CHAPTER
15
There was no funeral. Charles and Anna loaded the dead fae into the trunk of Ms. Edison’s car and tucked the dead fae’s head into a box and put it in the backseat. They drove it to the day care parking lot, locked it, and drove away. Then they called Leslie and told her where to find it.
She wasn’t happy with them, but she called back after they’d retrieved the body. “Better you than us,” she said. “That body is going to keep Leeds happy for the next five years.”
“Better him than me,” Anna told her.
“Be well,” Leslie said.
“You, too,” Anna told her. “Give your husband a hug from me. I expect we’ll see each other again. Charles thinks that there will be worse to come.”
“Cheerful, isn’t he?” Leslie said grimly. “I expect that you both are right. However, I, for one, intend to celebrate this victory. There may be all sorts of horrible fae in our future, but this fae isn’t going to be killing any more children.”
They stayed a few days more. There was no funeral, but the family mourned and they were willing to share their grief with Charles. It seemed to help him, but he was more uncommunicative than usual, so Anna couldn’t be sure. Anna baked, babysat, and did anything she could to make things easier for the rest.
Bran came and he brought Moira the witch and her werewolf Tom. Moira came to help Chelsea and to make sure Amethyst was free of the fae’s magic. Anna was pretty sure that Tom came because no one wanted to tell him to stay home, not even Bran. Anna and Charles flew back to Montana ten days after they’d left.
Katie Jamison surveyed the ruin of her house ruefully. If she hadn’t been drunk, would she have had the brains to tell the FBI special agent and her friends the werewolves to go to hell? And if she had, would they have listened and spared her the headache of dealing with more construction in her house?
But they’d found that fae, the one who’d been killing children. She’d seen it in the news. And she’d seen a werewolf in his—and her—natural state. Too bad those photos hadn’t turned out. Magic could be odd that way, her garden fae told her.
So she didn’t have photos of the big wolf running amok in her living room, the ones she’d taken without permission. But the photos of the black wolf in her garden were lovely. Not as interesting as the ferocious and angry werewolf had been, but beautiful.
The cleaners had come and gone. Her favorite contractor had called this morning to tell her he was sending a guy down to replace her front window today. “And this time,” he’d told her dryly, “don’t marry him.”
Yes, well, she admitted to herself. That had been a mistake—and she admitted it. But he’d been so pretty.
This one was pretty, too. His smile was warm—and his muscles were hard. He didn’t have a ring on his left hand. She admired that hand, thinking about what it would feel like to have it touch her skin. He was awfully young for her.
“Are you married?” she asked.
He smiled. “I was. She took off with the bank account, my best friend, and my dog. I sure do miss that dog.”
Too young, she thought, watching him work.
“Hey,” she said. “Would you like some lemonade? It’s fresh-squeezed from lemons I grow in my garden.”
“That sounds really good,” he said, and she noticed he had dimples.
Maybe not too young, she decided. Then she went to pour him some lemonade.
Trent Carter hung up the phone and thought seriously of getting into his car and driving off a cliff. But that would leave his daughter alone. Five years old was too young to be alone.
“Daddy?”
He loved his daughter with all of his heart. She was the only thing he had left of her mother. But he didn’t know how to save her. Didn’t really know how to save himself.
“You look sad,” she said.
Sometimes, like now, she acted like a normal kid. She’d play with her toys and dress her dolls and invite him to make-believe tea parties.
Last night her babysitter had called him and told him that she could no longer watch Iris. “She was torturing our kitten,” she said. “Pulling out her whiskers with tweezers. I can’t do this anymore. I am sorry. You need to get her into therapy.”
He didn’t argue, didn’t tell her that he already had her in therapy. That hadn’t worked with the last babysitter. It probably wouldn’t work with this one, either.
He’d called in to work today and told them he had to stay home because he didn’t have anyone to take care of Iris. His boss had just called to let him know he didn’t need to come back to work at all except to collect his things. That was his second job in six months.
“Daddy?”