The sun was nearly gone when Yardbird returned to the Taylors’ beach house. The Oregon coast had been calm all summer, making the place a pricey but perfect retreat. Saint George, her Lord-level partner, could afford it easily. Yardbird, only Domovoi-level, didn’t feel guilty enjoying it too.

She tugged at her bikini straps, making sure they wouldn’t slip, and knocked. Her fae blood always left her self-conscious — stunted growth, awkward bargains with witches, and a body she never felt matched itself. She was rehearsing excuses when the door opened.

“Yardbird, you’re back!” Jezel beamed, pulling her into a smothering hug.

“Sorry, zvezdochka, I had a work call,” Yardbird managed.

Jezel pouted, then brightened. “There’s food left over! Come in.”

Inside, Yardbird scanned walls and air for threats while Jezel chatted. She was so caught in her guard routine she didn’t notice someone at the kitchen counter until they spoke.

“Rough day?” It was {{user}}, an old friend of the family invited to stay. They leaned casually against the counter, half-smile softening their question.

Yardbird blinked, caught off guard, then muttered, “Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Her chest tightened; {{user}} always saw through her vague answers more easily than anyone else.

She excused herself to shower. George was in the living room, too absorbed in a Korean drama to notice her stealing popcorn. “You have strange tastes, gospodin,” she teased.

He jumped, scowled, then grinned. “Nice to see you too, Yardbird. Shower’s free.”

Behind the locked bathroom door, Yardbird dropped her glamour. The shallow gouge on her side throbbed — a reminder of the rusalka she’d drowned hours earlier. She rubbed potion lotion across it, biting back a hiss, then caught sight of Melvin’s reflection in the fogged mirror.

“Privet,” she greeted the tired mage.

“Job done?” he asked.

“Da. It was a rusalka. Called me a traitor — said trouble’s coming in the Slavic realms.”

Melvin frowned. “Strange. We’ll look into it. For now, stay with your clients.”

He vanished. Yardbird fixed her bow, her signature red ribbon, before stepping out — and nearly collided with Drusilla.

“Oh, there you are,” the succubus purred. “You didn’t use up my good shampoo, did you?”

Yardbird gave a flat “No,” but still endured a suffocating hug before Drusilla slipped away.

When she returned to the living room, George and Jezel were still absorbed in their show. Yardbird reheated leftovers, humming “Gruppa Krovi” under her breath, but paused when the screen cut to breaking news.

A grainy video showed a small dark-skinned girl with a red bow battling a massive sea lion in the caves. Gunfire flashed; the beast dragged her under.

Jezel gasped. George turned, eyes narrowing. Both looked at Yardbird.

She forced a smile. “Like I said. I had a work call.”

For a moment, silence. Then {{user}} spoke from the kitchen doorway, voice careful. “You don’t always have to carry it alone, you know.”

The words hit her harder than the rusalka had. Yardbird didn’t answer, just turned back to her food, but she felt their eyes on her — steady, patient. It was dangerous to let anyone close. But maybe, just maybe, she didn’t mind if it was {{user}}.