The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(82)
But as she sat on the bench with Henri gripping her hand for support, her light eerily glowing as the power of the Fée continued to pulsate within her, she recognized the glimmer of truth. She was Oberon’s granddaughter. Even as ignorant as she was about magic, she knew who the king of the goddamn fairies was.
And if the choice was hers to make, she’d take being an abandoned fairy over a failed witch any day.
“That’s an interesting version of events,” said a man’s voice from the hallway in response to Tulane’s confession. “After all, who doesn’t love a good fairy tale?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
A short moon-faced man with wispy blond hair stood in the smoke-filled doorway, a wand poised threateningly in his hand.
“Did you think I hadn’t seen you all scatter from Hell’s Mouth?”
Tulane moved protectively in front of Yvette. “Who is this man?”
“Inspector Aubrey Nettles of the Covenants Regulation Bureau.” Nettles flashed an official ID at the artist, one adorned with moons and stars above his name. “Interesting what you said about being the one to cast the spell that killed that man. I always did wonder how a young woman without any magical aptitude could have mastered a defensive spell in the very moment she needed it most. Alas, she already confessed to the murder.”
“But I didn’t know it wasn’t me!” Yvette protested.
“Don’t say another word to him,” Jean-Paul warned. “Any of you.”
The exchange made Nettles look sharply around the room. Among the fairy lights still floating from Cleo’s anger, he spotted the jinni, also wanted as a fugitive. Sidra revealed her inlaid teeth, grinning at him like a predator about to take a bite. Before he could form the words for a custody spell, she poofed off in a cloud.
As the inspector’s eyes searched the room for a telltale sign of which direction the mist traveled, warmth flooded the space between Yvette’s breasts where she’d kept Sidra’s bottle stashed for safekeeping. She hoped her alarmed expression would be taken for the fear of being arrested rather than surprise at having a jinni dive below her décolletage.
“You,” he said to Yvette, “will not be so lucky. You’re under arrest, and I’m taking you into custody.” For emphasis, he pointed the wand at Elena and Cleo, as if warning them not to meddle with their magic.
“You will do no such thing,” boomed a man’s voice that resonated with the power of a rushing river cascading over heavy boulders.
The man stepped through the empty frame on the wall. But not a man, exactly. He was taller than most mortal men and wore a crown of antlers protruding from his temples. His robe, which swept behind him in a long train, appeared to be made of moss, with threads of russet and gold, azure and scarlet, woven throughout to mimic the colors of a forest floor. And yet it was no imitation. The robe was alive with tiny winged creatures that peeked out from behind leaves and flowers, rocks and lichen, as curious about the mortals and witches staring at the robe as they were about them.
“Father,” Cleo said.
“King Oberon,” Tulane said, unable to hide his surprise.
Both he and Cleo bowed their heads in deference to the King of the Fairies as he halted in the center of the room. Jean-Paul and his mother sat dumbstruck, hands over mouths, while Elena and Alexandre made the sign of the sacred pose before lowering their gaze. Yvette and Henri cowered, too, though she kept her eyes on Oberon, watching for which way the king’s mood swung.
“Merde,” Nettles said under his breath and swallowed.
“This charade has gone on long enough.” Oberon moved so that he towered over the inspector. “It was amusing at first, but I’ve grown weary of this jape involving my granddaughter.”
“Your . . .” Nettles stumbled for the next word before discovering his tongue did still work. “. . . granddaughter?”
One of the winged creatures from the robe flew up to Oberon’s shoulder to whisper in his ear. The king nodded as he listened to the chittering. “I’m informed she is the three hundred and fifty-seventh of my descent.”
“Er, congratulations,” Nettles said, apparently unsure of where to point his wand any longer.
“Smacks of injustice, does it not, to arrest someone for a crime they did not commit?” The rest of the creatures in Oberon’s robe tittered before darting back to the safety of their hiding places. “Indeed, I demand she be relieved of all incrimination in this dubious affair.”
“But she’s still a fugitive, and our court system requires—” Nettles began, but even he heard the absurdity of his statement as he faced the fairy king and so cut himself off.
“It’s me you need to arrest,” Tulane said, holding his wrists out before Nettles. “Let my daughter go, and I will confess to the crime before your court.”
The inspector hesitated, as if watching for evidence of a trap. When he looked at Oberon and Cleo, there was no argument, no sign of outrage. “This is what you want?” he asked.
“No,” Yvette cut in. “Of course not. Tell him.” She looked at her mother, at Oberon, but their faces remained impassive as the inspector took out his rune cuffs and placed them on the artist’s wrists, cutting off his access to magic. “You’re going to let him get arrested? You have to do something.”