The drive to Portland had never seemed this long. Would it have seemed shorter if Quentin had been with me? Ted snorted. Nah. If Q-Bert had been here, he’d probably have been sitting almost on top of the door handle and wouldn’t have spoken to me for the whole two hours.

After twenty minutes of circling the Pearl District streets, Ted finally found an on-street parking spot across from Little Big Burger. Closed now. So what? He supposed he should have stopped on the way into town to grab a bite to eat, since he’d canceled the reservations for his dinner with Quentin, but he’d passed every one of his usual joints without pause. Somehow, he didn’t have much of an appetite.

He trudged the six blocks to the Supernatural Selection offices, his hands shoved in the pockets of his tweed blazer, the closest thing he had to a suit. He should at least try to spruce up for his first meeting with his future husband, right? The jacket was kinda old, and didn’t fit very well because it was sized for his winter body. I left that behind in bed this morning. But at least it was more formal than what he’d been wearing when he’d met Quentin the first time.

Supernatural Selection was located on the top three floors of a four-story multiuse building, above a falafel restaurant, a Pilates studio, and a New Age bookstore owned by the same witches’ collective that ran the matchmaking agency. He suspected that they didn’t sell many books—most of their business was conducted out of the back room, where they kept the arcane supplies.

Bet we could have gotten the silver-bladed knife here. Heck, probably the fleas too. I wouldn’t put it past them to breed the damn things.

He pushed through the glass doors that led to the building’s lobby and took the stairs up to the second floor. He froze on the top step, his hand tightening around the rail.

Quentin was standing outside the Supernatural Selection entrance next to a silver-haired woman in one of those ladies’ suits that looked simple but probably cost more than Ted’s truck.

Quentin, on the other hand, was still wearing a pair of Ted’s “spring” jeans. And that’s my Bad Robot T-shirt. His hair was tousled and his eyes were wide behind the glimmer of his spectacle lenses.

Ursa’s teeth, he’s so beautiful. But then, Ted had thought he was beautiful from the beginning, even when he was smaller, thinner, and—let’s face it—pissy.

Ted forced himself to take the last step onto the landing. “Hey, Quentin.” Please don’t let Rusty be waiting inside. I don’t know if I can fake it in front of him. Not now. Maybe not ever. “Ready to do this thing?”

“Um . . . of course.” He turned to the woman at his side. “Ted, this is my grandmother, Pauline Bertrand-Harrington. Grandmother, Ted Farnsworth.”

Ted wiped his hand on his pants, then held it out. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Bertrand-Harrington.” Wait. She’s a succubus. Maybe shaking hands is not a thing? Quentin sure got all weird about it. He dropped his hand to his side before things got awkward.

She inclined her head and greeted him with what his mom would have called a company smile. “Please. Call me Pauline.” But then her smile wavered, a pucker growing between her brows. She glanced briefly over her shoulder at Quentin. “Perhaps we should chat for a few minutes before—”

“Hello!” Zeke stepped out of the Supernatural Selection reception room, one of those shiny folders clutched to his chest and a flickering golden pillar at his back. “We’ll be proceeding to the ritual chamber momentarily, but first, there’s someone here to see you, Mr. Farnsworth.”

Ted gulped. Not Rusty. Please not Rusty. Not yet. But when Zeke stood aside, a familiar figure in flannel and denim, with a beard bushier than Ted’s, shuffled into the hallway.

“Ben?” Ted rushed his brother and grabbed him in a fierce hug. “What are you doing here?”

Ben pounded Ted on the back with his usual perfunctory force and stepped back. “You asked me to show up, remember? Sent me that email a few weeks ago.”

“Oh. Right. I forgot about that.”

“’S a good thing I didn’t. Demon there says you need a witness or something, otherwise the fucking sky will fall.”

Zeke clutched his folder tighter. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t mind my brother.” Ted patted Zeke’s shoulder. “He doesn’t get out much.” He bobbed his head at Pauline. “Sorry about the language, ma’am.”

She arched a brow. “I’ve heard worse, but I appreciate the courtesy. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to Ted and my grandson privately.”

Zeke smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, but we’re a bit pressed for time.”

“Surely you can spare me five minutes.”

The golden pillar flicked out and then reappeared in front of Zeke, flaring brighter so that Ted could just make out the towering figure inside. By the way Zeke’s eyes popped wide, this wasn’t a good thing.

“I’m, um, afraid not. If the witnesses could please accompany the AI to the observation room?”

Pauline pursed her lips, and if the AI had balls, the look she gave it should have shriveled them to nothing. Seemed it was made of sterner stuff than Ted, though, because it grew taller and wider.

She sniffed and murmured something that sounded like, “Arrogant, pretentious asshole.” But Ted figured he hadn’t heard correctly. She looked much too refined to say anything like that. She made him feel as clumsy as a bull shifter in a china shop just by standing there.

