She was standing between Claire and the house, looking impossibly tiny despite being eight feet tall, because of the contrast. Yet, there she was, not too far from the clueless delivery guy, holding Aiden up in the air like Rafiki holding Simba. She didn’t say anything, and neither did Aiden, but then, they didn’t need to. Because, if there’s one thing every mother knows immediately, instinctively, it’s her own child.
A second later, the delivery guy was forgotten, the big neck was curving, and the huge creature was delicately snuffling her only son. Who did what you’d expect a one-year-old to do in that situation, and started wailing. I knew the feeling, I thought dizzily.
But Claire obviously didn’t. The huge head reared back, the very nonhuman face somehow managing to convey a very identifiable progression of emotions: horror, chagrin, dismay. And then pain, the depth of it searing my retinas before a flash of golden light made us all cover our eyes.
When I looked again, a hysterical, naked woman was running for the house, sobbing; Olga was cuddling a very confused Aiden; and the pizza guy was just standing there, the boxes scattered around him and trodden in the mud, his face slack with disbelief.
Before he suddenly shuddered, a deep, all-over motion, and leapt for the fence, fumbling with the gate for a moment before deciding, “Fuck it,” and jumping across, and then ignoring his car in favor of running down the road, screaming.
On the plus side, the trolls didn’t give us any more trouble after that.
Chapter Twelve
Several exhausting hours later, I was huddled on the porch under a makeshift tent eating a popular type of toaster pastry. And wondering why it was popular. It was chalky and overly sweet, and had too little filling. And most of that had never seen a piece of actual fruit in its life.
The turnovers Claire made were a thousand times better, buttery and flaky and stuffed to overflowing with her own vine-ripened crops. Only I didn’t have any of those. Of course, I didn’t have anything else, either.
That was the problem with boarding two adolescent trolls: food disappeared as fast as it was brought in. They were like teenage boys, aka bottomless pits, only with stomachs many times as large. Even with a sizeable backyard garden to draw from, the cupboards were always empty.
That was true even today, when we’d had a second harvest inside. I’d been too preoccupied to wonder where the troll twins had been during all the excitement, but I guess that term is relative, isn’t it? So while we were yelling and fighting and facing a sudden dragon problem in the backyard, the twins had been busy gathering up all the apples and carting them off to the basement. Where there was some grand project going on to turn them into cider, or possibly brandy if they could figure out how to work Claire’s uncle’s old still.
I just hoped they didn’t blow up the house.
Anyway, as a result, there wasn’t a single whole piece of fruit left in the place. Or any pizza, most of which had gotten crushed under a giant-sized heel. There was soup, but by the time I’d tried to talk to Claire, who was sobbing in her room and wouldn’t open the door; and called up the pizza place, to make sure they had been paid and we wouldn’t get blackballed from yet another delivery service; and got hung up on because too late; and rescued Stinky from the trolls, because he was trying to fight them; and watched them leave in a huff before they were thrown out bodily; and made up the spare room for Olga, who’d decided to stay the night; and checked on Claire again, who still wasn’t talking; and took a phone call from Louis-Cesare, reassuring him that, yep, I’d just been hanging around the house all day, no problems here, I discovered that it was all gone. And my cooking skills mostly involve making grilled cheese, only I didn’t have any cheese.
That was okay; I didn’t have any bread, either.
But then I found out that somebody, probably the damned guards, had drunk all the beer, and that was the last straw. So I was hermiting inside my tent with an attitude and the last piece of food in the place. Because there are certain things even a troll won’t eat.
I saw a shadow approach from outside, and then pause, before a familiar blond head stuck through the flap where the blankets overlapped. And eyed my dinner. I snatched it away quickly, the little cellophane wrapper reflecting the light from the lantern Caedmon was holding. There may have also been some growling involved.
This did not appear to deter him. “May I come in?”
“No.” I shoved the last of the so-called pastry in my mouth, because I wasn’t taking chances.
He came in anyway.
I’d have had something to say about that, once the chalky mess cleared my throat. Only a scent hit my nostrils before then, a rich, decadent, meaty aroma emanating from something in the hand that wasn’t holding the lantern. Something that wasn’t terrible pastry with inadequate filling. Something that looked a lot like— “Izzatme’?” I asked, hopefully.
“I beg your pardon?”
I swallowed, and it was tough, because some asshole had drunk all my beer.
“Is that meat?” I repeated, and snatched the plate he was holding out.
Caedmon said some word I didn’t know, and then smiled at my expression. “Yes,” he said simply. “It’s something of a specialty of mine. I think you’ll like it.”
I liked it.
It tasted like duck: dark, sweet, and tender, with an acid undertone that probably came from the wine. The same kind he handed me a skin of while he tried to find a comfortable position. He ended up cross-legged, hunched over, and fidgety. Then said to hell with it and reclined, golden head propped up on one fine-fingered hand, silken hair cascading onto my last blanket, long legs protruding out onto the damp boards.
It was raining, hence the tent. Of course, we were under shelter, but the sky kept throwing handfuls of water at me through the sides of the porch, because it was that kind of day. But Caedmon didn’t look like he minded. In fact, he looked entirely too happy altogether, which probably boded badly for me. But right then, I didn’t care.
“Good?” he asked unnecessarily, considering that I was all but inhaling it.
“Never had swan,” I said. The park down the road boasted eight or nine of the ill-tempered things—or it had. The old people were going to get a surprise when they showed up to feed their pets tomorrow.
“These were fine, fat cygnets,” Caedmon agreed, looking pleased.
I didn’t say anything.
I was kind of complicit at this point.
“I’m not talking to Claire for you,” I told him, in between bites.
“I thought you’d already talked to her. Else why were you banished?” He gestured around the little tent.
“I’m not banished.”
A golden eyebrow went up.
“I’m out here to get some sleep.”
“And you cannot do that inside?”
I rolled my eyes and ate swan. “Listen.”
He cocked his head to the side, and the fine lips pursed. “Is that—what is that?”
“Olga. She’s sleeping over.”
“It’s . . . astonishing.” He listened some more, to what sounded like a cross between a wounded buffalo and a dying rhino, with a little elephant trumpet there at the end sometimes. “Can you imagine,” he asked, after a moment, “an entire cave or village, hundreds of them, all sleeping at once? It must be deafening.”
I thought one was pretty deafening.
Dhampir hearing is a bitch.
“And yet, they can be so silent when they want,” he continued, “so stealthy, that even my men have missed them at times.”
“The slavers didn’t seem to have any trouble,” I pointed out, thinking of the little one.
The smile on Caedmon’s face faded. “He was likely never trained. Even my people do not move as they do without practice.”
“Maybe he’ll get some now.”
Caedmon shook his head. “I did what I could, but the damage was too severe. He’ll limp for the rest of his life, if he walks at all. It will make him of little use to his people, who rank someone’s value by their fighting prowess. If he goes home, he will always be considered mótg?re.”
I looked a question.
“A nuisance.”
I scowled, but didn’t say anything. I hadn’t lived in unceasing warfare for centuries. I had no room to talk. “You understand their language?”