Fire Touched

by Patricia Briggs

  Margaret spread her hands, as if to display herself. “As you now do.”

  “You look bad,” said the man who sat in the middle seat. His voice, high and fussy, fit his outwardly meek appearance. “You need to come home with us, and we will see you restored to your proper self. It’s been several years since the incident, hasn’t it? So it is obvious that you need help to recover from your ordeal.”

  Margaret directed her attention at him even as she waved a hand over her shoulder at us, and we four spread out on the wall behind her. The door was on the far left-hand side of the wall, so we didn’t have to worry about anyone’s coming in from outside between us.

  She walked with painful slowness—more slowly than I’d seen her move before, in fact. When she reached the table, she pulled out a chair left of the middle, directly in front of Nemane. I couldn’t tell if it was deliberate, or if the chair was closer to the door so she didn’t have to walk so far.

  She took her time seating herself and arranging her crutches so that everyone in the room could see just how crippled she was. Only when she was comfortably seated in the leather executive chair did she speak.

  “Incident,” she said. “What a curious word. ‘Incident.’ So . . . bland and small. I truly appreciate your words, Goreu, but I think not. I am healing at precisely the correct rate for full recovery.”

  Goreu. I should remember something about that name. I’d been reading a lot of stories about the fae lately. Goreu sounded like it should be French, but I was thinking it came from The Mabinogion, which was Welsh.

  “You are fae,” said the beautiful woman. “You belong to us.”

  I couldn’t see Margaret’s expression, since I was directly behind her, but a raised eyebrow was evident in her voice anyway. “Curious choice of words. I do not belong to you.”

  “You are fae, child,” said Nemane. She took a deep breath through her nose, tilted her head in a birdlike gesture—and smiled at me. She couldn’t see me. But Nemane didn’t need her eyes for much. She chose not to say anything. My dealings with her had been almost friendly, but she wasn’t an ally. Instead of asking Margaret why she’d brought the Alpha of the Columbia Basin Pack and his mate to a fae meeting, she said carefully, “Neuth chose her words poorly. You belong with us.”

  “You think so, do you?” asked Margaret. “I disagree. Which I have explained in several letters, e-mails, and one . . . no, two phone calls, if you count the one where I hung up on the Council representative. I am here, now, to explain it in person. I will not go. I will not put myself in your power. I have been under the power of the fae before, and I will not do it again.”

  “You are fae,” Beauclaire began carefully, but Goreu went on the attack before Beauclaire could make his point.

  “You think you can resist us?” asked Goreu, though I don’t think he meant it as a question—his tone was too confident.

  “Do you mean to try to force me?” Margaret countered. She looked at Beauclaire. “You—who set the world on this course in search of justice for your daughter—you would seek to imprison me for the crime of being my father’s daughter?”

  “There are many,” said Nemane, “who would rather be elsewhere. But we are few, child. Too few to survive a war—no matter what some say. We have to make a show of strength. We need you in order to survive.”

  Margaret raised her head and squared her shoulders. “Do you know what I learned when I was trapped in the earth for more than half a century? With neither food to eat, nor water to drink, nor light to see by, when there is no sound except that you make yourself, some things become very clear. Death is not to be feared. Death is easy. It is living that is brutal. The fae may survive or not. I do not care. I am not one of you except through my parents—and they are both dead.”

  Goreu reached across the table with the speed of a striking snake and slapped something on Margaret’s wrist that closed with a click—a fine silver bar bracelet with a red cabochon stone. Goreu held a similar bracelet and shut it on his wrist. As he clicked it closed, he drew in a breath as if it had hurt.

  Margaret sat frozen.

  It wasn’t one of the set of bone cuffs, Peace and Quiet, that had once been used on me. Tad had destroyed those.

  “If you cannot be persuaded any other way,” the Widow Queen said, “then you leave us no choice. We owe it to your father to protect you and return you to health.”

  Margaret looked down at her wrist. Then she looked at Goreu. “You have made a mistake.”

  I couldn’t help but look at Thomas. He was very, very still.