Ben must have felt the same way, because he shot Ted a wide-eyed glance as he lumbered off behind her and the AI.

Zeke blew out a breath. “Good. Gentlemen, if you could come with me please?”

As they followed Zeke down the hall in the opposite direction, Quentin murmured, “Are you okay? Did David fix whatever I did?”

Ted hunched his shoulders, increasing his pace when Zeke disappeared around a corner. “There’s nothing wrong with me.” Nothing that can be fixed anyway. Not with us about to be separated for eternity and married to other people.

“That can’t be.”

Ted stopped, reaching out for Quentin who—big surprise—flinched away. “Look, Q-Bert. You need to chill the heck out. I feel fine. David said I’m fine. Say it with me—I’m fine. We both know we’ve got to do this. We made promises to other people and they’re depending on us. But don’t make this about you saving me from yourself, okay?”

“But—”

“You went into a tailspin out of guilt before. You don’t need to do it again.”

Quentin opened his mouth, probably to argue because that was what he did. But then he shut it and nodded. “You’re right. And since I won’t be touching you again—”

“That’s not why. You don’t need to guilt yourself into starvation because you didn’t do anything wrong. I’ll prove it.” Ted reached for Quentin’s hand, but he snatched it behind his back.

“Please, Ted.” Quentin blinked rapidly, his eyes shiny behind his glasses. “I’m not strong enough for this. Even if it’s true, even if I didn’t hurt you, touching you again now, when I know I can’t even see you after today, would hurt me. I don’t know if I could bear it.”

Ted’s chest pinched, right under his heart. How can I say no to that? So he did what he always did, what everyone expected him to do—the wrong thing. “‘Bear’ it. Good one, Q-Bert.” But he couldn’t make himself chuckle.

That was expecting too much—even for him.

Quentin couldn’t tear his gaze from Ted’s dear face. Trust him to take the burden on himself. “I lo—”

Zeke peeked around the corner. “Mr. Farnsworth? Mr. Bertrand-Harrington? The officials are waiting.” He smiled with obvious forced brightness, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “If you’ll all come this way?”

For a demon to sweat took some serious terror. I wonder what will happen to him as a result of this clusterfuck? If the lords of Sheol were involved, it wouldn’t be pretty. However, if the witches were annoyed? Quentin shuddered and hurried down the hall. Zeke held the door for them to enter the windowless chamber.

The floor, the same blue-gray slate as the walls, was inscribed with the required pentagram-within-a-circle. Three witches in formal robes stood at the north side, representing Maiden, Mother, and Crone.

Zeke pointed to the left. “Mr. Farnsworth, if you could take your place in the green-chalked circle by the west wall. Mr. Bertrand-Harrington, the red-chalked circle by the east wall.”

They all took their places, Quentin meeting Ted’s gaze across the inscriptions. Why does he seem so far away? After the ritual, he’d be completely out of reach. Don’t fool yourself. He was out of reach from the moment you met him.

Zeke glanced between them. “May I have the required artifacts, please?”

Ted’s eye widened. “Shit. I forgot all about them.”

“Don’t worry.” Quentin offered him a tight smile. “I have them here.” He pulled a linen-wrapped bundle from his jeans pocket and handed it to Zeke.

Zeke unwrapped the bundle almost reverently, presenting the bound hair to the Maiden, the coins to the Mother, and the vials containing the fleas to the Crone. She handed them back.

“Sorry,” Zeke murmured. Then he unstopped the vials and dumped the now-deceased fleas into her palm.

One by one, each of them paced forward and placed their items in the center of the pentagram. Zeke extracted a set of papers from one of his files and set them at the point of the pentagram closest to Ted. His contract, I presume. The one with my name on it. Zeke laid the contents of the other folder on the point closest to Quentin, then scooted over to the south wall next to the door under the baleful stares of the witches.

They waited several beats, just long enough to be awkward and uncomfortable, before they spoke.

“Finita,” said the Maiden.

“Consummatum,” said the Mother.

When the Crone said, “Contritum,” fire streaked around the circle and down the lines of the pentagram, setting the papers ablaze.

As the items Ted and Quentin had so painstakingly gathered erupted into green witch-fire, burning pain exploded below Quentin’s sternum, and he doubled over, trapping a groan behind his teeth.

“Ursa’s fucking teeth!” Ted shouted.

Guess I’m not the only one to feel it. He panted and wheezed as the agony flared in sync with the green flames that he could see out of his watering eyes. Through ringing ears, he could still make out Ted’s growls and whimpers.

The three witches, however, paid no attention to either of them. They gazed straight ahead and marched across the circle, out of Quentin’s sight lines and—judging by the swish and click of the closing door—out of the room. Apparently aftercare isn’t part of their services.

