”

  That was amazing because yesterday she offered Clementine a bag of oats in exchange for whispering subliminal messages about the merits of spanking in my ear while I took a nap. She apparently took the offer.

  I left them to the K-drama and found Juniper in the kitchen. She was waiting for me, from what I could tell. Her tail was coiled tight and deliberate, the tablet closed and set face-down on the counter. She’d changed into a loose top that was losing its war against her chest, as one does, and I made a mental note to buy her some clothes that actually fit one of these days. Not too soon, though. Maybe never.

  “You’ve been stewing all day,” I said, pouring myself coffee.

  “I have been analyzing data all day. Stewing implies emotional compromise.” She paused. “But yes. Also some stewing.”

  I leaned against the counter and waited, taking a slurp from my coffee.

  “I’ve been mapping the portal energy readings since we completed the ritual,” she said. “I’ve tracked the frequency, the intensity, and the dimensional resonance signatures. The data is unambiguous.” She pressed her hands flat against her coils. “The portals are escalating in potency.”

  I blew on my coffee. “English, please.”

  “They may end up getting bigger, which means larger creatures can get through. In rare cases, maybe more than one.”

  I took a slow drink and let that settle. “What kind of threats?”

  “Creatures that require coordinated magical resistance we don’t have. Entities that can’t be killed through physical damage alone. Portal events that produce multiple high-level threats simultaneously.” She met my eyes. “We got lucky with the Shadow Wolves.”

  I set the mug down. “So what do we need?”

  She ticked them off on her fingers. “We’re alright for a while, but someday? Defensible terrain, because our open field is a tactical nightmare. Allied forces, as we’re fighting alone every night with no backup and no relief. And infrastructure.” She gestured at the kitchen around us. “I need a proper workspace to develop magical countermeasures. The living room and a half-finished silo are not sufficient.”

  She didn’t say we need to move. She didn’t say we need the Countess. Juniper was too smart to push me toward a conclusion I’d resist. She laid out the math and left me to do the arithmetic on my own.

  “I hear you,” I said. “Let me think on it.”

  She nodded, picked up her tablet, and slithered toward the living room. Her tail bumped my calf on the way past.

  ***

  The portal that night delivered a troll variant, bigger and meaner than the standard model. Bony plate armor covered its back and shoulders, but it was nothing we couldn’t handle. Portia cracked its kneecap so hard the sound echoed across the field, and I could picture her Moon Mother instructors weeping if they’d seen it. Clementine and I ran a clean Mounted Charge that opened its guard. Elysia directed from the back and called out weak points. Juniper slowed it with frost breath when it tried to regenerate.

  We brought it down in four minutes, a clean fight with decent XP and no injuries. Business as usual.

  Juniper caught my eye as we walked back to the house, and the look she gave me said this was easy. They won’t all be easy. The clock is running.

  I got the message.

  The girls went inside. I stayed on the back porch to clean my sword and enjoy the quiet for a few minutes before heading back into the madness of five people and one bathroom.

  I’d been out there for maybe ten minutes when I noticed the car. It was a dark sedan with no lights on, parked on the road where the county route met my property line, maybe two hundred yards out. It wasn’t moving, and it wasn’t a spot where anyone would park without a reason.

  I set the sword down and watched for a full minute. The car didn’t move.

  Then the headlights came on. The sedan pulled forward slowly, turned, and drove away. Whoever was inside wasn’t in any hurry.

  I watched until the taillights disappeared, then checked the gate. It was locked, the fence was intact, and nothing looked out of place except for one thing.

  Wedged into the gate latch, folded once, was a business card. I pulled it out and read it under the porch light.

  SHERIFF DALE MILLER — WAPA COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT

  On the back, in careful handwriting: “We should talk. Privately.”

  I stared at the card for a long moment, then pocketed it and went inside.

  Chapter 12

  Ididn’t call the sheriff. Not yet. I had another appointment to deal with first.

  Wilkinson showed up at eight in the morning driving a truck that looked like it had survived two divorces and a war. He was a big guy, mid-fifties, with hands like catcher’s mitts. I’d hired him weeks ago for the silo renovation on a nighttime-only schedule, but he needed daylight for the structural assessment, so I’d agreed to one daytime visit with conditions.

  The conditions were as follows: Juniper stays in her room because you just can’t explain twenty-plus feet of big tiddy snake waifu to a contractor. Elysia and Portia stay upstairs and keep quiet, but just in case they lose control of themselves, they have to wear hats and clothes that hide their weirder features. And Clementine helps me outside because she’s the only one who can pass as a weirdly pale and sexy human if she covers her ears with a beanie and wears work boots over the hooves. The boots were a tight fit but she’d been practicing walking in them all week, and from ten feet away you’d never guess the woman in the long denim skirt and beanie was anything other than a tough-looking chick with great posture.

  “You ready for this?” I asked her on the porch as Wilkinson’s truck rumbled up the drive.

  She tugged the beanie down over her ears and shot me a look. “My uncle worked construction and used to bring me on site. I know what a joist is. Do you?”

  I did, in fact, know what a joist was. “Let’s go meet the man.”

  Wilkinson shook my hand and sized up Clementine over my shoulder. “Girlfriend?”

  “Fiancee,” Clementine said before I could answer. The word came out hard, like she was daring someone to argue with it. In fact, she shot me some devious side-eye and flared her nostrils in warning. Message received.

  Wilkinson looked at me for confirmation anyway. I nodded. He shrugged. “She gonna help or watch?”

  “Help.” Clementine stepped forward and crossed her arms. “I’m stronger than I look.”

  “Everybody says that.” He handed her a toolbox. She took it one-handed and held it at her side like it weighed nothing, which it basically didn’t with her STR sitting at 16. Wilkinson looked at the toolbox, then at her arm, then at me. He shrugged again. “Alrighty then.”