  “Perhaps,” said Goreu. “I did argue that there were those who might be of more use to us—we have only one artifact that can hold a fae against their will for very long.”

  “You are so arrogant, all of you,” Margaret said. “Goreu, Custennin’s son, you may be powerful, I do not contest that. But it has been a long time since you beheaded your uncle—and that you did after he was already defeated. But these bracelets are not about how powerful your magic is. You have made a mistake.”

  The name Custennin rang a bell. Margaret focused on the bald little fae. She said, “Crawl across the table to me.”

  Custennin had been a shepherd who had twenty-four children. I remembered that because it was twice twelve, and twelve is a number that occurs quite a lot in fairy tales.

  Goreu opened his mouth—then lost his smirk. He braced himself on the edge of the table.

  “Crawl,” Margaret said.

  All but one of Custennin’s children had been killed by a giant, Custennin’s brother. The single son who remained was named Goreu.

  Slowly, very slowly, sweating and shaking, the fae boosted himself up onto the table and crawled. The bracelet made a scratchy sound as he dragged it across the gleaming cherry finish of the table. He bit his lip, and blood dripped from it onto the wood.

  There must have been some sort of protocol at work because none of the other fae in the room gave him any aid. They stayed in their seats and watched Goreu struggle. The Widow Queen looked mildly amused. The middle-aged woman took out a file and became engrossed in buffing her nails with vicious, jerky movements.

  Nemane and Beauclaire looked as though they were competing for who could look the most relaxed. Unseen by the other fae because of her position at the wall behind them, Edythe smiled at Margaret, lifted a finger to her tongue to wet it, then drew an imaginary point in the air.

  If Margaret reacted, I couldn’t tell. I’m not sure she even saw Edythe’s gesture—Margaret was engrossed in the strange battle she was engaged in with Goreu.

  According to The Mabinogion, the Goreu who was Custennin’s son had traveled with King Arthur and his knights, eventually returning to his home and killing the giant, his uncle. He was a hero—unless I’d gotten the story wrong, because the Goreu in this room didn’t look at all like a hero.

  When the unheroic fae arrived at Margaret’s side of the table, she reached out and grasped his wrist. As soon as she touched it, a thin red line began drawing itself across the plain silver of Goreu’s bracelet. It began slowly, then, as Goreu breathed in quick pants, moved more and more quickly, drawing glyphs that became part of more complex patterns until the bracelet was nearly solid red.

  Margaret sat back in her chair, took the bracelet off her wrist and caught the other as it fell off Goreu. She tossed both of them to Zee.

  It broke the effect of the light glamour we’d all been wearing. Goreu scrambled backward off the table, half falling in his effort to get away—not from Margaret, but from Zee. The middle-aged woman dropped her file, and the Widow Queen froze.

  Uncle Mike smiled—and so did Beauclaire. Nemane kept her relaxed pose, but then she’d known who was in the room the whole time.

  I glanced over at Zee, who had his happy face on again. It was just . . . wrong to see a happy face on Zee.

  “Hello, Goreu,�
�� Zee said. “Interesting to see you once more. I’m sure we’ll meet under different circumstances. I’m looking forward to it.” He looked at the Widow Queen. “But not as much as I’m looking forward to some other meetings. You look more pale than you did the last time I saw you, Neuth,” he said. He looked at the middle-aged woman, who was frozen in her seat, and his smile grew brighter. He said nothing at all to her.

  The Widow Queen, I knew, hadn’t been one of the fae who’d tortured Zee. I thought that Goreu was in the clear, too—though they were not allies. Goreu was afraid of Zee, but there hadn’t been any particular maliciousness in Zee’s voice when he addressed him. The middle-aged-looking woman was a dead fae walking.

  “We came to provide protection to Margaret and her guard, who were traveling through our territory,” said my husband, breaking into Zee’s moment with a conversational tone. “We thought we’d use this opportunity to express our sadness at the death of the troll yesterday. Please do not send fae who put the citizens of our home at risk. We do not enjoy killing for the sake of killing.”

