As I crossed the foyer, I could hear the low murmur of voices coming from Adam’s office, but, with the door shut, the soundproofing was too good to hear anything specific. Uncle Mike stood, arms clasped behind his back, looking out the window. He was so intent that I looked out, too, but I could see nothing that should have inspired such interest.
After a moment, he turned, and said, “Mercy.”
Uncle Mike looked like a worn and distilled version of himself. The Jolly Innkeeper persona was almost gone, leaving in his place a broad-shouldered, broad-handed man with reddish brown hair and tired hazel eyes.
“Uncle Mike,” I greeted him. “It has been a while. I’m surprised to see you here.”
His lips curled into a shadow of his usual smile. “Not as surprised and four times as pleased as my compatriots, I vow.”
“You’ve been reading The Lord of the Rings again,” I said, and he grunted.
“So the people ruling the reservation these days don’t know you’re here and would be upset to know it,” I said. “Why are you here?”
“Not to interfere with your rash protection of the Fire Touched,” he said in an overly loud voice obviously intended to reach the far ends of the house—and Aiden’s ears. Then, in a much softer voice, he said, “One of my flitflits told me that she’d heard that the Dark Smith and his boy were on the bridge with you yesterday. I discounted it until I heard that the Fire Touched escaped and that he was under the protection of the pack. My news sources aren’t as reliable as they once were, but it was not hard to connect both stories.” He flexed his short fingers and put them down on his knees, leaned forward, and said, “Several weeks ago, I was told that the Dark Smith had been executed for failure to cooperate sufficiently, and also that his son died soon after—half-bloods being so much more fragile than we.”
“The fae cannot lie,” I told him, wondering what a flitflit was. I puzzled over it too long and missed my cue, though.
He’d relaxed as soon as I’d spoken, and I realized I’d pretty much given away Zee’s still-alive status by not freaking out when Uncle Mike said he’d heard that he was dead.
“Yes, we cannot lie,” he said. “And after I heard the stories, I thought on what I was told and by whom. I think that the one who told me believed what she said, and the one who told her was cunning with his words—as his reputation leaves him to be.”
“Zee’s alive,” I told him. “And what’s a flitflit?”
And even though he had known that from my reaction, he still drew in a deep breath as if he hadn’t had many deep breaths in a long time. “And so it is true.”
“And if it is?” asked Zee from the stairway, his voice arctic.
Uncle Mike smiled. This time it was the full-force, hugely charismatic smile that made the part of me that detected magic sit up and take notice. “Well, then,” he said, satisfaction lacing his voice. “Some people are going to be looking over their shoulders, now, aren’t they?”
Zee tipped his head to the side. “That is an interesting notion. I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you, now,” said Uncle Mike in evident satisfaction. “Just don’t you, old friend.”
“What,” I asked again, “is a flitflit?”
“Lesser fae,” Zee said. “They flitflit around and hear things. Uncle Mike has a number of them who are personally loyal to him.”
The other fae nodded. “What do you want me to do about what I know?”
Zee frowned. “You see me standing before you. I trust you aren’t in the mood to change my status?”
“Someone wanted us to think you dead,” Uncle Mike said. “Do you want me to disabuse them of that notion—or let it play out?”
Zee gave him a sour smile. “What do I care? I don’t play those games—I don’t play any games.”
The smile that spread over Uncle Mike’s face was sharklike and sharp. “Someone forgot that, forgot whom they were dealing with. Good.” He breathed out deeply, and said, “Very good.”
He walked to the door and opened it, pausing on the threshold and turning back. “I am reassured as to your health, old friend. I look forward to being in the audience for your next act.” He bowed his head to Zee, then to me, before stepping outside and closing the door, very gently, behind him.
Zee watched him leave, listened to the car as it drove off, and came the rest of the way down the stairs. He did it without limping or making noise or any other thing. But he did it very slowly. He was badly hurt.
When he got to the bottom, I said, “Breakfast in the kitchen, I think. If Jesse didn’t leave extra eggs, then there will still be leftover doughnuts.”
As if the mention of her name summoned her, Jesse descended the stairs in a tenth of the time it had taken Zee.
“I used up the eggs,” she said. “But I can reheat the French toast I put in the fridge if anyone wants some.”
“That would be good,” Zee said.
Jesse ignored Aiden entirely and began rummaging in the fridge. Zee, who was very good at reading between the lines when he cared to, gave Aiden a speculative and not-altogether-friendly look.
Warren came in from outside, still tucking his shirt into his jeans. There was something in his face that told me his wolf was lingering close to the surface, but his smile was real when he offered to give Jesse a ride to school.
Jesse brought a plate of French toast over and set it in front of Zee. “A ride?” She heaved a big sigh and rolled her eyes, to demonstrate that she wasn’t fooled—Warren would be sticking around the school to make sure she was safe.