“Yes,” I said.
There was a little pause. “You don’t think that the Gray Lords are responsible for the threatening message sent to Hauptman’s ex-wife. Worse, you don’t think that the person, this Widow Queen, you talked to on the phone was the person responsible for the message, either.”
“She may have been one of them,” I said, “but there are others—who may or may not have a different agenda than she does. Or they want our refugee, too, but not for the same purpose. You see our problem.”
“You don’t know who wants what—and where they sit in the halls of power.” Margaret Flanagan had taken the phone. “Too many possibilities and not enough information.”
“Exactly,” I told her. “We don’t want war with the fae—and I don’t think they want war with us, either. But we won’t give them the boy, who has been a victim of the fae for a very long time. We won’t give them”—I paused, because in this instance I probably couldn’t speak for the pack—“I won’t give them Zee or his son. Ideally, the Gray Lords will decide we are too much trouble or not important enough to screw with, and they will take over and police their own. Otherwise, we’ll try to bargain with them to get them to respect our territorial boundaries.”
“Zee?” Margaret asked. “You said his name to Thomas, too, as if he were someone we should know?”
“Siebold Adelbertsmiter,” I said. “He’s had a lot of names over the years. You might know him better as the Dark Smith of Drontheim.”
There was a long pause. “You are a friend of the Dark Smith?”
“Zee is a grumpy old fae,” I said. “But he is my friend.”
She drew in a breath. “He was my father’s much-admired enemy.”
“If it helps,” I said, “when I told him your father was dead, it hit him pretty hard. I’d say the admiration went both ways.”
She laughed.
Thomas said, “Margaret is what is important.”
“We will protect her,” I said.
“All right,” he said. “But you come. You and your mate. I’ve met you, and I’ll have you at my back, but no strangers.”
“Deal,” I said.
Which is how I came to be riding shotgun instead of someone more useful like Warren or Honey—but we were hoping this wouldn’t turn into an actual battle.
Zee came, too.
I hadn’t asked him. Adam hadn’t asked him. Zee hadn’t said anything, he’d just been sitting in the backseat of Adam’s car when we were ready to leave. He wouldn’t say anything, and he wouldn’t get out. None of the other cars parked at the house would start. So, instead of being late, we drove to the hotel with him in the backseat.
Thomas and Margaret came out to meet us. The sky wasn’t quite dark, and Thomas wore gloves and a black hoodie with the hood pulled over his head. The hoodie made him look . . . smaller, and less dangerous—more like a gang member and less like a vampire.
Adam started to explain our stowaway to Thomas, but Zee got out of the car and looked at Margaret.
He frowned at the crutches and the scars on her wrists. “Your father was an honorable enemy,” he told her. “He deserved better followers. Are you as tough as your father?”
She raised her chin, but it was Thomas who said, “Tougher. They were both trapped underground in mining tunnels for decades. He died, and she survived.”
“My father was injured,” she said sharply. “I was not.”
“I did not know about this imprisonment,” Zee said. “Or I would have put a stop to it. I heard only afterward how it happened that you were trapped by those who should have cared for you.” He raised his eyes to her. “I would have broken my old enemy out of a prison he did not deserve—if only to ensure that a worthy opponent still walked the earth. For the error of my ignorance, I will do my best to make sure that his daughter walks away unharmed today.”
She looked at him. “That’s not why you came here,” she said.
“It is,” he said. “But it isn’t the only reason, nor the most important, until I saw your face. The Dragon Under the Hill lives in your face. You have his eyes. Your father was one of the few enemies I had who was capable of giving as good as he got. He fought with cunning, skill, and honor; those three qualities are seldom found together. I disagreed with him, and he annoyed me—but he was a worthy opponent. I have other reasons to speak to the Gray Lords, but your safety will be my primary concern.”
They faced off with each other, the delicate woman with her scars and her crutches, and the wiry old man with his bald patch and his potbelly.
