I waited, but nothing was said for a long moment, as they faced off. Literally: there wasn’t so much as a millimeter between the two of them. It was nose to nose, eye to eye, and while it might not sound like much, just two people looking at each other, it was somehow more intimidating than any of the chest-beating and wall-thumping I’d seen last night.
Suddenly, I could barely breathe, my arms broke out in goose bumps, and my hands flexed, wishing for a weapon, any weapon. I glanced at Claire, and she didn’t look any better. Her face was flushed, her eyes so green they almost looked electric, and her hands were gripping the back of the nearest chair, like she was thinking of throwing it at somebody. But then the bigger troll looked away, even turned his head slightly. And while nothing was said, the tension snapped like a rubber band, hard enough to stagger me.
I had no freaking clue what had just happened, but I didn’t have time to worry about it.
Because Caedmon was doing something.
He didn’t touch the little troll, or even move out of the doorway. But a light suddenly shone through the cracked and darkened skin of the small one, as if he’d been lit from within. It was soft at first, gentle, visible only because the room was dim.
And then it flashed outward, shining up through pores and mouth and eyes, turning the skin translucent and highlighting the too-fragile bones and organs beneath.
It was almost as good as an X-ray, a truly impressive display that danced on the ceiling and everyone’s faces. It was also useless, because there was nothing left to save. The internal organs were all but pulverized, from a beating so savage that even a couple of the trolls made noises. The slavers who had done this hadn’t just intended to kill; they’d intended to write a message in his pain: come after us again and this could happen to you.
But Caedmon must have helped a little, because the small eyes opened after a moment, and a hand raised, trying to grab Olga’s.
She’d shuffled back down the table, to squat by the little troll’s head. She took the hand. His jaw was fractured, off-center and sagging, but he managed to whisper something anyway. I didn’t catch it, and wouldn’t have understood if I had, but Olga did better.
“Yes.” Her fist hit the middle of her chest. “Swear.”
He nodded slightly and said something else, and her expression grew confused.
Then the light died, and the small face went slack, and I thought that was it.
But I’d reckoned without fey stubbornness, and I don’t just mean the trolls’. Because a second later, I was knocked aside by someone glowing like a small sun. The sudden radiance eclipsed the electric lighting, caused the trolls to throw arms over their eyes, and prompted Claire to make a sound of distress, probably worrying that somebody was about to attack her father-in-law.
But no one did. Even when he got his hands on the child, pressing them into the little chest, almost hard enough to crack it. And then all that light, all that power that had allowed a fey king to fight his way to a portal in enemy territory, that had practically seared our shadows onto the walls, that had caused havoc all over the house because it needed a place to go—
Found one.
It poured into the little body, a flood of power that looked like it would rip him apart, but instead did the opposite. I stood there with my mouth hanging open, because it was like watching a film move backward: rebuilding tissue, plumping muscle, brightening eyes. Which opened in pain and panic and confusion halfway through, with only Olga’s hand on the boy’s shoulder stopping him from getting up and trying to flee.
But he didn’t.
He just lay there.
And I continued to stare, as healthy color flooded over gray, as the cap of scaly skin on his head sprouted with hair, as blood dried up and flaked off, and ribs, cracked and scattered and broken, began working their way back into some semblance of order under his skin.
Then the light cut out, not fading away, but all at once, like a switch was flipped off. Caedmon staggered and almost fell, but Claire and I caught him. And Olga stepped protectively in front of him, palms out and arms extended, because showing weakness is never a good thing among the fey.
But nobody tried to take advantage of it.
Nobody, in fact, was looking at him at all. The other fey were gathering around the child, who was still sprawled on the table and looking far from well. He had some very unnatural dents and bumps in his chest, some mottled skin on his hands and arms, and a jaw that still didn’t fit quite right on his face. But he was alive.
And, like me, nobody seemed to quite know what to do with that. Until Olga threw her head back, and spoke for us all. And roared.
Chapter Ten
“Well, that was intense.”
I’d given up on dinner, and was hanging off the back of the porch, a longneck in one hand and an ice pack in the other, because my head hurt.
Olga nodded. She was in the porch swing with her own beer, which looked entirely inadequate in those huge hands, but it didn’t matter since I’d brought a bucket full. It was sitting on the weathered boards between us, along with a pillow, some blankets, and half a dozen apples, because there was every chance I might not get up again today.
I hated convalescing, but if you had to do it, this was the place.
The late-afternoon sun slanted across the backyard, glinting off the ice in my bucket and striping the blanket where the boys were supposed to be playing, only they were running after fireflies instead. Or, rather, Stinky was, his long arms making the chase at least somewhat competitive, while Aiden was mostly falling on his ass. But he looked like he was having fun.
So did a horse over by the fence—Caedmon’s, presumably—which was poking fleshy lips between the slats, trying to reach Mrs. Luca’s roses. And Claire’s guards, who were roasting something they weren’t supposed to have over a fire pit and laughing with the boss. He’d recovered about as fast as you’d expect for a guy who kept a bunch of crazy fey wrangled most of the time. But he also looked like he’d be happy sitting around for the rest of the day, shooting bull and drinking beer, instead of performing any more heroics.
The king of the fey looked pooped.
“Fish, tracks, door,” Olga said suddenly.
I looked up at her. “What?”
“Fish, tracks, door. You understand?”
“No.”
I lay back against the boards. They were sun warmed and velvety smooth, the way wood gets after being worn down by weather and feet through the years. They went nicely with the buzz of bees raiding the garden, the creak of chains holding up the old swing, and the tinkling sound of an ice cream truck in the distance. It didn’t come down this street anymore for reasons, but still gave a melodic accompaniment to the scene.
Nice, I thought sleepily, and seriously considered taking a nap. Which I absolutely was not going to do, because dinner was almost ready. Assuming we had enough to accommodate all our extra guests, that is.
Because the trolls hadn’t left.
From what I understood, they were some big shots in the local troll community who had been at the fights last night and offered Olga their help. She had been glad to accept, since apparently all hell had broken loose shortly after I passed out. The slaver had ended up dead somehow, and as soon as they heard, the slaves had started to flee.
That wouldn’t have been so bad, even if most of them were new arrivals who had no idea how to navigate the human world. Worst-case scenario, they’d be picked up by the Corps, a bunch of nosy mages who think they’re the supernatural police, and sent back to Faerie. Best-case scenario, somebody like Olga would find them, and they’d get adopted into the local Dark Fey community. Or, at least, they would have, except the slaver’s assistants had preferred to kill them rather than let them escape and give evidence.
Hence the hell.