Why the hell did I ever agree to that stupid escape clause? If only he’d waited, even for another week, he’d have known that Quentin was his real match. They’d have stayed married and everything would have been fine.

Except I’d never fit into his fancy-ass lifestyle. And why would he want to give it up for a tux-less life in the wilderness?

This was better. This was what should have happened in the first place.

But as he trudged up the stairs in Zeke’s wake, guilt crawled up his back like one of those stupid fleas. What if Rusty was expecting a husband who’d love him? How was it fair to him to stick him with a guy who’d always be wishing for somebody else?

I’ll just have to try twice as hard to make him feel welcome, that’s all. They had a ton in common. But already Ted was feeling closed in again, the very thing that made him kick over the traces and do something really stupid—like phoning in another Sasquatch sighting to Matt. At least somebody would be happy then. Even if it wasn’t Ted. Or Rusty, come to think of it.

Crap. This knot was way beyond Ted’s ability to unravel. He needed Q-Bert here to talk him through this. To even him out. To tell him he wasn’t a screwup.

To love him.

Nope. Nope. Nope. Wasn’t gonna happen. Couldn’t happen. Ted needed to get over it and move on.

Zeke stopped outside a closed door halfway down the long, curved hallway. “Here we are,” he said brightly, although his eyes darted left and right, like a rabbit who was trying to decide which way to bolt. “Mr. Johnson is very excited about meeting you.”

“Really?” Ted’s stomach sank another six inches.

“Oh yes. When he arrived this evening, he said . . .” Zeke blinked. “I mean, I’m sure he’s looking forward to beginning your life together.”

Ted snorted. “What’d he say? ‘Let’s get this over with’? ‘It’s about time?’ ‘Beats a poke in the eye with a sharp stick’?”

Zeke hugged his folder until it buckled in the middle. “Nothing like that. I’m sure he— Well, anyway . . .” He fumbled for the handle and shoved the door wide, plastering a desperate-looking smile on his face. “Here’s Mr. Farnsworth!” His smile faded as he crept into the room, peering right and left and even behind the door. “Mr. Johnson?”

Ted followed him inside. It was a lot more welcoming than the ritual chamber, with polished oak floors and walls painted sky blue. The altar was draped with a dark-green cloth and topped with a big vase of yellow and orange chrysanthemums. Candles flared in the wall sconces, and the sideboard had a little white-frosted cake with bear and beaver cake toppers.

What the room didn’t have was the other groom.

“Say, Zeke? I’m not by any chance being left at the altar, am I?”

“No, no. I’m sure Mr. Johnson is just in the restroom, or perhaps getting a cup of coffee or a snack. He’s been waiting for quite a while.” He opened his abused folder as the AI drifted into the room. “In the meantime, we can take care of your paperwork. Here’s the new contract for you and Mr. Johns—” He frowned at the folder. “This isn’t right,” he muttered.

“What?” Ted edged closer and looked over Zeke’s shoulder. “Party of the first part, Ted Farnsworth. That’s me, all right. Party of the second part—” He jerked back, a growl fighting to escape his throat. Party of the second part, Quentin Bertrand-Harrington. “That’s not fucking funny.”

“I assure you, it’s not intended—” Zeke slapped the folder shut. “I’ll be right back.” He rushed out, past the pulsing golden AI, which flared orange for an instant before following him.

“Great. Just great.” Ted shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. He glanced at the altar again, and the cake. No way am I hanging out in here by myself.

He stepped outside and paced down the corridor, which seemed a lot longer and had more side passages than were possible in a building this size. And when Zeke was suddenly hurrying toward him even though Ted had gone in the opposite direction? Weird. Whole place must be built in an interdimensional pocket.

“There you are, Mr. Farnsworth. I’ve got the corrected contracts.” Zeke waved a sheaf of papers in the air, then slapped them against the wall. “Now if you’ll just— Wait.” He frowned at the papers, then crumpled them in both fists. “Fire and damnation, what is going on?”

Ted rocked from his heels to his toes. “Let me guess. Names wrong again?”

“I’m truly sorry. I’m not trying to annoy you.” He scrubbed a hand through his curly hair. “I don’t understand what’s happening. I suppose it’s a good thing that Mr. Johnson is missing.”

“Is he? Missing?”

