Chimes at Midnight

I didn’t bother hiding my smile. “Hi, boys,” I said. “Welcome to our party.”


“Did you really find the Princess?” Raj demanded, twisting in Tybalt’s hand as he tried to get a better look at Arden. “Let me down, I want to see!”

“He was never this willful before you came along,” said Tybalt mildly.

“Liar,” I replied. Raj was a Prince of Cats. “He’s always been this bad. Raj, calm down. There’s enough stupid political intrigue for everybody.”

Raj stopped squirming. Tybalt let him go, and he brushed himself off, going from hyperactive kitten to feline royalty in an instant. He turned to Arden. “Hello,” he said. He didn’t bow. Cait Sidhe bow to members of the Divided Courts only when they want to, and a wayward Princess he’d only just met didn’t rate. Instead, he looked at her, taking her measure with his eyes.

Arden might not have remembered all her courtly manners, but she clearly knew how to be looked at by a cat. She crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow, and eyed Raj right back, giving as good as she got. Like Quentin, Raj was growing like a weed, although she wouldn’t appreciate that the way that I did. When I first met him, he was a half-starved refugee in Blind Michael’s lands. Now he was a tall, thin teenage boy who somehow managed to avoid “gangly” in favor of looking like he was going to be snapped up to model jeans at any moment. His hair was russet red tipped with brown, like an Abyssinian cat’s, and his eyes were the green of leaded carnival glass. He looked nothing like Tybalt—they weren’t blood relatives—but after spending so much time around the Cait Sidhe, there was no way for me to look at him and not see the subtle marks of power that labeled him as a Prince.

“Hello,” said Arden finally. She extended her hand again. Unlike Dean, Raj took it. “Arden Windermere.”

“Raj.” He shook once, then reclaimed his hand and looked to Quentin, apparently waiting to see what was going to happen next. I followed his gaze. I was as curious as he was.

Much to my surprise, Quentin neither bowed nor offered his hand. Instead, he cocked his head, studying Arden. His gaze was franker than Raj’s had been, like he was looking for something specific. Finally, he asked, “Was King Windermere your father?”

“It was a long time ago, so I never got a paternity test, but as far as I’m aware, yes,” she said. She looked almost amused. “My brother looks just like him. We both have his eyes. Our mother always swore we were his fault. So I’m assuming he was my father.”

“Okay,” said Quentin. He bowed—not as formally as Dean had, but with a goodly measure of propriety. “It is a pleasure to meet you, milady.”

“This is my squire, Quentin,” I said. “Let me know if he bothers you. I’ll slap him upside the head until he stops.” I paused before adding, “Raj is also sort of my squire, but mostly, he’s Tybalt’s heir. I also have slapping rights where he’s concerned.”

Raj wrinkled his nose. Tybalt looked amused.

Dean, meanwhile, rubbed the back of his neck, and said, “This all seems a little, well. Lighthearted. If we’re actually doing what I think we’re doing.”

Marcia stepped back into the room. I hadn’t even seen her leave. “I’ve prepared a room for the Prince,” she said. “My Lord, your parents are on their way. They should be here shortly, if you wanted to receive them in the cove.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Dean. He rubbed the back of his neck one more time before asking, “Tybalt, can you . . . ?”

“I will join you by the water,” said Tybalt, and turned, following Marcia out of the room. I watched him go. Nolan’s head banging against the middle of his back only detracted a little bit from my customary admiration of his ass.

I turned back to the others. Dean met my eyes and grimaced.

“You really don’t have a plan, do you?” he asked.