"Arthur!"
Rachel's voice rang out the moment Alastor and I stepped back into the hall. Before I could even process her movement, she had latched onto my arm, curling around it like some sort of overly affectionate, glaring barnacle.
Her eyes—currently radiating enough protective fury to make a dragon think twice—were fixed squarely on her father. "He didn't scare you or anything, right?" she asked, her grip tightening as if she were personally prepared to throw hands with Alastor Creighton, one of the most powerful mages alive.
Alastor sighed the long, suffering sigh of a man who had long since resigned himself to fatherhood-induced exasperation. He pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, "You used to be such a sweet little girl. Always running around, 'Daddy, Daddy!'" He shook his head, looking thoroughly betrayed by time itself. "And now, the moment a boy enters the picture, this happens."
His gaze flicked to me, sharp and distinctly unamused.