“That’s not what I— I meant missing from the altar room. I’m sure he’ll return momentarily.” He huffed out a breath and set his jaw. “Don’t worry. I’ll get these contracts right if I have to write the entire things out by hand with a blood quill.”

He marched off down the hall with the AI at his heels. Jeez, didn’t that thing ever leave the poor guy alone? It was as bad as being tagged.

Ted sighed and resumed pacing, purposely not glancing inside the altar room when he passed. Was there another festively decorated room behind one of the other doors, this one holding a cake with a vampire and an incubus on top? For that matter, did one of the rooms hold an actual vampire? Rusty might have run out on Ted—and why didn’t that bother him more?—but that didn’t mean Casimir wasn’t anxiously awaiting Quentin.

He’d be an idiot if he wasn’t. Because only an idiot wouldn’t thank his lucky stars to have Quentin for a husband. Too bad I didn’t figure that out in time.

He made another circuit of the hall—without having to turn any corners—and was approaching the room again when an invisible force shoved at his shoulder, spinning him around to face the other direction. He tried to turn, but no dice. Which could only mean—

“Q-Bert? Is that you?”

“Ted?” Quentin laughed a little breathlessly. “I’m assuming you’re there since I just got spun around and nearly fell on my ass.”

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“Hold on. I’m walking backward, toward your voice, and . . . ah . . . here’s an open door.”

Shit. The only open door was that door, and the last thing Ted wanted was for Quentin to see the room decked out for Ted’s wedding to another guy. Those damn cake toppers. “Not there.”

“No, it’s okay. I’ve got this idea, see? If I duck in here and lean against the wall, you can stand outside. As long as we’re not face-to-fa— Oh.”

“Q-Bert?”

“Have you”—his voice was rough and a little choked up—“gotten married already?”

“Nah.” Ted was able to turn sideways and scoot down the hall. He flattened himself against the wall outside the open door. “Still waiting for Rusty to show.” And now that you’re here, he can take his own sweet time.

“I left the ritual chamber just as Zeke rushed by as if the Grand Inquisitor was on his tail, followed by the AI—which, I don’t mind telling you, seems to be enjoying all the drama far too much for an entity that’s supposed to be pure of heart.”

Ted chuckled, warmth swirling in his chest because it was so fricking good to hear that edge of snark in Quentin’s voice. “Yeah. I guess when you hide out inside a pillar of light, you can be as smug as you want and nobody’ll be the wiser.”

“Was Zeke off to fetch Rusty?”

“Nope. He’s having trouble getting the contracts right.”

“Again?”

“I know, right?” Ted let his head rest against the wall and hooked his fingers around the edge of the doorjamb. He’s so close. “Seems like that famous perfect match spell should help a little more with the paperwork.”

“That’s a very good point. Zeke is just one demon with an overzealous AI watchdog. It’s not as though he’s got the magical power to override an entire coven of witches.”

“Yeah. Poor guy can’t seem to get the contracts to print with the right names. When you saw him, that was the second time they were wrong.”

“Really? Whose names were on them?”

Uh-oh. I shouldn’t have mentioned that. “Nobody you’d know.”

“Ted,” Quentin said in his you’re-not-getting-away-with-that voice. “Whose names are on the contracts?”

“Weeellll. Mine of course.”

“Yes, yes. And?”

“And . . . well . . . yours.”

Quentin managed to tear his gaze away from the tiny wedding cake. “M-m-mine? Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I saw it. Well, I saw it the first time, but they were wrong the second time too, and I don’t imagine there are that many people who are interested in me.”

You have no idea. But something niggled at the back of his brain. Something about the matchmaking spells. There. Got it. And suddenly, the day wasn’t nearly as bleak, despite that stupid cake. “Ted. Remember the day we met?”

The warm burr of Ted’s chuckle sent tiny shock waves of joy along Quentin’s nerves. “Hard to forget. I wasn’t sure whether you were gonna run screaming down the mountain or stab me with the nearest tree branch.”

“As I recall, you didn’t look too cheerful either. Aren’t you the one that did run screaming down the mountain?”

“Hey, bears don’t scream. We’re tougher than that.”

This time, Quentin joined in the chuckle because he’d figured it out. “I know a silent scream when I see one, but never mind. After you ran, screaming—”

“Q-Bert.”

“—I called Zeke. He told me that the spells that govern the matchmaking protocols are global and in fact should have prevented clerical errors.”

“So?”

