Fire Touched (Mercy Thompson #9)(22)
I wouldn’t mind thumbing my nose at the fae, Adam admitted, his voice strong and humorous in my head.
I looked at Zee, who I trusted to tell me what I needed to know. “So what exactly is he?”
“He’s human,” growled Zee. “Or mostly, anyway. He started out that way a long, long time ago. He’s been lost in Underhill since she closed her borders to the fae, and it changed him. He’s not the only abandoned one who turned up when Underhill reopened herself to us. He’s just the only one who was coherent. Underhill changed him, changed them all, gave some of them elemental powers. Powers of earth, air, water, or fire. Most of those children . . . have been returned to the Mother.” “Returned to the Mother,” I thought, meant killed, but this wasn’t the time to ask. “They were broken by their time alone.”
The boy smiled fiercely. “They don’t want to kill me,” he said. “They want to figure out why I can work fire. They want to know why Underhill likes me better than she likes them. Why she played games with me while leaving them out in the cold for all these centuries. They want to know everything I know about Underhill because they’ve forgotten what they used to know.”
From the expression on his face, I was pretty sure that “played games with me” might have the same meaning to Underhill that it would to Coyote.
“That which does not kill us makes us stronger,” I quoted.
“Nietzsche?” murmured Zee. “Appropriate. Also, perhaps this one: Wer mit Ungeheuern k?mpft, mag zusehn, da? er nicht dabei zum Ungeheuer wird.”
I dragged out my college German and came up with a few words. Ungeheuern was “monsters.” K?mpft was “battles.” “Let he who battles with monsters take care lest he become one?” I translated out loud.
Aiden gave the old fae a smile with teeth. “We are all monsters here,” he said. “It’s too late for any of us to be anything else.”
His words sent a flinch through far too many of the pack, including Adam. “That depends,” I said.
He looked at me with mild inquiry.
“On your definition of ‘monster,’” said Tad. “Who do you allow to tell you what you are? Monster or angel, it’s in the eye of the beholder, surely.”
“Why . . .” I started to ask, then stopped. Aiden had told me why the fae wanted him. He knew things they had forgotten, secrets about Underhill. And they were jealous because she kept him and gave him power. Any of which, I thought, would be reason enough for the fae to want him.
He’d helped Tad and Zee escape. I owed him—and I wouldn’t have left anyone I could help at the mercy of the fae. As a last precaution, I tried to get permission from Adam, but either he didn’t hear me (most likely) or he wanted me to make the decision, because he didn’t answer.
“Twenty-four hours,” I said abruptly. “If you do not harm one who is pack or who belongs to the pack. If you obey the pack leaders as the pack itself does. Those leaders are Adam who is our Alpha, myself, Darryl”—I gave a general wave to Darryl, who had returned sometime during the Nietzsche discussion—“Warren”—Warren nodded as I looked toward him—“and Honey, who is not here. For twenty-four hours, we’ll grant you sanctuary in the pack stronghold—with the option to renew this agreement.”
I almost missed it, the faint widening of his eyes and the almost imperceptible loosening of his shoulders. Relief. Far more obvious was the rise of outrage from the wolves—that I would risk their lives for a stranger, that I had overstepped my authority. I couldn’t tell which wolves were spearheading it, my pack sense was not that clear at the moment. Maybe all of them were unhappy.
For the benefit of those unhappy wolves, I said aloud, “Bran Cornick taught me that the pack only rules the territory it can keep safe from other predators. He taught me that where a debt is owed, it must be repaid.”
“What did this boy do for us?” asked Mary Jo, who’d come up with the others of the pack. At her back, as usual, stood Paul and Alec. Mary Jo wore a baseball cap and sunglasses to keep from being recognized. She was a firefighter in Pasco and had chosen to keep what else she was secret from them. But her secrecy felt like a “for now” thing, not a “forever.”
We’d been friends, or at least friendly acquaintances, until Adam had courted and married me. She thought he deserved a human woman, someone better than a werewolf like she was. That he’d chosen me, a coyote shifter, had devastated her—but she needed to get over it.
“He saved Joel,” I said mildly. She’d been on the bridge long enough that I was pretty sure she knew that.
“Oh. Joel. Your pet, right? The one you invited into the pack.” She gave voice to the unhappiness I felt through the pack, the bond we all shared feeling like sandpaper.
I stared at her, and she met my eyes for a whole two seconds before she dropped them. The roar of the pack rebellion died down to a murmur that no longer pounded at me through the pack bonds. Mary Jo’s wolf was convinced I outranked her, whatever her human half thought; that left her no room to challenge me, and she knew it.
“Bran also taught me guesting laws,” I continued. “A person who asks for shelter will get twenty-four hours if he makes no move to harm. He will get food, drink, and a bed. Protection from his enemies. Safety. It is what we offer any who come to us.” Those guesting laws were old. Bran adhered to them, but not all the wolf packs did. From the unease in the pack, I thought that they would be happier if I hadn’t mentioned the guesting laws. But the walking stick warmed gently in my hand.