High Voltage (Fever #10)(38)

“Not all of them are,” she replied absently, mulling the day’s events with half her mind.

She realized what she was doing and forced herself to put away the abbey’s business for a time. Her daughter deserved her full attention, a thing she’d never known from her own mother. She’d been deemed a worthless implement by both her parents; handicapped with such extreme empathy, she’d seemed broken, even insane, as a child.

Rae was her world. An unexpected gift. A treasure she would forever cherish, protect, and love, and do all in her power to raise well. The love of a child from her own flesh was the purest an empath could know.

Her daughter had been slow to start talking but, given her own childhood, that hadn’t concerned her. Then suddenly, a month ago, Rae had begun blurting words she’d no idea her daughter even understood, stringing them together into impressive sentences.

“The Spur-shee like me,” Rae announced happily. “They say I smell good to them.”

Kat froze, her hand tightening on the edge of the antique, enameled, claw-foot tub in their suite. “Did they say what you smell like?”

    Rae shook her head, black curls bouncing, eyes dancing merrily. “Just that I’m yummy. They smell yummy to me, too.”

“Like what?” Kat asked.

Rae nibbled her lower lip and thought. Then scrubbed at her nose and laughed. “It tickles my nose. Just good.”

Pollen, Kat thought. Many of the tiny Fae, banished from their own court, lived tucked inside human blossoms, made homes in fragrant, herb-drenched thickets and nests in piney glades. Lately, some of the sidhe-seers had taken to building diminutive wooden houses for them, painted bright colors. She’d half expected the earthy Spyrssidhe to protest the humanlike structures, but the other day she’d watched a couple—they mated for life—battle a surprised, hostile sparrow at their door, protecting their new abode.

“Come, love, your bath is ready.”

“Bubbles?”

“Not tonight. Only on hair-washing nights.” Rae’s hair was so thick and curly, it was a chore to wash. They only did it every third night, and then bubbles in her bath were her reward for the time she had to sit while Kat detangled her hair.

“Mommy,” Rae said, “my back itches. I can’t reach it.”

Smiling, Kat held out her arms, and when Rae stepped into them, snuggling to her chest, she tugged her daughter’s shirt off over her head.

“It itches bad.”

“Turn around and let me see it, pumpkin,” Kat said.

“I’m not a pumpkin. Today I’m a dragonfly.”

“Well, then, little miss dragonfly, turn—”

But Rae had already turned and bent forward. “Mommy,” she huffed, “itch!”

    “Did you lay on something today?”

“I always lay on things.”

“Like what? Rocks? Something sharp?”

“Just things. Grass and stuff.”

“But there might have been rocks in the grass.”

“Don’t ’member any. Itch.”

Kat raised a hand that trembled only slightly and scratched her daughter’s beautiful, smooth skin that was so much like Sean’s, fair yet with the slightest sun it turned golden.

There were two identically sized, round, pink blemishes.

One on each shoulder.





    Raise a little hell, raise a little hell, raise a little hell





I WAKE UP GRUMPY AND discombobulated most of the time, unless I’m under attack. Then I wake up sleek, cool, and lethal. Lack of pressure turns me into a high velocity Ping-Pong ball that bounces off anything it encounters. Adversity molds my finest shape.

Today was a disturbing anomaly. I woke feeling bright, focused, alert. More well-rested than I could recall being in years.

Something was definitely wrong.

I snatched my sword, vaulted from bed, and spun in a tight circle, seeking intruders. There were none. I was alone in my bedroom and the beast was gone.

    I forfeited a split second of situational awareness to seething about that, then resumed analyzing my inexplicably fine mood. There was no other explanation for it; there had to be a threat somewhere in my flat.

I set to clearing every room, closet, and cubby.

Nothing.

I headed back to my room to search it a second time, and as I crossed the threshold, I felt it. I would have noticed it the first time but high alert focuses me like a laser on potential intruders, not innocuous doorways.

I glanced down, squinting, peering in a sideways I’m-not-really-looking fashion. Wards can be tricky to see. Especially good ones, and this was exquisite: A slate so dark it was nearly indistinguishable from the black marble threshold into which it was carved, the ward had seven distinct layers of design, painstakingly embedded atop each other, plus the softly shimmering hint of two more layers I couldn’t make out. The more intently I studied them, the more elusive they became, shifting into indistinct designs.

Oh, yes, damn fine wards. Protected by a spell of obscurity to prevent them from being duplicated; the mark of a true artisan. It took blood, sweat, and time to work such a spell into cold marble, plus skill I don’t possess.

I moved to the windows. Located the same wards at each sill.