The Tracker's Mate: Sunderverse (Mate Tracker Book 1), Ingrid Seymour [red white royal blue TXT] 📗

“That’s terrible”

I should have known about it since Jake and I grew up in the same circles, but it wasn’t something anyone liked to talk about, so Jake had told me. I still remembered that night. He had nearly cried, and all I could do was hold him, words sticking to my throat. I’d known even then that words meant nothing against something of that magnitude.

I sighed. “Jake always wanted to find him, at least know what happened to him. I think not knowing was the worst.”

“Gah, I would die if something happened to Vannia.”

Vannia was Rosalina’s sister. She was a senior in high school just like Lucia, my youngest sister.

“Anyway,” I said, sadness heavy in my heart. “I guess that explains his PI calling.”

“And what about him and Stephen? How do you think they met?”

I glanced around the pizzeria as if the answer could be found in the pictures hanging on the wall.

“They’re both werewolves,” I said lamely as if that could guarantee a friendship when it was the complete opposite. Werewolves stuck to their own and tended to hate members of other packs.

“I thought you said Jake was a lone wolf? Don’t some people call him Jake Lone?”

“Yes, after his parents died, he lost all connection to his pack. He retreated.”

Rosalina frowned. “And Ulfen Erickson’s pack is pretty tight, so why would those two suddenly start hanging out? You don’t think it was because of you? Maybe they like exchanging make-out stories.”

I made a strangling motion toward her neck. “Not funny.”

She snickered, then sobered. “Whatever the case, it’s weird.”

Talking things out with Rosalina and filling my stomach with greasy dough set me at ease. In the end, we decided not to do anything rash. Our lease wasn’t up for another couple of months, anyway.

“We’re almost out of Pixie dust,” I said. “I think I’ll go by Yalgrun’s tonight. Want anything?”

“Oh, yes! Get me some of that Puck stool.”

“Ew, how you put that stuff on your face, I just can’t even...”

She thrust her chin in my direction. “Look at this skin. Flawless. The stuff works.”

I shrugged. I couldn’t argue with that. Her skin was flawless. Still, I wouldn’t put Puck poop or anyone’s poop on my face—no way. I wondered if she would continue this particular beauty routine if she laid eyes on a Puck while lifting his stubby tail to do his business. I snickered at the image.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing. I’d better get going.” I checked the time on my phone. “Yalgrun closes in an hour.”

“I’ll give you a ride.”

“Nah, I’ll walk. I need the exercise since I missed class.”

We said goodbye in front of the restaurant, then walked our separate ways. It was close to seven, which shocked me since that meant Rosalina and I had talked for nearly two hours. I smiled to myself. Whenever I was with her, time just seemed to fly.

Chapter 8

There were many gates to Elf-hame, the Fae realm. Some were well known, but the majority weren’t. Most people knew those intended for tourism and light shopping. But others, like me, had access to select entry points through which a less sanitized version of Elf-hame could be observed.

To gain access, I had applied for a business license. It took over four weeks to secure it, and it gave me access to a nearby gate located in Tower Grove Park, only a fifteen-minute walk from the agency. The name of the trading post was Pharowyn.

Walking briskly to get my heart going, I reached the park’s west gatehouse, then headed for the Turkish Pavilion, a large gazebo with a cupola roof painted in red and white stripes. When I arrived, I sat at one of its tables. The place was empty but for a jogger who stood at one corner, stretching, headphones stuffed into his ears.

I traced an elf rune on the table’s surface with my index finger, a symbol assigned just to me, and waited as my surroundings gradually changed, a new reality bubbling into existence. The jogger disappeared, as did the pavilion, and was replaced by an outdoor tavern, located in a busy cobblestone market street.

As soon as I materialized, a young, slight Fae rushed to my side, inclined his horned head, and spoke in his tilting accent. “May I serve you something, respectable lady?” He wore a rough tunic with wooden buttons and cropped brown pants with leather shoes no more substantial than ballet flats.

“No, thank you, Abin Cenael,” I answered, using the phrase “respectable sir” in turn.

His cheeks colored at the term, and his eyes flashed disappointment at my refusal.

“I’ll get something on my way back,” I said. “I need to catch Yalgrun before he closes.”

He beamed, his beautiful turquoise eyes sparkling, surely looking forward to a tip in human money. It was widely accepted in Elf-hame’s trading posts.

I abandoned the tavern’s table and headed down the stall-lined alley. Here, most of the available goods consisted of food. Exotic fruits and vegetables, grilled meats, honey cakes, candy. My mouth watered as the different delicious scents fought for my attention. Generally, eating Fae food was a terrible idea. It could enthrall you and ruin you for any other type of food, but not here. Trading posts had laws against enchanted food. I ate the hazelnut and rhubarb tarts all the time. They were to die for.

The people behind the stalls were all Fae of different kinds. Gnomes, dryads, knockers, pucks, you name it. They sported horns, hooves, tails, wings. Some were beautiful and others not so much. The customers, on the other hand, were more of a human persuasion. At least in aspect, since they included vampires, shifters, and the like. They were all Skews like me, though. No Stales got access to Fae posts like this one.

Ignoring the food, I took a right into the next alley and entered an area with stone and mortar shops, places more permanent compared to the transient, removable stalls. One of