SEVENTEEN
The door began to shake as the sound of a fist pounding against it echoed through the room. I jumped. “Open up,” Peter called out, sounding like he was scared out of his wits. He kept up the pounding as Claire shook herself from stunned silence and crossed the room to open the door for her son. Peter lunged through the doorway as soon as she undid the deadbolt. He grabbed her upper arms and pulled her to him for a quick squeeze. When he pushed her away, she stood there covered in plaster dust, as if she didn’t quite know what to do. His eyes darted around the room and found me, and within seconds he had swept me into his arms. I could feel his heart pounding. “Are you all right?” he asked, loosening his grip on me enough to examine me.
“I’m fine. We’re all fine,” I said, trying to calm him, but his eyes fell to the ruined floor.
“What the hell has been going on here?”
“Your mother has been a foolish woman,” Claire said as she closed the door. “She has been mistaking friends for foes and enemies for allies.”
“Okay, but that still doesn’t tell me a damn thing.” I had never before heard Peter use even the mildest of profanities around his mother. I suspected Claire’s own shame was the only thing keeping her from giving him a good round swatting.
“We’re okay,” I said again.
“I should have known you were here,” Peter said, finally taking note of Emmet’s presence. “If there is trouble, you are bound to be nearby.”
Emmet held his tongue, but his dark eyes cut into Peter like daggers.
“Mr. Clay just saved the lives of your mother, your wife, and your child,” Claire said, collapsing into a chair. “You owe him a debt of gratitude. As do I. He’s a man of honor.”
Peter’s face began to soften when Emmet chose the worst possible time to make a point of clarification. “She is not his wife yet,” he stated in a matter-of-fact tone. Peter’s face flushed candy-apple red and his eyes nearly bugged out of his head.
“Maybe not legally,” I jumped in, holding Peter’s forearm tightly, “but in every other way.” The men’s faces reacted in a seesaw fashion, with Peter’s forehead relaxing as Emmet’s eyebrows pinched together. A question hit me and drew my full attention to Peter. “How did you know to come? How did you know we were in trouble?”
“Colin called me.”
“But your father’s out fishing with friends. He couldn’t have known,” Claire said, looking up at him.
“Not my father,” Peter said. “My son. I know it sounds crazy, but I felt him calling me. I knew he was here, and I knew he was afraid. I dropped everything and ran.” My hand fell to my stomach. Half witch, half fairy—oh my, little one, you are truly going to be a wild card. Has there ever been another like you? Peter smiled and placed his hand over mine. “I guess my boy takes after his mom.” His smile faded. “What is that smell?”
“It’s a long story,” I began.
“I have time.” Peter escorted me to the chair next to his mother’s. “Out with it.”
“Your mother believed I posed a threat to Mercy and your child,” Emmet said without a shred of emotion in his voice. He might as well have been reading ingredients for a recipe.
“I’d like to hear it from them, thank you,” Peter said, his fists curling tight and his shoulders tensing.
“Let him talk,” Claire said.
“Sit,” I said, hoping that Peter would let the tension leave his body if he did. He spun a chair around, placing his forearms on the back of it, but he didn’t relax one little bit.
“I am, of course, in no way a danger to Mercy or your child. I have vowed to protect Mercy until she can protect herself.”
“She shouldn’t have to protect herself. I should be the one to protect her.”
“You have no magic, but you are marrying a witch who is one of the anchors of the line. The dangers she will face require great power to stave off, and again, you have none.”
Peter started up from his chair. “Sit,” Claire commanded. Peter hovered, not sure whether to obey her or toss Emmet out of the bar. “He’s right, son. I’m sorry. I know you’d like to be the one to keep Mercy safe, but today I’ve seen what she’s up against. You’re a good man—a strong man—but you are only a man.” She rushed through the words as if she feared either Emmet or I might object to them. “The things I’ve seen today . . . There are monsters out there. You owe it to Mercy and your son to be man enough to let Mr. Clay teach her what she needs to know. Don’t get in the way. I did, and it almost cost us everything. If you love her, you are going to have to let her be the strong one.”
“I gotta get back to work.” Peter pushed away from the table and left the three of us staring at the door as it slammed shut behind him.
“He’ll be okay,” Claire said after a moment of silence. “I know my boy. He’s frightened, but he’ll come around. You’re his world.”
“Frightened people do foolish things,” I said, not even really thinking about how this could be applied to what Claire had done, inviting Ryder and his gang into our lives, but once the words had been spoken, I couldn’t call them back.
“Yes, we do,” she said. “I must apologize to you, Mr. Clay. I was wrong about you, both about what you are and about your intentions. I hope you can forgive me. I pray that you will keep your word and remain silent for my son’s sake as well as Mercy’s.”
“You have already suffered a much more severe punishment at the hands of the collector than I myself would have ever meted out. In regard to Peter, I will kneel at the altar of Harpocrates.”
Claire looked at me for clarification. “That’s Emmet for ‘We’re good.’?”
She nodded. “I think I’d like a bit of a lie-down,” she said. “I don’t know how we are even going to open tonight with this mess. Good Lord, the smell. It may take days for it to fade.”
“Rest,” Emmet said, addressing Claire. “As a sign of goodwill, I will repair the damaged floor and rid your establishment of this scent. It will be a way to ‘clear the air’ between us once and for all.” Emmet tilted his head to the side and smiled. He seemed quite pleased with his pun, but Claire was too overwhelmed to even notice. She just nodded and left the room.
As soon as she was gone, Emmet set about restoring the damage that had been done. The floorboards seemed to rearrange themselves on a molecular level, the deep gouges welcoming the returning wood dust that had until recently filled them. The burn marks lightened in color and faded to match the original shade. He stopped a moment before finishing the restoration. “As a point of clarification,” he said, “a fetus’s ability to call to its father in times of danger is not a witch trait. That magic belongs to the Fae.”