Fire Touched (Mercy Thompson, #9)(53)

“What do we have to bargain with?” Adam asked. “I won’t turn the boy over to them.” He looked at Tad. “Or you or your father. Bran has made it clear that we are on our own.”

“There is the walking stick,” I said.

“That’s a nonstarter,” said Adam. “It won’t stay with them in the first place. And in the second place . . .”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s changed, hasn’t it? It’s not just an artifact anymore. It has a mind of its own—which makes it . . . not something I’m willing to bargain with if I can help it.”





8




Thomas had been suspiciously amiable about my request to include us in his fae lady’s meeting.

“I am,” he’d said when I’d called him, “very happy to have more security for Margaret.”

I cleared my throat. “You might not be so happy when I explain exactly why we’d like to come along.” He’d listened as I expanded on the tale of the trouble I’d caused with my little speech on the bridge.

“So,” he said when I’d finished. “You wish to come in the hopes of taking the Gray Lords by surprise—and are fairly sure that those fae you will corner are people who know the situation and have the power to make bargains.”

“Yes,” I said.

There was a little pause. “You don’t think that the Gray Lords are responsible for the threatening message sent to Hauptman’s ex-wife. Worse, you don’t think that the person, this Widow Queen, you talked to on the phone was the person responsible for the message, either.”

“She may have been one of them,” I said, “but there are others—who may or may not have a different agenda than she does. Or they want our refugee, too, but not for the same purpose. You see our problem.”

“You don’t know who wants what—and where they sit in the halls of power.” Margaret Flanagan had taken the phone. “Too many possibilities and not enough information.”

“Exactly,” I told her. “We don’t want war with the fae—and I don’t think they want war with us, either. But we won’t give them the boy, who has been a victim of the fae for a very long time. We won’t give them”—I paused, because in this instance I probably couldn’t speak for the pack—“I won’t give them Zee or his son. Ideally, the Gray Lords will decide we are too much trouble or not important enough to screw with, and they will take over and police their own. Otherwise, we’ll try to bargain with them to get them to respect our territorial boundaries.”

“Zee?” Margaret asked. “You said his name to Thomas, too, as if he were someone we should know?”

“Siebold Adelbertsmiter,” I said. “He’s had a lot of names over the years. You might know him better as the Dark Smith of Drontheim.”

There was a long pause. “You are a friend of the Dark Smith?”

“Zee is a grumpy old fae,” I said. “But he is my friend.”

She drew in a breath. “He was my father’s much-admired enemy.”

“If it helps,” I said, “when I told him your father was dead, it hit him pretty hard. I’d say the admiration went both ways.”

She laughed.

Thomas said, “Margaret is what is important.”

“We will protect her,” I said.

“All right,” he said. “But you come. You and your mate. I’ve met you, and I’ll have you at my back, but no strangers.”

“Deal,” I said.

Which is how I came to be riding shotgun instead of someone more useful like Warren or Honey—but we were hoping this wouldn’t turn into an actual battle.

Zee came, too.

I hadn’t asked him. Adam hadn’t asked him. Zee hadn’t said anything, he’d just been sitting in the backseat of Adam’s car when we were ready to leave. He wouldn’t say anything, and he wouldn’t get out. None of the other cars parked at the house would start. So, instead of being late, we drove to the hotel with him in the backseat.

Thomas and Margaret came out to meet us. The sky wasn’t quite dark, and Thomas wore gloves and a black hoodie with the hood pulled over his head. The hoodie made him look . . . smaller, and less dangerous—more like a gang member and less like a vampire.

Adam started to explain our stowaway to Thomas, but Zee got out of the car and looked at Margaret.

He frowned at the crutches and the scars on her wrists. “Your father was an honorable enemy,” he told her. “He deserved better followers. Are you as tough as your father?”

She raised her chin, but it was Thomas who said, “Tougher. They were both trapped underground in mining tunnels for decades. He died, and she survived.”

“My father was injured,” she said sharply. “I was not.”

“I did not know about this imprisonment,” Zee said. “Or I would have put a stop to it. I heard only afterward how it happened that you were trapped by those who should have cared for you.” He raised his eyes to her. “I would have broken my old enemy out of a prison he did not deserve—if only to ensure that a worthy opponent still walked the earth. For the error of my ignorance, I will do my best to make sure that his daughter walks away unharmed today.”