  Adam’s sense of timing is superb. The Gray Lords, even the ones who had nothing to fear from Zee, were so caught up in that drama they had trouble shifting gears to Adam. Their distraction let Adam hold the floor.

  “We’d also like to inform you that we are unimpressed with threats. Some of your people”—he looked over the fae at the table, except for the Widow Queen—“composed a letter and put it on the door of my ex-wife’s home. Please see to it that it doesn’t happen again.” He took in a breath, and when he continued, it was in a very soft voice. “We do not want a war with you. But we will not stand by and see our friends captured and tortured. We will not allow you to harm those under our protection. You should know that the fire-touched boy is ours. We will go to war if you force us to it. And if we go to war, it will not stay localized, it will not stay between your people and ours, because our human citizens will fight beside us.”

  Zee tossed the bracelets up in the air and caught them, one in each hand, and closed his fists. Air left my lungs, driven by the magic he called. His hands glowed with a white light that was so bright I had to turn my face away. I fought to breathe, fought to stay on my feet—and it was gone.

  Zee dropped two blackened chunks of metal on the table. “Those,” he said, “were an abomination.”

  “How is it,” murmured Beauclaire, “that you are not on our Council? That you are not a Gray Lord?”

  “No one asked me,” said Zee.

  “Join us,” said Nemane.

  Zee smiled at the Gray Lord who sat on the far side of the Widow Queen, the one in the salmon-colored suit. She swallowed noisily.

  “Not today,” Zee said, his voice a purr of menace. “I have a few scores to settle, and I take too much pleasure in the planning to hurry. I’m swamped.”

  “‘I’ve got my country’s five hundredth anniversary to plan, my wedding to arrange, my wife to murder, and Guilder to frame for it,’” I murmured very quietly. I wasn’t sure that Zee was quoting the movie, but he sounded so much like Prince Humperdinck, I couldn’t help myself. Either Adam was the only one who heard me, or no one else appreciated The Princess Bride.

  “So,” said Margaret, pushing herself back from the table. “You have my answer.” This time she let Thomas help her to her feet and hand her the crutches. “Not that it hasn’t been interesting. But you’ll understand that if you want to discuss anything with me, you’ll have to do it long-distance.”

  She made good time out of the room, and we followed her. As soon as I shut the conference-room door, Thomas picked Margaret up in his arms. I took the crutches—as the least able fighter, I could most easily be spared to carry things. And the crutches would make pretty good weapons if I needed them.

  The bride and her entourage were gone when we got back to the lobby. One of the hotel people saw us get out of the elevator and, upon seeing Margaret in Thomas’s arms, hurried over.

  “Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

  “No,” Margaret said with a charming smile. “Thomas was either worried that I’ve tired myself out, or just wanted to get out to the car sometime in the next hour or so.” Her tone told him not to take her seriously, and he smiled appreciatively before he got a good look at Thomas’s unamused face.

  “Don’t mind him,” Margaret said. “He worries too much.”

  “We have a wheelchair,” the young man offered.

  “Thank you,” said Thomas, bowing a little despite his burden, though he kept walking in the direction of the exit. “This is not the first time I’ve carried her out to the car. She pushes herself too hard, even though I’ve explained that when she does that, she only slows down the healing process.”

  The hotel employee looked worried.

  “I should recover fully,” Margaret told him. “Given time. It’s just a lot of boring therapy between now and then. Tonight I really am fine, just a little tired.”

  He escorted us out to the front entrance, offered to drive the car up, and when his help was refused, held the door open for us to leave.

  We’d gotten halfway across the dark parking lot when Adam murmured, “Someone is watching us. I can feel it on the back of my neck.”

  I bent down to tie my shoe and took the opportunity to scan the parking lot behind us. “The nice guy who escorted us out is still watching us. Is that it?”

  “She affects a lot of people that way,” said Thomas, as Margaret waved at our observer over his shoulder.