“So . . . tell me this. Do you want to be with me? If I asked you to marry me right now, would you say yes?”

“Q-Bert,” Ted groaned. “Don’t do this to me. You know I can’t. We can’t. We promised.”

“But those promises are based on the wrong assumptions. That you’re Rusty’s perfect match. That I’m Casimir’s. How can we be their perfect matches if we want each other?”

“It doesn’t matter. They want us. Or at least they’re supposed to, even though neither of them is on time for their own fricking wedding.”

“Just don’t sign anything, Ted, okay? Especially not in blood.”

“Q-Bert—”

“Please, Ted. Promise me this time.”

“All right. Fine. But I don’t know what difference it’ll make.”

“Just trust me.” And hope I’m right and that I can pull this off. He scooted closer to the edge of the door, then flipped, pressing his belly against the wall. He reached around the doorjamb as heavy footsteps thudded down the hall.

“Bunch of people coming, Q-Bert. You expecting a crowd?”

“No. Don’t pay any attention to them.” He waved his hand up and down, and Ted caught on, lacing their fingers together. The energy that surged into Quentin soothed the residual ache from the escape ritual, and eased the feeling of being trapped and bottled up that had plagued him since he’d left Ted at the stream. It’s only our hands. Not sex. He’ll be fine. But oh how I’ve missed his touch.

On the other side of the wall, Ted sighed, deep and contented.

“Ted Farnsworth.” The deep, resonant voice was vaguely familiar.

Unfortunately, it made Ted release Quentin’s hand. “Hey, Dr. Kendrick, David. What are you doing here? If you came for my wedding, there may be a slight delay. Besides, I, uh, don’t think those trolls’ll fit in the room.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Alun.” David’s voice held an edge of urgency. “Wait a minute. There’s something I need to check.”

“I’m afraid that will have to wait, Dafydd. Ted Farnsworth, for gross negligence with respect to the Secrecy Pact, I arrest you in the council’s name.”

“What?” Quentin outraged shout was masked by Ted’s.

“But I haven’t done anything. Not lately. Who says—”

“We have evidence—photographic evidence—that you’re still consorting with the tabloid photographer, Matthew Steinitz, and as a result have exposed the supernatural community to discovery.”

“What, just by having dinner with him at the diner? Fishing with him?”

“Look at these.”

Quentin pressed himself against the wall, wishing desperately that he dared rush into the corridor. But what would that accomplish? It’d only force Ted into awkward gyrations as they jockeyed to avoid facing one another.

He didn’t dare breathe in case the sound of air sawing into his lungs blocked Ted’s response. But Ted was quiet for a long time. Was that a hitch in his breath? Quentin couldn’t tell.

“I . . . see.” Ted’s voice was defeated. “Okay. Let’s go.”

There were sounds of movement as the group in the hall rearranged themselves. David shuffled into Quentin’s sightline. He met Quentin’s gaze, his eyes wide and stricken.

“These guards will escort you,” Dr. Kendrick said. “I have to collect Mr. Steinitz.”

“You’re arresting Matt too? But—”

“Ted.” Dr. Kendrick heaved a heavy sigh. “He’s sold pictures of your Bigfoot impersonations to three different publications. He’s a party to nearly blinding a vampire fledgling—then had the gall to capture the moment and sell that image to three different papers. And now he’s threatened us with these. He can’t be allowed to distribute these photographs. You know that.”

“Yeah, but . . . Shit.”

No no no. Don’t go with them. Not now. Not without me.

“Ted.” Quentin’s croak was drowned by the heavy march of feet. As soon as they faded down the hallway, Quentin rushed out of the room.

Dr. Kendrick—Alun—stepped back, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. “Quentin. What are you doing here?”

“I just got divorced and I was supposed to be getting married.” He glared at Alun. “It seems to me that I’m the only one presently in this corridor who has a legitimate reason to be here.”

Alun scowled, although he released his sword hilt. “I’m here on council business.”

Quentin folded his arms across his chest. He was nearly Alun’s size now, and for the first time he was glad of it. “That business sounds remarkably specious to me. May I see this alleged evidence?”

“I don’t see what business it is of yours.”

“Alun.” David put a hand on his husband’s arm. “Show him the pictures. Please.”

Alun looked down into David’s face, fondness and exasperation vying for ascendance in his expression. “Oh very well.”

He extracted several photographs from inside his jerkin and handed them to Quentin.

