Fire Touched (Mercy Thompson, #9)(48)

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “It seemed to me that they were most interested in how I use fae magic when I shouldn’t be able to touch it because humans can’t.” He put both hands flat on the table. The nails were bitten to the quick. “They used to take Underhill for granted. She was their home, their due, and their servant. Then she shooed them all out the door and locked it up tight against them.” He shivered. “There were other things in Underhill,” he said, not looking at any of us. “Not just us human-born changelings. There were places where the fae kept their prisoners. I suppose some of them were normal—as normal as any fae—when they were first locked up. But when she opened the prison doors—because she was lonely, she said—there was nothing remotely normal about what came out. When they killed us by the dozens, she was sad, so she gave us power to protect ourselves. She gave me the gift of fire. As far as I can tell, the fae are mostly jealous. They’ve killed enough of us that they are convinced they can’t take the fire from me and keep it themselves, though.”

Zee pursed his lips and whistled. “Did you tell any of them that she’d opened up the prisons?”

Aiden shook his head. “But they know, right? She’s opened the doors, so they’ve seen.”

“I think not,” Zee said. “I think she’s been playing games with them.” He sat back, grunted, and sat straighter. “Mercy, I think it is safe to assume they will come after him. He is beloved of Underhill.”

Aiden snorted, trying to sound nonchalant, I thought, but mostly he sounded scared.

Zee gave Aiden a sour smile. “Last night, while I slept, she whispered in my dreams. ‘Where is my beloved?’ she asked. ‘What have you done with him, Smith? Bring him back to me.’ If she is talking to other fae, they will hunt you until you are dead or they can give you back to her.”

Aiden’s eyes showed white all around. “Don’t take me back there,” he begged Zee. “Please, don’t.”

“Underhill addressed you?” I asked Zee. Unlike Aiden, I knew that Zee wouldn’t even walk across the street at the bidding of the fae—not after they put Tad in jeopardy. And what was Underhill but another form of fae? Aiden was in no danger of Zee’s returning him anywhere.

Zee nodded. “I don’t like it, either,” he said. “I never had much to do with Underhill, though I’ve attended a court or two there. Underhill, like most of the fae, is sensitive to metal, and iron-kissed is my nature. We don’t get on.” Zee tapped on the table. “It disturbs me that Underhill knows my name.”

“Me, too,” said Aiden, thoroughly spooked. “Your name, my name—I wish she’d forget them all.” He glanced over at me. “Would you keep me safe for one more day? So I can think on this? I will do what I can to stay out of your way.”

“What do you expect to accomplish with another day?” asked Zee.

“I cannot promise anything yet,” I answered Aiden. “I have to talk to Adam.”

Before he could remind me that I’d given him sanctuary in the first place without talking to Adam, a door opened, and Christy burst into the kitchen. Tears slid down her pretty face, and she furiously wiped them away. She met my eyes, raised her chin, and said, “He is a bastard.”

Adam stalked in after her, temper in every muscle of his body. “Where’s Darryl?” he asked the room in general.

“Outside,” Zee told him. “Perimeter duty.” He must have been listening to what had gone on in the kitchen before he came down.

Adam opened the back door, and said, “Darryl, I have a job for you.”

Christy crossed her arms under her chest and glared at me. “This is your fault,” she said. She uncrossed her arms and wiped her eyes again, with special attention to not smearing her mascara.

I made a neutral sound.

Adam gave a look to Christy, who bit her lip and turned her head away.

“No,” he said. “It isn’t. Darryl?”

The big man slid into the kitchen. “Yes?”

“I need you to take Christy to her apartment and let her pack. Tomorrow, at six in the morning, she’s getting on a plane. You’ll be on it with her. She’ll change airplanes in Seattle for a flight to the Bahamas. You have the choice of waiting four hours for your return flight, which is paid for, or renting a car at the pack’s expense and driving home.”

“What’s up?” I asked.

“There was a note pinned to her door this morning,” Adam said. He reached into his back pocket and withdrew an envelope that he’d folded in half.

It was thick paper, the kind that comes with invitations to weddings or graduations. I took out the card inside. It was inscribed by hand by someone with incredibly good penmanship.

It read:


Dear Christina Hauptman,


Please give the attached message to your husband.

I grimaced at the “your husband” part. Christy had thrown Adam away, and she didn’t get him back. I raised the card to my nose. It smelled of Adam, Christy, and very faintly of the ocean and something . . .

“The Fideal,” I said. The Fideal had attacked me, once. I’d run to the pack, and they had driven him off. Cantrip would have classified him as a boogie monster—a creature used to frighten children into being good or staying safe in their beds. That was one way to look at it. I looked upon him and his ilk as a fae analog of the human pedophile, but the fae version usually ate its prey.