  “It’s the tragedy,” said Margaret cheerfully. “Some people can’t stop themselves from wanting to help. It’s a compulsion.” The man waved hesitantly back and left the doorway for the depths of the hotel, presumably to do his job.

  “That’s not it,” said Adam in a low voice. “Let’s get to the cars.”

  “I don’t scent anyone,” I said after finishing with my shoe. “But I’m with you. There’s someone.”

  “They’re around,” agreed Thomas.

  Margaret leaned her head against him. “This would be a perfect time for an ambush,” she said, sounding delighted. “Maybe there’s a troll or ogre around.”

  “How about a witch?” asked a woman’s voice.

  As soon as she spoke, I saw her, a young, muscular woman wearing a summer dress with brown army boots, walking beside Margaret and Thomas as if she’d been beside us all along.

  9

  As soon as she appeared, I could smell her. Her scent held a mix of cinnamon, brimstone, and honey, but no witchcraft. She smelled like a fae, but with overtones of earth and water rather than a clear allegiance to either, which was unusual in my experience.

  Thomas jumped ten feet sideways, Margaret in his arms. Adam moved in front of them like a trained bodyguard. I recognized her scent and stopped my instinctive move to draw my carry gun. Instead, like Adam, I put myself in front of Thomas and Margaret. Zee stood where he was but put a hand on his hip, where I knew he kept one of his bladed weapons. He didn’t just use magicked swords—he made them.

  “Dangerous to surprise us like that,” he said coolly, because he, of course, knew who it was.

  I did, too. It’s not that I remember everyone I scent. It’s just that some people make a definite impression. Though some of the fae have favorite glamours they wear, visual impressions are not a definitive way to recognize a fae. Scent is much more difficult for them to change.

  “What’s life without a little danger?” The woman looked at me, and said, “And didn’t I tell them to keep an eye on you? No one who carries Coyote so strongly is going to be resting on the sidelines. But they never listen to me.”

  Thomas set Margaret on her feet.

  “You aren’t a witch,” I said. I’d been as surprised as anyone when I met Baba Yaga the first time. The most famous witch in the world—wasn’t.

  She shrugged. “You say tomato, and
I say tomato.” She used the phrase backward, the second “tomato” carrying the long “a.” “A million people and a hundred tales can’t be wrong. You say fae, I say witch, and I am bigger than you—so I can call myself what I want.” She leaned toward me and sniffed and twitched her nose in a very unhumanlike way. “There’s a Russian here,” she said to me. “I can always tell. And it’s not you.”

  She took a wide, awkward sideways step until she was in front of Zee. She frowned at Zee a moment. “I remember you as better-looking.”

  “I remember you as an old Topfgucker, who sticks her long nose where it doesn’t belong,” said Zee, unimpressed.

  She dropped her head and cackled, a real witch’s cackle—as if she’d watched too many cartoons. “There’s my Loan, darling. Oops, I forgot. You are calling yourself Siebold Adelbertsmiter now, aren’t you? Adelbert was such an old stick-in-the-mud—he deserved what he got, but he was a wimp, no one I’d brag about smiting. Siebold, darling, have you missed me? You never call, you never write. A person would be forgiven for thinking you didn’t like them. You certainly aren’t my Russian.”

  She looked at Thomas, put a hand on Zee’s shoulder so she could lean past him to sniff the air. “Not you,” she told Margaret. She looked at Thomas, and said, “Obviously not you. Too much Earth Dragon, too little air of the steppe.” She took that odd sidestep again; this time it put her directly in front of Adam. She leaned too close to him and inhaled.

  “So it is you!” she exclaimed, with the air of a vaudeville cop finding the villain. She waited a moment, relaxed, and said, “You smell of my home. True russkiy dukh. I should take you home for supper—I would have just a few centuries ago. Sharpened my brass tooth in your honor . . . silver would be more appropriate, but I broke that one in 1916.” The brass tooth threw me for a moment, then I remembered that Baba Yaga was supposed to eat people with metal teeth that she would take out of her mouth and sharpen in front of her victims. In the stories I’d heard, the teeth were supposed to be iron, not brass.