The first was a grainy photograph of Quentin himself, his fingers buried in Ted’s grizzly fur. Hunting for fleas. “The only thing it proves is that I might have an unfortunate death wish or a close personal friendship with a bear.”

“Except there are no grizzlies in this part of Oregon.”

“Regardless, Matt wasn’t present that day.” Although . . . there was that point where Quentin thought he’d heard something in the underbrush. He wasn’t mentioning that to Alun, however.

He shuffled it to the bottom of the stack. The second picture was far more damning—but not to Ted. It was a picture of Quentin, his wings fully extended, his mouth twisted in a snarl. Since Matt’s presence had been what prompted Quentin to lose control so completely, he could scarcely deny the man had been there.

Quentin scared up some bravado. “The Bertrand-Harringtons and the other dynastic ’cubi families have protocols in place for dealing with this sort of . . . accidental breach. I can contact my lawyers immediately and put things in motion. There’s no need—”

Alun’s expression turned wooden. “Are you sure it was accidental?”

“Are you serious? Ted had no idea I’d manifest in full incubus mode. I didn’t even know I could do it.”

“That’s not what I mean. Both incidents occurred on Ted’s property. How did Steinitz know to show up at that time and in those locations? How did he get his information?”

Heat prickled along Quentin’s scalp and across his shoulder blades. Now is not a good time to lose control. “Are you insinuating that Ted set me up?”

“I’m not insinuating anything, but the council is interpreting it exactly that way. You’re being characterized as a victim, which is why I haven’t been ordered to arrest you too.”

“But that makes no sense. I’m the one who committed the infraction. You’re arresting Ted yet letting me off scot-free?”

Alun rubbed the back of his neck. “Not entirely scot-free. You’re being fined for failure to control.”

“Fined? How much?”

Alun glanced down at his shoes, but David grimaced and said, “Two hundred dollars.”

Quentin’s shoulders twitched and burned, his wings ready to burst free. He clenched his teeth and attempted to dial back his outrage. “Two hundred dollars for the person who committed the infraction versus an arrest and trial for someone who was merely present at the time? How is that fair?”

“It’s not. But when the council considers Secrecy Pact violations, they fall squarely on the pragmatic side rather than the philosophical.” Alun smiled rather grimly. “As you said, your family, with their money and influence, is in a position to suppress the images and minimize exposure. Ted . . . is not.”

“That’s—that’s monstrous.”

“Quentin—”

“If you believe for one minute that these ridiculous charges are grounds for arrest, you—”

“Quentin! Look at the last picture.”

Quentin growled under his breath, snapping the picture of himself to the bottom of the stack. But the last picture sent a wave of ice through him, shutting down his anger.

The photo showed a line of children, probably between the ages of six and ten, filing into a brick building at the edge of a forest.

“What’s this?”

“The local school for shifter kids. The message is clear, the threat obvious, even without the ransom demand that the head of the bear council received not two hours ago. This person is targeting the entire supe community, including our most vulnerable members, our children.”

“But Ted wouldn’t— He’s not the kind of man who’d endanger children.”

Alun sighed. “Not deliberately, perhaps. But he doesn’t always think before he speaks, and his continued association with Steinitz is a known security risk. He’s been warned to cut the connection—more than once—and he hasn’t. This is the result.”

“Look, Alun, I’m not exactly a fan of Mr. Steinitz, but just because he took an unflattering picture of me, I don’t see him as the sort who would ransom children’s safety. When he ran off this morning, he . . . Wait a minute.” Quentin shuffled the picture of him with his wings extended. He tapped it with one finger, not really caring that his claw was half-extended. “He couldn’t have taken this picture. He didn’t have a camera and he was flat on his face”—in Ted’s crotch—“at the time.”

“Is that so?” Alun held out his hand, and Quentin passed over the photographs. “In that case, I hope Mr. Steinitz has explanations for the others—and proof that he couldn’t have taken them too.” He tucked the photographs away and leaned over to kiss David. “I’ll bring him to headquarters for questioning.” He nodded at Quentin. “Don’t worry. I won’t let the council railroad Ted.” He took off down the hallway.

And neither will I. Ted needed somebody to speak for him, and Quentin was a trained advocate.

With a very personal agenda.

“I’ve got to get to that hearing.” But how could he get there in time? Alun could gate through Faerie to supe headquarters, but Quentin didn’t have that option.

