Fire Touched (Mercy Thompson, #9)(99)

“I will visit,” Aiden said. “But you have to promise not to make me stay here.”

Underhill bounced on her toes, and her voice was shy as she said, “Visiting would be better than lost forever. But you will die out there.”

“Death is part of life,” he told her. “Without the one, it is hard to have the other. That’s what my mother used to say. But I could visit until then.”

“You used to not remember your mother,” she said.

“I’m remembering more Outside. I could come and tell you stories about it.”

She gave him a tentative smile. “I like your stories. All right. I promise not to make you stay here.”

—

Baba Yaga took us to a different door than the one we’d used to come in. This one was set in one of two walls belonging to the remnants of a hut that had seen better days. When she opened the door, I could see only the empty, overgrown patch that had once (presumably) been the hut’s interior, but stepping through it, with Adam beside me, landed us in the same little, nondescript room that we’d entered Underhill from.

It had been light in Underhill, but it was evening here.

“How much time has passed?” I asked urgently.

Baba Yaga shrugged. “As much as needed to.” She paused, then smiled at me. “Oh, yes. I forgot that you had some adventures in an Elphame court. Underhill is far more stable, and her ties to this world are stronger. Time passes differently, yes, but not all that differently. If you had stayed in Underhill for a year, you might find that you’d spent a year and a half. But with a short visit, generally you might lose or gain an hour or six, but mostly it’s not enough to matter.” She smiled again. “Generally.”

I caught my polite “thank you” before it left my tongue. “Good to know,” I said instead.

She looked at Aiden, who was frantically patting his clothing. “Here, boy,” she said, digging into a pocket. She pulled out the key and gave it to him. “It’s probably better if you have this now. Otherwise someone might say that I brought the artifact back and not you, hmm?” She looked at me. “Remember to dot your tees and cross your eyes”—which she did—“when dealing with the fae.” She smiled broadly. “Now then, we should go to Beauclaire’s office, I think. You can be sure that someone from the Council will be awaiting our arrival—and Beauclaire’s office is as good a target as any.”

—

Two someones were waiting for us—or at least, they were in Beauclaire’s office talking quietly. Goreu and Beauclaire seemed awfully startled by our entrance to have been actually waiting for us.

“That was quick,” said Goreu. “We didn’t expect you for another day at least.”

“How quick?” I asked.

“Twelve, maybe thirteen hours,” said Goreu.

“Huh,” I said. “We were there a day and a night and most of another day.” I’d gained back about twelve hours of the month that the Elphame court had stolen from me.

Adam’s clothes were folded and awaited him on a chair near the fireplace, which held a merry little fire. He walked over to the chair. I don’t think that anyone except me knew how sore and tired he was.

“What are you carrying?” Beauclaire asked me.

I’d used one of the dead fae’s shirts to collect what I could find of the walking stick. I laid it on the desk in front of Beauclaire and opened the shroud to reveal shards and splinters of gray wood, some silver bits, and the spearpoint, still stained with the Widow Queen’s blood.

Beauclaire touched the silver spearhead lightly and raised an eyebrow.

“The Widow Queen thought that she’d like an artifact all to herself,” I said.

Goreu growled. “I told you she acquiesced too easily. That she took the defeat of her people at the werewolves’ hands with too much grace.”

“You took care of her?” Beauclaire asked me, ignoring Goreu. He didn’t raise his eyebrows in disbelief, but it lurked in his tone.

“Aiden, Adam, and I,” I said. “But we had help. She couldn’t do great magic without Underhill’s consent, which she didn’t get. The walking stick . . . helped me, too. In the end, that’s what killed her. Without Baba Yaga’s help, Adam would have died.”

“Baba Yaga,” said Beauclaire with a frown. “What was . . .” He quit talking, but his frown didn’t go away. “Coyote’s daughter,” he said quietly. “He and Baba Yaga are akin, tricksters and unreliable champions of the underdog. I can see why she might be inclined to help you.”

He was talking about her like she wasn’t in the room.

“She didn’t have much use for the Widow Queen,” said Goreu.

I glanced discreetly around, but she wasn’t in the room. I started to say something, I don’t know what, when Adam drew on the pack bonds to do another quicker-than-usual change. The power flowed to him, I felt the edge of it. But more than power, I felt the joyous welcome that sang through the pack as they celebrated Adam’s return.

When I paid attention to the others again, Beauclaire was once more examining the remains of his father’s work. Aiden was fumbling in his pocket, and Goreu was watching me.

“Interesting,” he said. “I hadn’t realized how much magic resides within the werewolves. That magic produces their condition, yes, that I understood. That they themselves could produce and use magic . . . that I didn’t know.”