Ann Brookens

Paragon: An old man stood in the abandoned aisle, pressing his face against the freezer doors so he could view the ice cream flavors. “Rocky road—shall you seduce me again, you flirt? Or perhaps tonight is the night of mint chocolate chip?” The old man was pretty eccentric—not just because he talked to ice cream flavors. Dressed in long draping robes that were a beautiful silver color and accented with dark blue embroidery of stars and crescent moons, the old man could have been mistaken for a video game character. “Oh, it’s the Paragon,” I said. The old man twisted around. “Oh—it’s you again,” he said when he saw Killian, though he paused when he noticed me. “And you brought your wizard?” He twisted the ends of his long silvery mustache—he must have used scoopfuls of beard wax or something to get the ends to curl. He looked like a ridiculous cartoon villain. “Paragon.” Killian inclined his head to the most powerful fae in America—although the Paragon himself told me he was not a fae ruler but representative, which basically meant a professional fae wrangler. The Paragon squinted at him with suspicion. “What do you want now? I heard the rumors that your wizard successfully broke her seal—well done, by the way, Hazel.” I grinned. “Thanks!” “She needs your advice.” “I do?” That was certainly news to me. Killian ignored my question. “Take us to your workshop.”