“Say no,” said Thomas. “Sunshine, he is dangerous.”
“So am I,” she said, but gently. “So are we all, isn’t that the truth? But he is more dangerous to our enemies.” She frowned at Zee. “You aren’t what I expected from the stories.”
He glanced around the parking lot, then back at her. “This is a different time.” He shrugged—the movement a little shallower than his usual shrug, but she wouldn’t know that.
“I see,” said Margaret. “I agree to your unexpected proposal, Smith.”
“You aren’t riding in the car with him,” Thomas said.
She smiled at Thomas. “All right. We’ll take both cars.” She looked at me. “I’d like some time to talk with you.” She glanced at her vampire guardian, then at Adam. “I think we have a lot in common, and I’d like to compare notes. I had hoped we’d all have a chance to talk on the way to Walla Walla.”
“Maybe we can get together before you leave?” I asked.
She nodded gravely. “I hope so.”
—
“Walla Walla” was a term the Nez Percé used for a place where a stream flowed into a larger stream—or so I was told, though probably the pronunciation had changed quite a bit from the original. The most common translation was “many waters,” probably because it was both shorter and more lyrical than “where a stream flows into a bigger stream.”
Walla Walla was a town of a little over thirty thousand people, though it felt smaller than that somehow. I think it was the old-fashioned feel of the downtown district, an atmosphere invoking the days of horse and buggy or Model T cars. It was the kind of town that got voted “most friendly,” “most picturesque,” or “best place to live” on a regular basis.
Despite its many fine qualities, before the Ronald Wilson Reagan Fae Reservation was plunked down west of the town, Walla Walla was most famous for the nearby site of the Whitman Mission. There, the Protestant missionary Dr. Marcus Whitman, his wife Narcissa, and twelve other white people living at the mission were killed by Cayuse Indians in the middle of the nineteenth century.
Whitman was a doctor and a missionary, and he gained a reputation in the local tribes (Walla Walla, Nez Percé, and Cayuse mostly) as a spiritual leader and a man of powerful medicine. When measles swept through the Cayuse tribe, they turned to him for help he could not provide. The disaster that ensued was not, strictly speaking, the fault of either the Cayuse or the Whitmans, who were all doing what they believed to be right.
The symbolic irony of this meeting between werewolf, vampire, and fae at a hotel named after Marcus Whitman did not go over my head. I hoped our results were better than those Whitman and the Cayuse achieved.
The road to Walla Walla was one of those winding highways that meandered through small towns along the way instead of speeding right past them with nothing more than an exit to mark their place. As I rode shotgun next to Adam, following Thomas Hao’s white Subaru down the narrow highway to Walla Walla, we passed the road that used to lead to the fae reservation. “How do you want to play this?” I asked Adam, abruptly tired of the quiet in the car. I felt itchy with readiness, and the quiet, centered calm in both men irritated me.
“Nothing to plan,” he said.
When I snorted, he grinned at me. It wasn’t a lighthearted grin, but there was amusem
ent in it. “There is no reason to overthink things, Mercy. We don’t know who we’re going to see or what they are going to say. We can’t plan except in the most general of fashions. We’ll let Margaret get her say in first—that’s courtesy. We’ll work our business in as we can. Probably that will be very short and sweet for our part. We’ll let them tell us what they are looking for if it gets that far. That part is up to them as well. It may be that we all just snap threats at each other and go home. I won’t know how to play it until we at least know who we’re playing with.”
He was right. I knew he was right. But I needed something to do, something to think about, so I could quit scaring myself with what-ifs, even if that meant talking about what-ifs. Adam was very good at making them less scary than my imagination did.
“There are only a few things we know for certain,” he said, as if he could hear my restlessness. “Zee isn’t going to let anything happen to Margaret. Thomas can take care of himself.” Then his voice dropped into a low, dangerous tone that was nothing like the easy, relaxed attitude he’d been portraying. “And nothing is getting past me to you.”
