Page 15 of His Lucky Charm

“That’s not possible,” I muttered, even as I recalled the evidence of my own eyes. “The conservation of mass alone—”

“Magic, Eliot.” Rafferty’s voice was gentle. “It’s not science. It’s magic.”

I took a large swallow of coffee, needing the caffeine to process this. “Magic isn’t real.”

“Says the man who watched me turn from wolf to human right in front of him.” He raised an eyebrow. “Your skepticism is admirable but perhaps a bit misplaced at this point.”

He had me there. I set down my mug on the nightstand and ran a hand through my disheveled hair. “I have questions. Many, many questions.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.” His smile was fond. “Ask away, Professor. I promised you answers, and you’ll get them.”

Where to even begin? I reached for my notebook, flipping through pages of hastily scribbled inquiries until settling on the most fundamental. “The Guardian legend. It’s all true? Your family has been protecting Cloverton for centuries?”

Rafferty nodded. “Since the founding. The first O’Sullivan—my many-times-great grandfather—was a werewolf who fled persecution in Ireland. He found this valley, recognized its unique properties, and established a sanctuary for others like him.”

“Unique properties?”

“The land here is… special. Sits on what the old ones called a convergence point—where the veil between worlds is thin. Makes transformation easier, magic stronger.” He shrugged. “For folks like us, it’s like breathing cleaner air.”

I jotted notes frantically. “And the protection aspect? The good harvests, warding off disasters?”

“Some of that’s exaggerated for the tourists,” he admitted. “But not entirely. We can sense certain things—changes in weather patterns, seismic activity. We’ve diverted flash floods, managed controlled burns to prevent forest fires, kept wildlife populations in balance.”

“And the townsfolk? Do they know?”

His expression turned guarded. “Some do. Families that have been here for generations, mostly. They’re… allies. Help maintain the secret, protect us during vulnerable times. The rest think it’s just a quaint local legend.”

I thought of Mrs. Hathaway’s knowing looks, Mal’s careful avoidance of touching the silver beer taps at the pub. “More people know than you realize, I think.”

“Probably,” he acknowledged. “Small town. People notice things, especially when a family has been here as long as mine. But there’s a difference between suspecting and knowing for sure.”

I nodded, understanding the distinction. “And the pack? How many of you are there?”

“In Cloverton? About thirty. Worldwide, thousands.” He grinned at my expression. “What, you thought we were just here? We’re everywhere, Eliot. Usually hiding in plain sight. Running pubs, working as park rangers, forest management, emergency services. Places where we can use what we are to help without raising suspicion.”

The implications were staggering. An entire supernatural species living alongside humanity, unknown and undocumented. The academic in me was salivating at the research potential, even as the rational part of my brain continued to protest the impossibility of it all.

“Last night,” I said slowly, remembering the stone circle. “You mentioned a ceremony. What was that about?”

Rafferty’s expression softened. “The Blessing. Every full moon, but especially this one—the Guardian Moon—we gather to renew our connection to the land. It’s… hard to explain in human terms. A reaffirmation of the pact our ancestors made. We run as a pack, hunt together, strengthen our bonds.”

“And the black wolf—Kieran, you said? He didn’t want me there.”

A shadow crossed Rafferty’s face. “Kieran is traditional. Believes our secret should remain absolute. He’s not wrong to be cautious, but…” He reached out to touch my face, fingers gentle against my cheek. “Some things are worth the risk.”

The tenderness in his touch made my chest ache. “Am I one of those things?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. “From the moment you walked into my pub, all proper and skeptical in that ridiculous tweed, I knew you were something special.”

“The tweed isn’t ridiculous,” I protested weakly. “It’s professional.”

“It’s adorable.” His thumb traced my lower lip. “Almost as adorable as the face you make when you’re trying to rationalize the irrational.”

I was making that face now, I realized. I schooled my features into something more dignified. “This changes everything, you know. My research, my book—”

“Does it have to?” His expression turned serious. “What are you planning to do with this information, Eliot?”

The question echoed Siobhan’s from our breakfast conversation. This time, it wasn’t hypothetical.