Smoke Bitten (Mercy Thompson, #12)(76)

Nothing happened.

Multiples of three are important, too, I told myself.

I knocked three more times. Waited. Knocked three more times. If this didn’t work, I’d take the plate and Aiden would knock. But my instincts told me that since I was asking her for information, I needed to be the one requesting her presence.

The door popped open and a cranky-looking Tilly stuck her head out. Her hair was dripping wet and had something that looked like seaweed in it. Even with my nose out of action, I caught a whiff of brine. Through the partially open door I heard surf and wind.

“What is it?” she snapped. “I’m drowning things and you’re inter—” She looked at my face and brightened. “Is there a fight?” Then her smile deepened. “Are you wounded?”

“She mostly killed a werewolf with her car,” Aiden said. “All he needed was the coup de grace.” He paused and then in a mournful voice he said, “The car was sacrificed for the good of all.”

Tilly’s smile disappeared. “Alas,” she said. Tilly liked cars. She couldn’t get far enough from one of her doors to ride in one—and then there was all the cold iron. But she liked them anyway.

Aiden nodded his head in acknowledgment, then said, in a more hearty tone, “She managed the blow without harming the child the werewolf held over his head. She used one of her own werewolves—tossed her wolf onto the front of the car to catch the child. Mercy is a little hurt—but her enemy is dead.”

“You told that backward,” I said. And skipped most of the parts that would have made that story make sense.

“Important parts first,” said Tilly thoughtfully. “That’s how to tell a story. Skip the boring parts. End with the results, though. Good job, Fire. That was a good story—I especially liked the part where the car died. I do so love tragedy.”

She stepped through the door and closed it behind her, running a dirty finger around the latch. The magic she used sent a zing up my spine. Her white shift was drenched with water until she looked at it. Under her gaze, the cloth dried in a few seconds but looked stiff and crusted with salt. There were smears of green here and there. Something I was pretty sure was blood had soaked the bottom of her hem, which was about knee height.

“I need to ask you a few things,” I told her. “I brought you a gift as an exchange.”

Aiden held the plate out to her. She gave me a considering look before turning her attention to the food. She stuck a finger in the cream and licked it off. She ate a slice of strawberry. Waited. Then ate one of the blueberries as if it might be poisonous.

“Did you make this?” she asked.

And I wished I’d taken the time to make brownies or cookies or something, because the way she asked it, I knew it was important.

“I assembled it,” I told her. “My friend made the waffles fresh this morning and my stepdaughter’s mother made the syrup from the first fruits of summer. I whipped the cream”—thus ensuring that anyone in the house who was trying to sleep was awakened—“sliced the strawberries, and put it all together for you.”

“Friends and enemies,” she said. I couldn’t tell if it was a good thing or a bad thing. “Bitter and sweet. And the fruits of the earth. I accept.”

And she ate with the manners and speed of a starving stray dog as Aiden held the plate for her. She took it from him and licked it clean before handing it back. Her face was covered with whipped cream and syrup, and she wiped her hands on her white shift, leaving streaks of pink behind.

“Interesting,” she said. “I liked it.” She looked pointedly at the glass in my hand.

Aiden shook his head at me, so I didn’t say anything. Finally, she sighed, rolled her eyes, and said, “What do you have in your glass?”

“My friend’s grandmother’s bourbon,” I told her.

She had been reaching for the glass, but she hesitated. “I do not know bourbon.”

“Whiskey,” said Aiden. “Local variety.”

She reached for it again and I gave it to her. She said, suspiciously, “This has some magic within.”

“Huh,” I said. “It was more than just alcohol. I had some this morning and it took the ache out of my muscles. The woman who crafted it gave it to her granddaughter. She made it specifically for her family.”

Tilly sniffed it warily, then tipped the glass so she could touch her tongue to it. She smacked her lips together a couple of times. “Good,” she said. “Very good.” Then she drank the whole of it in one swallow.

She handed the glass back to me and said, “That is brewed with fae magic. Your friend’s grandmother has fae blood. It is an old magic she used, for healing and health.”

She dusted her hands and gave me a look out from under her hair. “Before you get all romantic about it, that spell was developed specifically”—she added weight to the word I’d used—“to keep human slaves working at full strength for as long as possible.”

I shrugged. “That was not the intent of this particular magic when it was mixed in with the drink.”

“No,” agreed Tilly. “But I thought it was interesting in the present company.”

“I am only half-human,” I told her. It was not something I said a lot, but it was important that she did not view me with the contempt she felt for humans—and fae, for that matter. Adam really would have been better for this. “My father is Coyote.”