Fire Touched (Mercy Thompson, #9)(47)

Uncle Mike smiled. This time it was the full-force, hugely charismatic smile that made the part of me that detected magic sit up and take notice. “Well, then,” he said, satisfaction lacing his voice. “Some people are going to be looking over their shoulders, now, aren’t they?”

Zee tipped his head to the side. “That is an interesting notion. I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you, now,” said Uncle Mike in evident satisfaction. “Just don’t you, old friend.”

“What,” I asked again, “is a flitflit?”

“Lesser fae,” Zee said. “They flitflit around and hear things. Uncle Mike has a number of them who are personally loyal to him.”

The other fae nodded. “What do you want me to do about what I know?”

Zee frowned. “You see me standing before you. I trust you aren’t in the mood to change my status?”

“Someone wanted us to think you dead,” Uncle Mike said. “Do you want me to disabuse them of that notion—or let it play out?”

Zee gave him a sour smile. “What do I care? I don’t play those games—I don’t play any games.”

The smile that spread over Uncle Mike’s face was sharklike and sharp. “Someone forgot that, forgot whom they were dealing with. Good.” He breathed out deeply, and said, “Very good.”

He walked to the door and opened it, pausing on the threshold and turning back. “I am reassured as to your health, old friend. I look forward to being in the audience for your next act.” He bowed his head to Zee, then to me, before stepping outside and closing the door, very gently, behind him.

Zee watched him leave, listened to the car as it drove off, and came the rest of the way down the stairs. He did it without limping or making noise or any other thing. But he did it very slowly. He was badly hurt.

When he got to the bottom, I said, “Breakfast in the kitchen, I think. If Jesse didn’t leave extra eggs, then there will still be leftover doughnuts.”

As if the mention of her name summoned her, Jesse descended the stairs in a tenth of the time it had taken Zee.

“I used up the eggs,” she said. “But I can reheat the French toast I put in the fridge if anyone wants some.”

“That would be good,” Zee said.

Jesse ignored Aiden entirely and began rummaging in the fridge. Zee, who was very good at reading between the lines when he cared to, gave Aiden a speculative and not-altogether-friendly look.

Warren came in from outside, still tucking his shirt into his jeans. There was something in his face that told me his wolf was lingering close to the surface, but his smile was real when he offered to give Jesse a ride to school.

Jesse brought a plate of French toast over and set it in front of Zee. “A ride?” She heaved a big sigh and rolled her eyes, to demonstrate that she wasn’t fooled—Warren would be sticking around the school to make sure she was safe.

Warren frowned at Jesse, hunching his lanky length as if he’d absorbed a blow. “If you’d rather ride with someone else, thet’s ahlraht, Jesse. Darryl would take you.” The excessive Texas was to let Jesse know that he really wasn’t hurt. “Or Ben,” he said innocently. Ben had caused quite a stir when he’d gone to her school—subtle, the foul-mouthed Englishman was not. Warren would be a lot less likely to attract notice.

She rolled her eyes again because she knew what he was doing. But she couldn’t help but pat his shoulder and laugh, too. “Oh, let’s not bother Ben. It’s fine. We should go before I’m late.”

Warren kissed my cheek, and I gave him a hug. “Thanks,” I said.

“No worries,” he said. “Boss asked me last night if I’d take her and set up watch. Work’s been quiet lately. Kyle’s started to complain about the number of polite divorces he’s been handling. Says if they’re that civil, they probably should stay married.” Warren’s partner, Kyle, was a divorce lawyer, and Warren was a private eye who did odd jobs for Kyle’s firm.

“Quiet is good,” I said.

“That’s what I told him,” Warren said. “I don’t think he’s convinced.” He gave the room a general wave, then, with a hand on her shoulder, escorted Jesse out of the house.

“So,” I said, sitting down at the table with Zee and Aiden as soon as Warren and Jesse left. “We should talk about options for Aiden.”

Aiden looked away from me to the floor of the kitchen, where the cracked tile bore witness to his first clash with the pack.

“It might be interesting,” Zee said, “to determine whether the troll had been sent after me, after Tad, or after Aiden. If it was after Aiden, you might have more trouble with the fae.”

He meant that if the troll had been sent after him or Tad, he would handle the fallout. I had all the faith in the world that Zee could protect himself—when he was healthy enough to walk down the stairs with something approaching his normal grace. Not that it mattered. If the fae operated anything like the wolves as far as power games went, it was the pack they’d have to go after first, or they’d lose face. Bran had seemed to think we could negotiate with them—I just hoped he was right.

“I think we might be looking at trouble either way,” I said. “But let’s talk about Aiden, because he has a time limit. How hard are they going to look for you, Aiden? Would it be enough to relocate you somewhere far from the fae reservations, or are they likely to send people after you wherever you go?”