“I think we should both go,” David said, nodding decisively.

“How do you suggest we do so? Can you call your brother-in-law again?”

David flashed a grin. “Oh we don’t need to do that. There’s a translocation door on the fourth floor next to the vending machines. But before we go—”

“Later, David, please.”

He caught Quentin’s sleeve. “It’s important. Besides, Alun can’t possibly apprehend Mr. Steinitz so quickly, and the proceedings can’t start until he’s there.”

“Fine. But let’s not waste time. I don’t want to take chances with Ted’s fate.”

“You left so quickly this morning that I didn’t get to tell you about the results of my evaluation of Ted’s health.”

Quentin waved his words away. “He told me that he was fine, but I can’t really believe it.”

“You should. But the thing is—” David bit his lip, extending his hands to Quentin. “May I?”

“Oh why the hell not?” Quentin muttered with something less than grace. He thrust out his hands, and David took them, the telltale thread of achubydd power skating immediately along Quentin’s nerves.

His eyes half-lidded, David hummed tunelessly to himself. After a minute or so, he released Quentin and smiled up at him.

“It’s just what I thought.”

“What is?”

“When I examined Ted, I noticed that there were several places where his energy was tangled. Sort of—” he cupped both hands and brought them together as if packing a snowball “—backed up. Looking for an outlet. You have that same condition.”

“I do?” Quentin stared at his hands. “Where?”

Pink infused David’s cheeks. “Um . . . a few places. That’s not relevant. The important thing is that when we came down the hall, I saw you holding hands with Ted.”

It was Quentin’s turn to blush. “I didn’t think it would hurt him. Just holding hands. You said the desiccation required prolonged exposure—”

“Don’t worry. Nothing’s wrong. In fact, I think I found out what Ted’s energy snarls were looking for.” He pointed at Quentin. “You. And yours are tuned to him. I saw the exchange from way back there. It was pretty hard to miss.”

“But—but that can’t be. If I’m taking energy—”

“Excuse me, who’s the achubydd here?” David propped his fists on his hips. “Despite what you believe, I’ve learned in the last months that energy is not a zero-sum game.” He squinted at the ceiling. “Think of it like those hybrid cars, where the kinetic energy from the brakes recharges the electric batteries. It works that way with achubydd healing. And it looks like it works that way with you and Ted. You’re completing a circuit, feeding each other energy. Ted, as a bear shifter, can store a boatload of energy with his prehibernation eating patterns, which means you’re consuming those reserves, not his life force. And as a by-product, you’re . . . well . . . transmogrifying it and feeding it back as a sort of antisnooze discharge. So he’s not only svelter—he’s not sleepy.” He cast a critical glance at Quentin, and Quentin could swear he looked right through him. “When you’re separated, though, the circuit is broken, and I don’t think it’s good for either of you.”

Quentin stared at him, hope warring with his near-panic at Ted’s arrest. I could be with him. We could be together. So they couldn’t ever look each other in the face again. They could at least be together. They could touch. It’s enough. It has to be.

But first he had to keep the council from throwing Ted in jail or whatever medieval punishment they were cooking up.

“Come on. Fourth floor you said?”

They raced down the hallway, but at the head of the stairs, they encountered Zeke, the tip of each finger swaddled in a Band-Aid, another damn contract in his hands. “Mr. Bertrand-Harrington. Has Mr. Moreau returned?”

Quentin shared a sidelong glance with David. “Casimir is missing too?”

“Yes. I mean, of course not. That is, I’m sure he’s only momentarily detained.” He peered around the hall while the AI pulsed as if with silent laughter at his shoulder. “Where’s Mr. Farnsworth?”

“He’s been detained too, and not so momentarily. They’ve taken him to supe headquarters.”

“But—but the ceremonies. The celebrants are already booked and they—they—”

“Turn very noncelebratory if they’re stood up?” Quentin said dryly.

“No. But everything’s prepared.”

“Too bad.” Quentin narrowed his eyes, focusing on the contracts. “In fact—” He snatched the papers out of Zeke’s hands.

“Hey! Those aren’t yours!”

As Quentin peered at the rusty cursive writing on the first page, his own name formed under Party of the Second Part, in the loops and whorls of formal script. A laugh bubbled up from somewhere nearly forgotten. “As a matter of fact, they are.” He grabbed Zeke’s wrist. “Come on. We’ve got a date with a drumhead court.”