I absorbed that—the tone, not the words or intent behind it; those I already knew. Part of the magic of his voice was the Southern softness that blurred his consonants even when his accent wasn’t strong. Part of it was the reliable confidence behind every word—I just knew there was no guile, give, or hesitation in this man the first time I heard him speak. At the time, it had been frustrating and annoying.
But mostly, when he dropped his voice that way, it caressed something inside me—like he’d stroked the back of my neck without touching me. It made me want to melt into a puddle at his feet and settled my restlessness right down.
He knew it, too. He smiled a little and turned his attention back to driving. I glanced at Zee. “How about you? Are you planning or running by the seat of your pants, too?”
Zee smiled happily. Somehow it was worse than his usual tightly sour smile—even though the happy was real. Maybe it was because the happy was real. “I will keep my old enemy’s daughter safe. Sometime soon, I will deal with the fae who have offended me in such a way that others avoid annoying me for another century or two. That’s a good plan for the next few weeks, I think. Findest du nicht auch?”
He didn’t really expect an answer. “Don’t you find it so?” is usually a rhetorical question, especially with Zee, who seldom cares for other people’s opinions at the best of times.
We drove for a while longer, and I got restless again. Maybe if I started fidgeting, Adam would let me drive. Maybe someone could start a conversation so I would quit worrying about how wrong this night could go.
“Why so quiet?” I asked Adam.
“I’m planning my moves,” he said. “I think I’ll walk to the left of Thomas and Margaret. Studies show that right-handed people look right before they look left. That will give me a psychological advantage. Then I’ll walk at half speed—”
“I could smack you,” I said. “Just saying.”
“I’m driving,” he answered meekly. “And you shouldn’t hurt the one you love.”
“Flirt on your own time, Lieblings,” advised Zee. “I am too old for it—you could give me a heart attack.”
“You’d have to have a heart for that threat to work,” I said, and happily settled in for a game of insults with Zee.
—
We parked next to Thomas’s car. It was nearly full dark—close enough to it that the vampire had discarded his hoodie and stood, looking elegant, in his usual bright-colored silk shirt. This one was an iridescent pearly blue, with an embroidered dark blue or black dragon crawling over his shoulder and down his arm.
He opened the door for Margaret and stood watching her struggle to get out. He didn’t move a muscle, but I could feel the willpower it took not to help. Adam was right, Thomas was a goner. People who say that vampires don’t care about anyone except themselves are mostly right—but sometimes they are very and lethally wrong.
Margaret’s pain was too private to watch, so I looked up at the hotel.
In downtown Seattle, the Marcus Whitman Hotel wouldn’t stand out, but in Walla Walla, it was about a hundred feet taller than anything else around it. From the bones of the original structure, it had been built in the late nineteen twenties. Several colors of brick and the very modern entrance evidenced more than one renovation over the years.
“All right,” Margaret said, her voice a little husky from pain. “There are supposed to be three Gray Lords meeting with me, and I’m allowed to bring my people with me. I had intended it to be just Thomas, but they allowed me six. With your permission, I’m going to give you, Adam and Mercy, a little glamour, nothing fancy—just something that will help them dismiss you as thugs numbers one and two. If you do something to draw attention, the glamour won’t hold.” She looked at Zee. “You, I expect, can do your own and be thug number three.” She turned back to Adam and me. “It won’t hold if they really look at you, but it should give us the element of surprise. And any advantage is to your favor—they’ll respect you for it.”
“Fine,” said Adam. I nodded.
Her magic settled over me like a cool mist. Sometimes magic doesn’t stick to me, but this time it seemed to.
“Thomas?” I asked.
“He doesn’t need it,” she said. “He can do it without magic. When he doesn’t want people to notice him, they just don’t.”
I rubbed my pleasantly tingling skin, and said, “You’re just going in to tell them ‘no,’ right? Which you could do with just Thomas. The glamour is to help us?”