But it’s part of mine—at least where Ted is concerned, even if we’re not still married.

So Quentin forced his breathing back to normal, ignoring the pain that had subsided but not died, and stood up. He took one more deep breath and blew it out, focusing on the rough slate wall to center himself, then faced Ted.

Or tried to.

He had only turned halfway around before he hit an invisible wall with his shoulder. He tried to turn his head. No good. The most he could manage was to catch a fleeting glimpse of Ted’s back out of the corner of his eye.

“Congratulations to you both!” Zeke said with far too much cheer. “Your contract is severed.”

“Q-Bert?” Ted’s voice was shaky. “I . . . I can’t turn around.”

Mother of bloody fire. For a group so steeped in symbolism, witches could be so fucking literal. “I think that’s because the escape clause spell prevents us from meeting face to face for, you know, eternity.”

Ted’s fierce mutter was unintelligible, but judging by Zeke’s horrified gasp, Quentin suspected it was highly unflattering to the witches.

Gingerly, Quentin backed across the room. Even if I can’t look at him, maybe I can touch him once more. Surely one last fleeting touch wouldn’t hurt Ted. Although it might just eviscerate me.

“Mr. Bertrand-Harrington! What are you doing?” Zeke suddenly appeared in front of Quentin, and the AI was back, flickering at his shoulder. “You can’t—”

“I can’t face him. I know. But can’t we have a few minutes alone? We never had a chance to say goodbye properly.”

“It’s really not done.” Zeke glanced at the AI. “I mean, I’ve never witnessed this ritual personally, but as I understand it, the intent is that you aren’t allowed any contact.”

“Screw that,” Ted said. “It said we can’t meet face-to-face. That doesn’t mean we can’t call each other. Text. Heck, maybe even Skype.”

Zeke shifted from foot to foot. “I, um, suspect virtual face time is prohibited as well as actual.”

“Well, I’m willing to give it a shot if you are, Q-Bert. Except . . .” Ted heaved a giant sigh. “I suppose it’s not such a great idea. We shouldn’t go into our next marriages half-assed, you know? I mean, Rusty was my perfect match once.”

“And Casimir was mine.” If I hadn’t excluded the living, would the results have been any different?

“So he’s waiting for you, and Rusty’s waiting for me.”

“That’s right,” Zeke said. “Upstairs in altar room three and conference room seven.” He shrugged apologetically. “Sorry about the conference room, but we thought it would be insensitive to put all four of you in the same ritual space. Although if you’re in a rush and don’t mind sharing the altar, we could conduct both ceremonies simultaneously.”

Watch Ted marry someone else? I’d rather emigrate to Sheol. “You go ahead. I’ll wait until you and Rusty are . . . are done.” Although his lips were trembling, he attempted to add a smile to his voice since Ted couldn’t see his face—and he wasn’t particularly concerned what Zeke or the smug flicker of the AI thought. “I doubt my grandmother would appreciate attending my wedding in a conference room. She has her standards.”

“You could take the altar room. I bet Rusty wouldn’t mind.”

“No. Please. Go ahead.” Before I lose it completely. “You deserve to start your life together without compromising on something so significant. For that matter, we all deserve that, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. I guess.” Ted’s tone was heavy. “But before I go, I just want you to know. I’m not sorry, Q-Bert. Quentin. Not sorry you were my husband. I only wish— Well, never mind.”

“I know, Ted,” Quentin said around the enormous lump in his throat. “I’m not sorry either.”

Zeke frowned, picking at the corner of the folder he was holding against his chest. “But you’re both happy, aren’t you? This is what you wanted.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Ted sighed, and Quentin had never wanted anything more than he wanted to hug Ted right now. “Let’s get on with it.” His footsteps dragged across the slate, moving away from Quentin, out of his life for good.

Tears welled in Quentin’s eyes, and through their blur he caught an out-of-focus glimpse of a face inside the AI’s golden pillar: wide noble brow, large deep-set eyes, sculpted cheekbones—and a mouth twisted in a triumphant sneer.

But when Quentin blinked, the vision was gone, the AI nothing more than a tall column of shimmering light.

“Mr. Bertrand-Harrington? Your grandmother is waiting for you in the observation room.”

“If you don’t mind, Zeke, I’d like a few minutes alone first.”

“Certainly.” He couldn’t have sounded more uncertain if he’d tried. “But I’ll need to cleanse the chamber before the next scheduled ritual. You could use the reflection room if you—”

“Just ten minutes. Is that too much to ask?”

Something far too like pity flickered across Zeke’s face. “No. Of course not. I’ll let your grandmother know you’re delayed.” He left, shutting the door behind him.

Quentin huddled in the corner, legs tucked against his chest, the slate rough and cold against his back, and let his forehead drop to his knees.

Goodbye, my love.