Claire was looking seriously skeeved out. Probably at the reminder of her safe place being violated by the two people she hated most in the world. And of Æsubrand actually having his hands on Aiden, which, yeah.
But she got it together quickly.
“So they were here. What difference does—” She suddenly stopped, because Claire is not slow.
“It makes a difference,” I told her, “because Efridis could have used Stinky instead. He was in the room with Aiden already, and while he’s small, he’s strong—all the Dark Fey are. Yet instead of taking over the kid lying a few feet away, she went all the way to the basement for an avatar, one who fought her viciously the whole trip, and came close to giving everything away. Why?”
Claire didn’t say anything, although her jaw had a mulish set to it that I knew only too well. But she also hadn’t walked away. She was listening.
I held up another finger.
“Two. The rune. If the attacker was Efridis, and she thought she was stabbing Aiden, she’d have had Ymsi remove the rune first. You told me yourself: it’s her family heirloom. She knows how it works. She couldn’t take it off when she and Æsubrand were here, because he’d already decided that his honor wouldn’t allow him to kill a child—”
Claire scowled. “Or he’s afraid it would damage his reputation as the great, purebred hope!”
“Maybe. But whatever the cause, he didn’t allow it. He was holding Aiden when I showed up; Efridis was holding Stinky. He didn’t trust her enough to let her touch him, even then, when they badly wanted our help, because he knew she could remove the rune. Yet, after going through so much trouble to get back in here, without her son this time, she still doesn’t remove it? When she knows Aiden would survive any attack as long as it stayed on his person?”
Claire shook her head. “She was nervous. She thought Soini was the only vargr here. She didn’t expect you—Dorina, I mean.”
“No, she didn’t. But I’d think somebody thousands of years old could handle a few surprises. And Dorina and I didn’t start chasing her until after the child was stabbed. Yet, Efridis still didn’t remove the rune, despite having time. And despite the fact that not doing so rendered the whole trip useless.”
Claire frowned some more.
I held up a third finger. “Three. She didn’t stab Aiden.”
The frown deepened. “You know damned well—”
“That trolls have lousy eyesight. And that the room was dark. And that Efridis wasn’t supposed to know the troll kid was in there, because he only arrived that afternoon. And Stinky was snoring up a storm, as usual, so the nonsnoring kid had to be Aiden, right?”
“Yes!”
I ate some more omelet. It was cold, but still good. I swallowed.
“What about smell?”
Claire blinked. “What?”
“Trolls are used to living in darkness. Those caves that some of them call home are pitch-black, much worse than a bedroom with streetlight sifting in. Yet they navigate them just fine.”
Claire crossed her arms at me. “I had doctored him. Bulsi, I mean, or whatever we’re calling him. I wanted to make sure he didn’t get an infection, since he still had open wounds. So the room reeked of medicine. Maybe Ymsi got confused.”
I stuffed down some toast. “Wouldn’t have mattered. Dorina woke up at the consul’s in an unfamiliar room, and she knew exactly who had been in there—going back hours—what they were and how long they’d stayed, as sure as if she’d watched a film of it. And one of them smelled of medicine, too.”
“Dorina is a first-level master. Ymsi is not!”
I shrugged. “So put a bunch of people in the basement and turn off the lights. Then send Ymsi in, and ask him who was there when he comes out. I’ll bet money he can tell you.”
Claire didn’t say anything, so I worked on finishing up the omelet and toast and fresh fruit and coffee she’d brought me. And was still hungry when I had, because my stomach thinks it’s fey. But at least I managed to clean the plate before Claire spoke again.
“Okay, now I’ve got a point.”
I leaned back with the rest of my coffee. “Okay, shoot.”
“Dorina.” Her eyes were bright, not with anger, but with excitement. She thought she had me. “Louis-Cesare said that Dorina attacked Efridis as soon as she saw her. Why would she do that if she didn’t recognize her?”
I shrugged. “Maybe because she’d just seen a powerful vargr attack the consul, and there was a powerful vargr, standing right beside the consul? Or maybe . . .”
“Or maybe what?”
“Or maybe she did recognize her, just not from the attack last night. Maybe she recognized her from the attack here.”
Claire stared at me. “You just finished telling me that wasn’t her!”
“No, I said the attack using Ymsi wasn’t her. But that night, there were two of everything: two boys, two battles, and two very different attack styles. Why not two attackers?”
* * *
—
Claire did not like my theory.
No, that’s not right. Claire hated my theory, and I knew why. I just didn’t know what to do about it.
“Is there a problem?” Olfun asked, backing up abruptly when Claire slammed out of the room.
He had a phone in his hand, and it was ringing. But instead of answering it, he hit TALK and then OFF without so much as a pause in between. And then smiled sadly at me.
“My apologies. Reflex.”
I decided not to ask what that meant.
He proffered it to me. It was the house phone. I needed to go get mine from my car, assuming it wasn’t buried under half a ton of rubble, that was.
