Munro (Immortals After Dark #18) by Kresley Cole

            Ren raised her brows. “Organic?”

            “Another term for a human,” Munro explained. “It means you’re highly perishable.”

            The third witch slurred, “I sensh tenshon ’tween you two. Is she the one who knocked your dick in the dirt?” That female raised her palm to Ren. “High fiiiiive.”

            Ren frowned. “Pardon?”

            “Low five!” The female pouted. “No five?”

            Huh?

            “A little privacy, ladies,” Munro said, and they finally filed around him, blowing kisses as they departed. To Ren, he said, “Replica or not, you’re still you. Do your vows mean nothing?”

            The nerve! “Oh, you’re one to talk. You put the lie in Lykae! But for your information, my vows mean everything. If the ones I made to you still count, then the wedding vows I made to Jacob do too, and I made those first.” She would never forget how valiantly Jacob had fought all the way up to what they’d thought was the end.

            “The groom released you from your obligations. Besides, he’s long gone now. You’re a widow, free to be with me.”

            Jacob had been ready to give her over to the wolf to keep her safe, had always put her needs above his own. He’d had secret dreams for them both, and he loved her—unlike Munro, who only wanted to possess her and who looked down on her very species. Jacob was as honest and forthright as the wolf was dishonest and scheming.

            From inside the shop, a woman called, “Munro, you had better come in.” Was that Loa? “The warlocks will be lookin’ for you here first.”

            He said to Ren, “The devil you know?”

            Despite Munro telling her it was impossible to return to her time, she had three reasons to believe otherwise. One, she didn’t trust anything he said. Two, even if he’d told the truth, she could return to the past without fading—if she’d died back then. And three, she feared she’d go crazy if all hope was lost.

            Unfortunately, she needed immortal help to return to her time. To complete her mission, she had to risk him completing his. “Fine.”

            He took her arm and ushered her up the stairs. Small signs plastered the door of the ramshackle structure, and a bell rang overhead. Munro had to duck under the doorframe.

            The interior smelled of incense and looked no different from any of the gift shops she’d passed earlier. He led her toward the back, to a shelf of dried alligator heads and black candles.

            Which wasn’t a shelf at all, but an optical illusion. He walked them through it, and another candlelit store spread out before her. The fine hairs on Ren’s nape stood up. This was the Lore store.

            Aisles were stocked with unfamiliar goods, and books lined the shelves. What did monsters buy or read?

            Signs throughout the shop heralded:

            Accession sale!

            Not one iota cheaper! (but do you care?)

            Everything must go (because apocalypse!)

            Ren glared at Munro. “Naturally, you brought me to the End Times. This gets better and better.”

            “That’s nothing more than marketing. Probably. Just ignore it.”

            “I know what an Accession is.” Occurring every five centuries, Accessions were dangerous times in the Lore, rife with battles between immortal species. Which was great for humanity—unless mortals got caught in the crosshairs.

            “I regret that we’re now in the thick of one, but it canna be helped. Mates often find each other during Accessions.” He steered her forward. “Come. Time is short.”

            She scanned the bookshelves as they passed. The titles ran the Lorean gamut:

            Litter Train Your Cub Overnight: The No-Diaper Solution.

            The Authorized Biography of Nereus the Sea God: Big D Down in the Deep.

            Mating Ball: A Romance. The description teased: “Will Cinderviper find her Prinssssce?”

            Ren’s gaze flicked over curiosities on the shelves. Scale polish remover. Molting itch reducer. Centaur salt licks “for comfort.”