I stopped dead.
Last night, there had been powder burns on one of his temples, a cut across his lower jaw, and a bruise, livid red and purple, distorting his left cheek. Tonight, there was nothing. It was as if the whole thing at the theatre had just been a bad dream.
It shouldn’t have surprised me.
As soon as the curses wore off, healing would have been almost instantaneous. That’s why most people never saw a first-level master like that; they healed too fast. You were never supposed to be able to trace the indentation left by a bullet, or see the scattered pieces of it shining in the moonlight through half-healed skin. You were never supposed to smell his blood, or feel terror grip your heart at the extent of the damage, because it was gone in an instant, as if it had never been there at all.
But it had been there, and I had seen it.
And, suddenly, I couldn’t see anything else.
“Dory!” a lilting voice called. “We were just talking about you.”
Shit. I’d been so busy staring at Louis-Cesare, I’d failed to notice that someone else was back, too. And lounging on the swing, his long legs splayed out in casual elegance, his green eyes amused.
I didn’t know why Caedmon looked so pleased with himself until I noticed: Louis-Cesare was holding a single rose, a beautiful thing, elegant and bright red and tied with a little white bow. Which would have been more impressive if the porch hadn’t been draped with them. Like, to the point that I wasn’t sure it wasn’t about to collapse.
I didn’t know where the others had come from, because they weren’t the hothouse variety. But rather big, old-fashioned, pale pink things with fat ruffled heads that shed a subtle perfume. Or they would have, if there hadn’t been a million of them.
Then I noticed the bloom-filled creeper coming from next door, where it had crawled out of the neighbor’s rose patch and inched along the ground the way this variety didn’t, because it wasn’t a climbing rose. Or, at least, it hadn’t been. Until it scaled a tall wooden fence, dropped over the other side, scrawled across the yard, and set about making our sagging back porch sag some more with a crap ton of heavy pink blooms.
Just to be nearer to the blond in the swing.
And to piss off Louis-Cesare, judging by his expression.
Things were a little tense on the porch, because he and Caedmon had a history, and it wasn’t good. And I really didn’t want a repeat, considering how much repair work the house still had to do. And then I noticed that Louis-Cesare was in a suit.
It was a nice one, a dark blue that deepened his eyes to sapphire and brought out the red in his hair. He’d matched it with a pristine white shirt and a dark-colored tie, usually a boring combination unless it’s draped across broad shoulders and a sculpted chest. I blinked at him, because he looked . . . well, like you’d expect.
Edible.
“Going somewhere?” I asked, and he awkwardly handed me his lone flower.
“I was hoping to take you to dinner.”
I didn’t say anything. Not because Olga’s errand waited, or because I’d already eaten. But because I hadn’t expected him tonight and I wasn’t ready.
I knew what had to be done, had known ever since I realized that my days were likely numbered. Hell, I’d known it long before that, practically since I set eyes on Mr. Too-Good-for-the-Likes-of-You. But I still wasn’t.
“Dory?”
“Uh—”
“We’re already planning a feast here. My men are cooking it now,” Caedmon said, coming to the rescue with a strange little smile. And with a wave of a languid hand toward the garden, which I hadn’t noticed because the roses were blocking half of it. But now . . .
“Did you ask Claire about this?” I breathed, my eyes widening.
“Ask me about what?” Claire said, backing out of the house. She had a tray in her hands, piled with sandwiches, napkins, and a pitcher of homemade lemonade. Which she almost dropped, along with her jaw, when she turned around. “Caedmon!”
She was staring at the fragrant smoke starting to waft this way from numerous campfires. Campfires that had been dug willy-nilly, all over her formerly nice lawn. Including a huge fire pit over which a spit had been erected to hold an entire . . .
Smallish cow? Overlarge sheep? Massive pig? The jury was still out, because I couldn’t see it properly through a bunch of guards, who were crowding around to rub the meat with some kind of spice paste.
Others were putting pots on fires, decorating weathered old picnic tables with what looked suspiciously like Claire’s best bedsheets, carting in armloads of firewood they’d gotten who knew where, and chasing off a couple of little dogs, which had been drawn by the aroma. Large lanterns were being lit in the trees and smaller ones were being strung on ropes crisscrossing the garden; wooden kegs were being brought out of tents, including one that splashed Soini in the face when he opened it wrong; and groups of fey were gathered around large pans, loudly debating sauce ingredients.
Somebody brushed past Claire with a question in a language I didn’t know, but which caused her to spin and yell after him: “No! And stay out of my pantry!”
Having scared off the fey, she turned her ire on Caedmon, who was still lounging in the swing, still smiling that little smile and still holding Louis-Cesare’s eyes.
“Do stay for dinner,” he offered, which for some reason made Louis-Cesare flush almost as dark as his rose.
“Caedmon!” Claire’s voice snapped. “What is this?”
“A celebration. It’s not often we have the chance to welcome a new cousin, especially one so skilled.”
“Cousin?” Claire looked confused.
I glanced around. That was all we needed. Another fey.
“My apologies about your treatment earlier,” Caedmon said, looking past her—at nothing, because there was nobody behind me. “Reiearr has been informed of his error. He and the others have been instructed to treat you with the respect due your new station.”
“Station? What station?” Claire asked, looking confused as I met Caedmon’s eyes.
And realized that he was talking to me.
A weird sort of chill crept up my spine.
“I told you before I left,” Caedmon said, glancing at Claire. “She is vargr. We all saw it—”
“What?” Louis-Cesare said, looking back and forth between me and Caedmon.
“—and as part fey—”
“What?”
“—she is to be welcomed by her family, as is tradition. One codified by treaty.” That last bit had a bite to it, probably because Louis-Cesare’s eyes had settled on Caedmon with an expression I really didn’t like.
“What? Wait.” That was me.
But Caedmon didn’t wait, although his smile acquired an edge. “And as there seems to be no way to tell which clan she belongs to, after so long, I have decided to adopt her into our little family. To the newest Blarestri warrior!” he said, hoisting a mug of something.
Suddenly, I was surrounded by fey, dozens of them, laughing and talking and slapping me on the back. And shoving a beer stein into my hands, while Louis-Cesare stared at Caedmon. And if looks could kill . . .
* * *
—
“Dory, what the hell?” Claire and I had ducked back into the hall, while the festivities exploded outside. And while Louis-Cesare and Caedmon faced off, because it had just dawned on my boyfriend that the king of the fey was trying to poach me.
“You tell me. Did you know about this?”
She looked shocked. “No! Or, rather, after last night I knew what you were—are—I mean, what you have to be—”
“Claire! I’m not fey!”
“But . . . you’re vargr. That’s a fey talent. It doesn’t exist anywhere else—”
“No, it doesn’t. But vampire mental powers do!”