Iron Kissed (Mercy Thompson #3)(55)

I grew up in Montana, where an old, unregistered rifle was worth a lot more than a new gun whose ownership could be traced. Not that the gun owners in Montana are planning on committing crimes with their unregistered guns - they just don't like the federal government knowing their every move.

So what if...what if O'Donnell stole several magic items and no one knew what they were, or maybe what all of them were. Then some fae figured out it was O'Donnell. Someone who had a nose like mine - or who saw him, or maybe tracked him back to his house. That fae could have killed O'Donnell to steal for himself the things O'Donnell had taken.

Maybe the murderer had timed it so Zee would be caught, knowing the Gray Lords would be happy to have a suspect wrapped up in a bow.

If I could find the killer and the things O'Donnell had stolen, I could hold those things hostage for Zee's acquittal and safety.

I could see why a fae would want the walking stick, but what about O'Donnell? Maybe he hadn't known exactly what it was? He'd had to have known something about it, or else why take it? Maybe he'd intended to sell it back to the fae. You'd think that anyone who'd been around them for very long would know better than to think you'd survive long selling back stolen items to the fae.

Of course, O'Donnell was dead, wasn't he?

Someone knocked on my door - and I hadn't heard anyone drive up. It might have been one of the werewolves, walking over from Adam's house. I took a deep breath, but the door effectively blocked anything my nose might have told me.

I opened the door and Dr. Altman was standing on the porch. The seeing eye dog was gone - and there was no extra car in the driveway. Maybe she'd flown here.

"You've come for the walking stick?" I asked. "You're welcome to it."

"May I come in?"

I hesitated. I was pretty sure the threshold thing only worked on vampires, but if not...

She smiled tightly and took a step forward until she was standing on the carpet.

"Fine," I said. "Come in." I got the old stick and handed it to her.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

I deliberately misunderstood. "Because it's not my stick - and that sheep thing won't do me any good."

She gave me an irritated look. "I don't mean the stick. I mean why are you pushing your nose into fae business? You are undermining my standing with the police - and that may be dangerous for them in the long run. My job is to keep the humans safe. You don't know what is going on and you're going to cause more trouble than you can handle."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. "You and I both know that Zee didn't kill O'Donnell. I just made sure that the police were aware that someone else might be involved. I don't leave my friends out to swing in the wind."

"The Gray Lords will not allow someone like you to know so much about us." The aggressive tension she'd been carrying in her shoulders relaxed and she strode confidently across my living room and sat in Samuel's big, overstuffed chair.

When she spoke again, her voice had a trace of a Celtic lilt. "Zee's a cantankerous bastard, and I love him, too. Moreover, there are not so many of the iron kissed left that we can lightly lose them. At any other time I would be free to do what I could to save him. But when the werewolves announced themselves to the public, they caused a resurgence of fear that we cannot afford to make worse. An open-and-shut case, with the police willing to keep mum about the condition of the murder victim, won't cause too much fuss. Zee understands that. If you know as much as you think you do, you should know that sometimes sacrifices are necessary for the majority to survive."

Zee had offered himself up as a sacrifice. He wanted me to get mad enough I'd leave him to rot because he knew that otherwise I'd never give up, I'd never agree to leave him as a sacrifice no matter what the cost to the fae.

"I came here tonight for Zee," she told me earnestly, her blind eyes staring through me. "Don't make this harder on him than it already is. Don't let this cost you your life, too."

"I know who you are, more or less, Nemane," I told her.

"Then you should know that not many get a warning before I strike."

"I know that you prefer justice to slaughter," I told her.

"I prefer," she said, "that my people survive. If I have to eliminate a few innocents or - stupidly obtuse people - in the meantime, that will not live long on my conscience."

I didn't say anything. I wouldn't give up on Zee, couldn't give up on Zee. If I told her that, she'd kill me right now. I could feel her power gathering around her like a spring thunderstorm. Layer upon layer it built as I stared at her.

I wouldn't lie and the truth would get me killed - and leave no one to help Zee.

Just then a car turned into the gravel of the driveway. Samuel's car.

I knew then what I could do, but would it be enough? What would it cost?

"I know who you are, Nemane," I whispered. "But you don't know who I am."

"You're a walker," she told me. "A shapeshifter. Zee explained it to me. There aren't many of the native preternatural species left - so you belong nowhere. Neither fae nor wolf, vampire or anything else. You are all alone." Her expression didn't change, but I could smell her sorrow, her sympathy. She was alone, too. I don't know if she meant me to understand that, or if she was unaware how much I could glean from her scent. "I don't want to have to kill you, but I will."