Magic Rises

of her chocolate-brown hair and her clothes, and the diaphanous fabric flared, making her appear ethereal and light. She all but floated above the rough concrete.
    The girl waved. “Curran!”
    She knew him.
    Curran swore under his breath. “I’ll be damned. They dragged her into this.”
    Apparently he knew her, too.
    “Curran!” She waved again, standing on her toes, and hurried toward us.
    “Lorelei?” Curran called out.
    The girl smiled. Wow. The night just got a bit brighter.
    The sailors lowered the gangplank and Curran started down the moment it clanged against the pier. Apparently he couldn’t wait to meet her.
    “Who is Lorelei?” I asked quietly.
    “Lorelei Wilson,” Mahon said. “Daughter of the Ice Fury’s alpha.”
    Lorelei’s father led the Alaskan pack, the biggest shapeshifter group in the United States. The one who had left with her mother when Wilson and his European wife divorced. Well, wasn’t that just peachy.
    “How do you tempt the Beast Lord?” Barabas murmured. “Simple. Offer him a shapeshifter princess.”
    Aunt B reached over and gently popped him on the back of his head.
    “I hate her already,” Andrea told me. “George hates her too, right, George?”
    “I think she is adorable.” George volunteered next to me. “We should give her milk and cookies, and if she promises to be quiet, she can sit at the big people’s table.”
    “Show some respect,” Mahon said. “She is the heir to Ice Fury.”
    George arched her eyebrows at him. “Really, Dad?”
    On the pier, Curran reached the procession. The woman in blue bowed. Lorelei stepped forward, her arms raised for a hug, then stopped abruptly, as if catching herself, and also bowed. Curran said something. She smiled again.
    I touched Slayer’s hilt just to make sure it was there.
    “Diplomatic, Kate,” Barabas suggested quietly. “Diplomatic.”
    I leaned close to him. “Find out who invited her, what are her attachments, and if she has strings, who is pulling.”
    He nodded.
    I went down the gangplank. The rough concrete was dry under my feet. I managed a slow, deliberate march and the pier seemed to last forever. Did it need to be this long? Were they going to park a carrier here?
    I finally got within hearing range.
    “You grew up,” Curran was saying.
    “It’s been ten years.” Lorelei’s voice had a light trace of an accent. Not quite French, not quite Italian. “I just turned twenty-one.”
    I closed in on them. Lorelei had striking eyes, large and pale blue, framed in dense eyelashes. High cheekbones, softened by smooth skin and just a touch of roundness that came from being young; a narrow, petite nose, a full pink mouth. Her hair, a rich brown, fell down her shoulders in relaxed waves. She radiated youth, beauty, and health. She looked . . . fresh. I was only five years older than her, but standing next to her, I suddenly felt old.
    Curran was looking at her. Not in the same way he looked at me, but he was looking. An odd feeling flared in me, hot and angry, prickling my throat from the inside with hot sharp needles, and I realized it was jealousy. I guess there was a first time for everything.
    “Have you seen my father?” Lorelei asked. “How is he?”
    “I saw him last year,” Curran said. “He’s the same as always: tough and ornery.”
    I came to stand next to him.
    Lorelei raised her eyebrows. Her eyes widened, and a sheen of pale green rolled over her irises. “You must be the human Consort.”
    Yes, that’s me, the human invalid. “My name is Kate.”
    “Kate,” she repeated, as if tasting the word. “It is an honor to meet you.”
    Curran was smiling at her, that handsome hot smile that usually made my day better. Pushing Lorelei into the ocean wouldn’t be diplomatic, even if I really wanted to do it. “Likewise.”
    “I’ve heard so much about you. But where are my manners? You must be hungry and tired.”
    The woman in blue stepped forward, moving with a shapeshifter’s grace. Her eyes flashed green, catching the light from the ship. So these were the local werejackals Barabas had mentioned. Her eyes told me she’d been there and done that, and got a bloody T-shirt for her trouble.
    The woman in blue bowed. “My name is Hibla. I’m here to be your guide.” She indicated the men next to her. “We are Djigits of Gagra.”
    I had read up on Abkhazia. “Djigit” meant a skilled rider or a fierce warrior. The djigits looked back at me, the light of the