She smiled. “It’s fun. I don’t like them. Don’t like the games they are playing. I’m happy to help. Now hush, someone could be listening.”
“Probably not,” I said. “I would smell anyone close enough to listen.”
Thomas looked at me as though I were interesting. “Better than a werewolf?”
“For fae and magic, yes,” I told him. “To be fair, there is a lot of ambient noise right now. Someone would have to be very close to overhear us.” I didn’t tell them that fae glamour might be awesomely powerful, but it seldom worked on scent. Let them think I was special.
We walked into the hotel, following Margaret. She didn’t travel fast, but no one evinced even the slightest impatience. Adam took the left-rear position. I don’t know if he did it for the reasons he’d told me in the car, or if that was just where he happened to be. Zee took the right rear. Thomas walked in front of Adam, and I took the leftover spot next to Thomas.
Inside, the lobby was overflowing with beige tuxes and unflattering teal gowns. They were most densely clustered near the bride, recognizable as such by her thirties-style off-white lace gown. She was patting the back of a middle-aged woman in a bright green sparkly suit who was sobbing on the bride’s shoulder. The whole lobby was trying not to watch—and so no one noticed us at all.
As if she’d been in the hotel a hundred times, Margaret headed for one of the banks of elevators. We waited in silence for the doors to slide open. When they did, we stepped inside—it was a tight squeeze. The elevators weren’t built for a fairy princess and her guards. Fortunately, it was a fast elevator, and we got off on the second floor. Margaret headed down the hallway, and we spread out behind her like a wedding train.
She passed a couple of doors on her left before opening the door on her right, discreetly marked WALLA WALLA. She waited while we flowed around her to precede her into the room. There was a conference table and someone, maybe the hotel, had put bright bouquets of carnations in shades of red on either end of the long table. Five people were already seated on the side of the table that faced the entry door, two more stood against the far wall in parade rest. All of the fae were wearing their human glamour.
I knew some of them. Beauclaire, the handsome former lawyer who’d declared fae independence, was seated on the far lef
t. Next to him was a dark-haired woman whose sunglasses concealed her blind eyes—Nemane, the Morrigan, who’d once been the Irish goddess of battle. I didn’t know the man next to her. He was pale-skinned, bald, and fine-boned, with bulging eyes and broken blood vessels on the sides of his nose that were so bad it was almost hard to focus on anything else. Next to him was an extraordinarily beautiful woman with childlike features, porcelain skin, and deep red lips. The final seated person was a middle-aged woman who was comfortably plump and clothed in a badly fitting, three-piece business suit in salmon pink. Her hair was gray and brown, and her features were absolutely unremarkable.
The two people who stood before the wall were Uncle Mike and Edythe, who I still thought of as Yo-yo Girl because the first time I’d seen her, she’d been playing with a yo-yo. Edythe looked like a young girl—like Aiden, she appeared to be somewhere between nine and eleven. Unlike Aiden, she chose that guise because she enjoyed looking like a victim. Which she very much wasn’t. I’d seen her do some scary stuff and watched other fae skittle out of her path. She met my eyes and gave me an ironic lift of an eyebrow. Apparently, Margaret’s magic wasn’t working for her. The two Gray Lords who knew me looked past me without the hesitation that they’d have given if they’d really seen me, and so did Uncle Mike. I filed Edythe’s immunity in the mental file I kept marked Why Edythe/Yo-yo Girl Is Scary. It was a big file.
Margaret looked at the five people seated on the opposite side of the table, letting her gaze linger meaningfully on the last two. “You told me there would be three of you,” Margaret said coolly. “Do the fae negotiate in falsehoods now?”
“It’s my fault, Margaret,” said the beautiful woman in a husky voice that I’d last heard coming out of Adam’s phone a few hours earlier. “I was visiting this reservation and heard that you were expected. My associate”—she touched the middle-aged woman’s arm lightly—“and I asked to be included for old times’ sake. I once knew your father very well, and I couldn’t resist the chance to see his daughter.”