“I know Drac killed her husband. I don’t think she has a chance of bringing him down, but it’s her right to try.” Humans might be willing to fight their battles in court, and for lesser things the magical community followed suit. But for this, someone would bleed. I just hoped it was the right someone, as the idea of Olga writhing away her final hours on one of Drac’s special poles didn’t appeal.
“She is a Bergtroll,” he informed me, as if there was any chance I’d failed to notice.
“Uh-huh. A really pissed-off one. You don’t want her to come, fine. You tell her. I’ve had about all the violence I want for today.”
Louis-Cesare looked like he was going to argue, so I distracted him with a pitiful groan. Too bad it wasn’t faked. He went back to surgery, and in return for my agreement to stay still while he patched me up, he filled me in on some of the stuff I’d missed. “It seems we disrupted an illegal auction featuring failed experiments by the Dark Fey. They gave them to a group of humans they use to do some of their errands as—what do you call it? A bonus,” he said, dropping the bullet he’d extracted onto the floor. “The prisoners said that there were no mages here, only humans. I believe the Dark Circle abandoned this location as too vulnerable, and that the wards we found were some they did not bother to remove when they left.”
“And what did the humans say? If they work for—” I broke off at a particularly painful dig.
“We would have asked them had your allies left any alive,” was the acerbic reply. Another little bullet hit the floor. No wonder I felt like crap. Even I usually manage to avoid getting shot twice in the chest on the same day.
Then what he’d said registered. I looked around and for the first time noticed that the man who had attacked the little crossbreed was now draped across a couple of cages—on opposite sides of the room. Pieces of the auctioneer and his staff were everywhere, with an arm still clutching a gavel about a yard away. While Louis-Cesare stitched me up, I watched Olga’s little troll, appearing unaffected by his obviously broken nose, tuck it into a basket alongside other mangled bits. Takeout, I presumed.
“Wait a minute.” My sluggish brain finally threw up the obvious question. “If this was some bargain-basement slave auction, why was Claire here?” The idea of her in what amounted to an odd bin was ludicrous.
Louis-Cesare didn’t reply, being too busy digging a .22 out of my thigh. Before I could press him, someone came into view who drove the words right out of my head. “Shit!” I tried to rise, but Louis-Cesare held me down.
“What is wrong with you?” I just stared past his shoulder at the new arrival. Either I was hallucinating or the threat wasn’t as great as it seemed. I really hoped it was the latter, since I was in no shape to defend myself.
The newcomer knelt gracefully beside me. I tried not to stare, but I don’t think it worked. At least he was worth it, being quite simply the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. Golden hair spilled over his shoulders and in the dim room it seemed to glow with an inward light. Eyes so dark green they were almost black provided a startling contrast, especially framed by gold-tipped lashes. But his face was the most surprising thing about him. Faint laugh lines crinkled around his eyes, and his smile revealed even white teeth. Despite the perfection of the features, the first word I’d have used to describe him would have been “pleasant,” something I’d never have thought to associate with a member of the Light Fey.
The Fey’s otherworldly looks did not keep him from being attacked by a growling gray blur, however. “What do we have here?” The light, musical voice sounded amused, and a softly shimmering hand plucked the creature out of the air. “Ah. An infant Duergar. Is it yours?” I just stared as he held the poor Duergar securely by the nape of its neck. It tried to scratch him, but the Fey’s arms were even longer than its own and kept it just out of reach. “But this cannot be the fearsome warrior,” the Fey said, his eyes widening as they took me in. “She is too young, and far too pretty.”
“She is five centuries old,” Louis-Cesare replied tersely.
“As I thought,” the Fey said. “A mere child.” He lifted my hand to his lips and if the dried blood on it bothered him, he didn’t let it show. “I believe you are called Dory, am I right? I am known as Caedmon, at least in your world.”
The Duergar seemed to object to Caedmon touching me, and started flailing its sticklike limbs in a frantic attempt to scratch his eyes out. The Fey glanced at it. “They can be very useful: resistant to poison and most magic, fierce in battle, extremely loyal, and many are skillful smiths. I once had a wondrous belt with a gold buckle—exquisite work—made by one of their renowned artisans. But if you’ll forgive the observation,” he added, “this is a poor specimen.”