Munro (Immortals After Dark #18) by Kresley Cole

            Say what you would about Loreans, but none of them would hurt their own species the way mortals did.

            “I’ll let some air in.” Munro crossed to a window. The rain-swollen wood groaned with resistance.

            Outside, the Carpathians beckoned. “When are we heading to the forest?”

            “It’ll still be a quagmire out there, Kereny.” Care-nay. But his pronunciation didn’t bother her as it had before. “I’ll no’ put you in danger of landslides.”

            Yesterday, she’d spied an oak atop a ridge lose its footing and come tumbling down the hillside. Still . . . “We can’t remain in here for much longer. I’m about to climb the walls.”

            “Right there with you.” He took the seat next to hers.

            In the beginning of their stay, she’d been determined to avoid Munro, but she needed to keep up her strength, so she’d joined him for meals. As he’d started sharing with her his sly humor and his profound thoughts about the Lore, meals had turned to lingering over tea, which had turned to candlelit discussions late into the night.

            At Loa’s, he’d predicted that Ren would fall for him, which had struck her as absurd. Was it, in fact, possible?

            It can’t be. He’s undying. You’re still wearing Jacob’s ring.

            Ren had endeavored to resist the wolf. Focus on the mission, she’d told herself a thousand times. Focus on your differences. He still intended to transform her species against her will; she intended to eliminate Dorada.

            He’d almost kissed her a few times—God help her, she’d been receptive—but he’d always pulled back and said, “We have time.”

            Did they? The priestess had told them about the Forgotten’s promised bounty: a trip through their time-travel gateway for whoever captured Ren and Munro alive. When he’d reminded Loa that the gateway no longer existed, she’d said, “The Forgotten swear that a Lykae tells tales, and the lure of such a fantastical prize makes people believe anything.”

            Now Ren said, “Munro, despite how badly I want to see the fairgrounds, we can’t stay in this valley. Sooner or later, bounty hunters will find us here, even with our cuffs.” She flicked her wrist.

            Maybe Ren should abandon the hunt for Dorada for now and target only Jels?

            “This is where the Dacians are picking us up,” Munro countered. “Eventually. Our priority is still your immortality.”

            Tone dripping with irritation, she said, “Is it ours?” As if by tacit agreement, they’d steered clear of this subject.

            He parted his lips, closed them, then clenched his jaw. Biting back his words.

            She narrowed her gaze. “You’ve heard something, haven’t you? Go ahead and tell me.”

            “Loa unearthed news.”

            “About me and Jake? About the circus?” Ren took a fortifying gulp of tea. So far Loa had found no evidence of the circus ever having been.

            Munro rubbed a hand over his face. “I’ve learned that you did die around the time of the newling battle. Mayhap no’ that night, but there’s proof you dinna reach thirty.”

            For the second time. Just as Munro had speculated. “What proof?”

            “Jacob’s obituary. The priestess found it in some obscure English hamlet’s community bulletin. Desh couriered the sole copy here minutes before you came down.”

            “What was the date?” Ren asked with her heart in her throat. “When did Jacob die?”

            “He lived to be ninety-three.”

            Jacob had survived the newlings and then some! And if he’d lived, maybe others had too. Her lingering grief disappeared, washed away by a surge of relief.

            “There’s more.” Munro retrieved an envelope from his pants pocket. “He remarried. You can read about him—”

            Ren snatched the waxy envelope and removed a yellowed clipping to read:

            Two years after returning to England from a long sojourn in Transylvania, twenty-seven-year-old widower Jacob Howard wed Esther Jean, a nurse he’d hired to care for his grandparents. Happily married for sixty-six years, the couple had five children and sixteen grandchildren. Jacob and Esther died within two weeks of each other.