“Gran’pa!” Aiden raced across the kitchen floor, which had mercifully not yet sprouted anything, and jumped. And was plucked up and spun around by an obviously delighted fey king, who, okay, maybe had wanted to see his grandson a little bit. Because he was grinning hugely.
“How you’ve grown!” he told Aiden, lifting him overhead, where the apples politely drew back out of the way. “Such a fine, handsome boy.”
I picked up Stinky, who was not a fine, handsome boy, but deserved some love, too. “Do you like your bear?” I asked him, which had traces of soot on it in addition to the badly mangled left ear, but was otherwise holding up pretty well.
He nodded, but I clearly didn’t have his full attention. The wizened, fuzzy face, which sort of looked like a monkey, a Muppet, and a snaggletoothed cat had met up in a blender, was focused on the sword at Caedmon’s side instead. It was a beautiful thing I hadn’t noticed because he’d been sitting down. And because I’d never seen him feel the need to go about armed while inside before.
“Not yet, dear boy,” he told Stinky, smiling down at the face of his grandson’s staunch friend. “That day will come soon enough. Enjoy the time you have now.”
“Caedmon!” Claire was nothing if not persistent. “Borrow what?”
He looked back at her, blinking, while holding Aiden up again so that he could pick a fruit. “Oh, nothing much, my dear. Just a few dozen dragons.”
Chapter Nine
I was saved by the bell—the one on the front door, to be exact, which took that moment to start clamoring for attention. I gladly gave it some, because the decibel level in the kitchen was mounting. And because I was hoping it was the Girl Scouts, since it didn’t look like I was going to be getting dinner anytime soon.
It wasn’t the Girl Scouts.
It took me a second, because it looked like I had a bunch of clean-cut Mormons on the stoop, who’d decided that they needed extra support for the crazy house, so had brought the whole congregation. But then I noticed that the smiling faces were a little too fixed, the eyes were a little too blank, and the air above their heads was shimmering a little too much. And, suddenly, it was like those dot paintings when you finally see the real picture hidden by the pattern.
Or when you see the large creatures hidden by glamouries that didn’t fit, because Mormons are not twelve feet tall.
I’d have been worried, despite still being inside the house’s formidable wards, because we’d gotten some less-than-friendly visitors in the past and some of them had been tricky. But I had Stinky on my hip, who had a sixth sense for trouble yet was just calmly gnawing on his bear. And then I noticed a familiar pink satin clutch tucked under one burly guy’s arm.
And felt my spine relax.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any muffins?” I asked hopefully.
“Not today.”
“Worth a shot.”
I got out of the way.
The missionaries shoved their way in, and despite the fact that the front door was a double one, it was a tight fit for a few. At least, that was judging by the scraping sounds and the paint flaking off on either side. And by the heaviness of the feet causing the glass in the transom to chime as they passed underneath it.
And, okay, that was weird. Because I knew Olga’s boys, and they weren’t that big. Most of them were family, various relations she and her late husband had helped come over and who she was sponsoring until they started to figure things out.
These didn’t strike me that way, and not just because of the size. The adolescent trolls I’d met had a cheerful innocence about them, like Ymsi with his flowers or Sven with his sword practice, which had caused even the jaded royal guards to crack a few grins, although they usually stifled them when they saw anybody watching. But the point was, the twins were endearing.
These guys . . . I wasn’t sure what vibe I was getting, but I didn’t think “endearing” fit.
I led them to the dining room, because it had the only furniture likely to support them, a sturdy old hardwood dining set built back when craftsmen took their jobs seriously. And because I wanted to check them out before I let them loose on the rest of the house. Not that I didn’t trust Olga, but she didn’t usually have an entourage.
I was glad I’d made that call when I suddenly found myself confronted with a strange group of large, scary-looking fey.
And one small one.
“What’s with him?” I asked Olga, as the little guy was deposited in a chair by the troll who’d been carrying him.
I guessed he was a troll, too, although it was hard to tell. He was smaller than me and scrawny, like a deflated balloon. Where there should have been bulging muscles, there was just loose skin. Where there should have been bright, round eyes, there was only a pair of slits, cloudy and vague looking. And where there should have been a nice greeny brown skin tone, there was a dull ashen color, with patches that looked almost black.
Bruises, I realized.
I hadn’t known trolls could get those.
“Escaped from slavers,” Olga said, taking Stinky from me. She used to babysit him, and had a soft spot for the little guy. But today she looked like she just needed someone to hug.
“Be back in a sec,” I told her, and ran off to find Claire.
She was where I’d left her, yelling something at Caedmon that I didn’t bother to listen to, because I was afraid we were about to have a corpse on our hands. “Got your kit?”
She stopped, mouth still open, and blinked at me. “What?”
“Troll, half-dead. Or maybe more than half. Olga just brought him in.”
Claire blinked again, and I could almost see the transformation. From harassed mom with in-law problems to competent nurse on a mission. “Where?”
“Down the hall.”
She grabbed a bag from a cabinet, and was on my heels in a second flat.
We entered the dining room to find the trolls seated on groaning chairs; Stinky with his chin propped on his bear’s head, watching everything with inquisitive eyes; and the little troll out cold, facedown on the table.
“Help me get him up,” Claire muttered, and I hurried to comply, a little worried about just how easy it was to lift this particular troll. He felt like a bag of bones, and looked it, too, after we laid him on the table and Claire ripped open his shirt to reveal little more than a lattice of ribs. And—
“Fuck me.”
That was me, of course. Claire is usually able to convey emotion without profanity. But she wasn’t saying anything at the moment. Just looking down with the kind of expression you hope to never see from your doc.
“You help?” Olga asked, looking from me to Claire.
Neither of us answered. Claire was busy examining the little one, her mouth pinched almost to nonexistence, while I was realizing why my hands were wet. The dark patches I’d noticed on his arms were a black lake on his chest, one composed of old, caked blood and some fresh. I wiped my hands on my jeans and left greenish black smears behind. And looked up to see Claire’s face mirroring what was probably on mine.
“There’s no open wound,” I said, looking for some kind of hope.
“It’s internal. Trolls bleed through their skin if it’s bad enough,” Claire said shortly.
“And it’s bad.” It wasn’t a question.
She looked up at me, answering with her eyes the question I hadn’t asked. She couldn’t help him. And if Claire couldn’t, nobody could. Her last name was Lachesis, and she belonged to one of the oldest and most respected families of healers anywhere.
They’d once been known for something else, back when poisoning had been the nobility’s favorite pastime. But over the centuries they’d grown out of their dodgy rep, into a respected family of potion sellers. Not that their concoctions would help the fey, who did not respond well to human medicine, if at all. But Claire hadn’t specialized in human illnesses.