Alpha Blake's Broken Luna
She stops dead at the sight and grins like someone caught a secret and brought it home.
“They like her,” Tara says, delighted and not surprised. “They’ve been practicing knots since the playground.”
“What are we looking at?” Blake asks from the threshold, he doesn’t come in until I meet his eyes. He has that look on, the one that counts windows, exits, heartbeats, and how much of me is laughing. It’s the responsible one and I love it and also want to bite it.
“A night-weft,” Tara says, kneeling by Athena as if she’s greeting a tiny queen. The shadows lift to kiss her fingers and settle again. “In fae it’s called the Gloam Plait. It’s how the Umbral tell their own where the safe roads are.”
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