A blond eyebrow raised. “Want to tell me about it?”
It took me a second to realize that he didn’t mean the phone.
“I have this theory,” I told him, while gathering up my mess, “that maybe we had more than one attacker here the other night.”
“But of course.”
I looked up.
“No one can hold more than one or perhaps two manlikans at once,” he informed me. “For each one, then, there was probably a fey warrior behind it. First creating and then directing it.”
“Okay, but I was talking about the person running things. The mastermind. Which, if we’re talking Earth magic, makes it look like Efridis or Aeslinn was behind the first attack.”
“Why just the first? The king’s sister is a well-known vargr.”
“Which is why I doubt she’d attack that way.”
Both eyebrows went up. “That is something to think about.”
“Yes, but Claire doesn’t want to think about it.” I sat on the edge of the bed. “Can’t say I blame her.”
Olfun took the tray, which won him a raised brow in return.
“I am not allowed to help?” he asked.
“I was under the impression that that sort of thing was beneath your dignity.”
“Some might think so,” he agreed gravely. “I think you saved our lord’s grandson and heir, almost on your own, a few nights ago. While we took more than three minutes to wake up and assist.” His lips twisted. “Perhaps you should carry the sword and I wear the apron.”
“I don’t wear an apron. Ruins the tough-chick look.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“You’re serious,” I realized.
“Of course. It is a serious matter.”
“You’re upset about three minutes? You guys saved the day!”
But Olfun shook his head. “Our performance was no less than shameful. I think it is why Reiðarr challenged you. He wished to regain some of his honor.” He smiled slightly. “You were kind not to make him rue it.”
It had looked like he was ruing it plenty to me, but I decided to emulate dear old Dad for once,
and not say so. “He didn’t lose any honor,” I said instead. “Neither did you. Most people would be proud of that response time—”
“Would you be?”
“That’s different. I was already here.”
“As we should have been. We should have been sleeping in the halls with our weapons beside us. Instead, we were treating this as a holiday, a chance to enjoy some of the human world without a mission to distract us. And all the while, we knew the risks.”
“You mean Efridis.”
“Not just Queen Efridis. There are many at court who would be happy enough had the attack succeeded. Particularly now, with the Ice Prince separating himself from some of his father’s . . . eccentricities. Fear of the gods’ return was the main obstacle to many people supporting his claim to the combined throne. Now that they have reason to believe he would not follow in his father’s footsteps, fewer have cause to prefer a child with mixed blood to one of pure, highborn heritage. Particularly when times are so troubled, and the child is young and untested, while Prince Æsubrand is a renowned warrior.”
I scowled. “Yeah. That’s why Claire left court. Someone killed Aiden’s nurse and tried to kill him, so she took him and ran.”
He shook his head. “A shameful thing, and in the palace!”
“And still unresolved. That’s why Claire wants so badly for Efridis to be behind it all. If she was responsible for the attack here, and if the one at court was caused by someone in her pay, then everything works out nicely. She’s under guard, with Caedmon sitting on her to make sure she doesn’t flit off somewhere, and Aiden is safe. Or as safe as he’s ever likely to get. If not . . .”
“If not?”
“Then anyone could be behind this. Aeslinn, some of his court, some of your court, somebody else she doesn’t even know about yet. It’s terrifying.”
Only Olfun didn’t seem to think so.
Because he suddenly grinned. Not another of those solemn smiles that never reached the eyes, but a full-on delighted expression that looked strangely goofy on his serious features. I liked it. I just didn’t understand it.
“What?”
“Did you not wonder why it took us so long to respond the other night?” he asked me.
I shrugged. “I told you. I didn’t think it took long at all.”
“Well, I can assure you that it did. But that was not entirely our fault. We should have already been in the house; it is true. But even from the garden, we should have been here within seconds. Except that we couldn’t hear you.”
“Couldn’t hear us?”
He shook his head, and tapped an elongated ear. “We do not usually have that problem. Certainly not with a house being demolished a short distance away, and with the princess screaming out of her bedroom window!”
“Claire was screaming?” I hadn’t noticed. But then, I’d been getting the ever-loving crap kicked out of me at the time.
He nodded. “She was apparently quite loud, yet we did not hear. Our best guess is that a silence spell, and a strong one, was put on the house prior to the attack.”
“Can the fey do that?”
“Oh, yes. So can human mages.”
I frowned. “That doesn’t narrow the field any, Olfun!”
“No, it does not. But that was not my intention with my story.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Go on.”
“I thought you might wonder how our princess managed to get our attention.”
He was back to deadpan, so I knew this was going to be good. “Yes, I would be quite interested in knowing that.”
“She set our tents on fire.”
I burst out laughing. “What?”
He nodded. “From the house. I awoke to a burning hellscape, and dragon fire is not easily doused. I shan’t soon forget it.”
I guessed not. “So where are you sleeping now?”
“She informed us that we could sleep inside from now on, or out in the elements—she cared not. But that we were forbidden to acquire new tents since they appear to affect our hearing.” He hoisted the tray. “I rather pity anyone foolish enough to come after the little prince.”
From your lips to God’s ears, I thought.
And then, as he started to turn away, the phone rang.
He sighed deeply. “I almost forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“My reason for disturbing you. The guards would collectively like to know if you can please stop him from calling. We sleep inside now, in shifts, and, well . . .” He grimaced. “It must be fifty times today.”
“Get who to stop calling?” I asked, and looked at the phone.
And saw the name on the little view screen.
“You have got to be kidding me!”
Chapter Fifty-three
I stabbed TALK. “Go to hell,” I told the phone.
“Dory?” Kit Marlowe’s voice came booming out of the speaker, like it was in surround sound. “Is that you?”
“Yes. Do you have something to say to me?”
“Naturally! Why else would I be calling? I need—”
I hung up.
He rang back immediately, because of course he did. Vamps didn’t need speed dial. They had speed fingers.
“Damn it! Don’t hang up on me!”
“Then say the magic words.”
“What magic words? What are you talking about? I want—”
I hung up.
I put the phone on silent mode, pulled on jeans and a black tee, and headed downstairs.
My butt vibrated. I sighed, took the phone out, and held it a good distance from my ear. “What?”
“Don’t hang up on me again!”
I hung up because I don’t take orders from him.
The kitchen was full of fey again. Including Reiðarr, who was rolling out dough—like a machine. He’d been the one with the sad, lumpy effort last time, but things had clearly turned around.
“Damn,” I said, and meant it.
He looked up, and froze. His face twitched around for a moment, like it wasn’t sure what expression it was going for. And then, slowly, it resolved into . . . not a scowl. It wasn’t a smile, but it wasn’t a frown, either.
“I was ordered to assist,” he informed me stiffly, in case I got any ideas.
“It’s impressive.”
“You cannot do this?”
“Never had the knack.”
He did smile that time, rather superiorly. “It’s in the wrists.”
“It looks good,” I said, because it did. And so did the hand pies on trays stacked literally everywhere. “Apple?” I asked hopefully.
“And cherry.”
“Goddamn.”
Ring, ring, ring.
“Sod it all!” Marlowe yelled. “What the hell do you want?”
“I already told you. I know it’s unfamiliar territory, but you’ll get it. I have faith in you.”
“This is ridiculous! I don’t have time for—”
Click.
I went over to the small stretch of counter by the stove, to help Gessa make sandwiches, and ended up getting handed a bucket of boiled eggs. It looked like we were all having sandwiches for dinner, and Gessa was putting some of each kind on the boy’s tray as she finished with them. I pointed out that it probably didn’t matter—he hadn’t seemed picky to me—and she nodded. But then kept doing it anyway.
“Slavers feed gruel,” she told me, after a minute.
“Okay.”
“Back in Faerie, also eat gruel.” Her eyes darkened. “And anything else.”
Ah.
“And now you’re having fun feeding him all kinds of different tastes he’s never had before.”
She didn’t answer, but looking at the determined slant of her chin, I didn’t think I had to worry about the kid going
hungry.
“We’ll add some hand pies, too,” I told her, and she smiled.
My butt cheek did the mambo again, and I considered throwing the phone out the door. But it didn’t belong to me, and besides, that wouldn’t make the asshole go away. That would make him come down here, and then I might have to murder him.
“What?”
“All right, all right! I’m . . . sorry.”
It sounded like the last word got caught on something in Marlowe’s throat, probably his overweening pride.
“What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.”
“You heard me! I’m tired of playing these stupid games! I need—”
Click.
I mushed up maybe three dozen eggs in one of Claire’s huge mixing bowls, added half a jar of mayo, some salt and pepper, some diced onions, and some Dijon mustard. And made a face after tasting it, because it was missing something.
Sven, who was stalking the kitchen like he was afraid we’d eat it all, passed me some brown sugar, because he used it on everything. Literally. How he still had teeth I didn’t know.
“Thanks, but I don’t think that’ll help.”
Sven looked like he was going to argue, but Reiðarr intervened. He put a spoon in my mix and sniffed it cautiously before taking a tiny taste on the very tip of his tongue. And wrinkled his nose.
“It’s mostly just eggs,” I said defensively.
“Tasteless eggs.”
“I could add some pickle relish. Or some bacon?”
Sven perked up at the mention of bacon. He liked to add brown sugar to it while it was cooking to make what was essentially meat candy, so it was always a hit. But Reiðarr disagreed.
“Vinegar.”
“Vinegar?”
And damned if a splash of the white wine variety didn’t help.
But not enough.
“I could go ask Claire,” I said, but Reiðarr bristled.
“We don’t need Claire. We can do this.”
We all stood around and contemplated the bowl for a minute.
Then Gessa finished wrestling a tray of hand pies out of the oven and took a taste. And rolled her eyes at us. She tapped a cabinet with the handle of a wooden spoon, and I opened it to find—