A Stroke of Midnight (Merry Gentry #4)(24)

Maggie May said, “Cromm Cruach, aye. Well, what does he say?”
The blood formed letters on the floor: DON’T YOU CARRY ANY NONMAGICAL WEAPONS?
“Oh,” Doyle said, and I swear he looked almost embarrassed. “May I borrow a kitchen knife, Maggie May?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but nodded. “Aye.”
He took one of the long, wicked-looking chopping blades and laid a finger down the flat of the blade. The silver of the blade fogged instantly.
Rhys’s face shone in the shiny surface. “Do you know how much blood I’ve had to waste trying to get you?”
“I did not think I was carrying only enchanted blades,” and again, I had the rare treat of seeing Doyle shamefaced at not thinking of something.
“Whose blood did you use?” Galen called.
“Mine. I heal now, but it still hurts to do it, and it’s totally freaked the cops out.”
“How many additional men do you need?” Doyle asked.
“I’m not sure. It all depends on how many of the police Merry lets into the sithen.”
I went to stand by Doyle, so Rhys could see me better. “How many police are there?”
“Counting the local cops or the feds?” Rhys asked.
“Feds?” I said. “You mean FBI?”
“Yep.”
“I didn’t call them into this.”
“They say you called an Agent Gillett.”
“I called him, but not to invite the FBI.”
“Well, Agent Gillett called the local contingent of feds and invited them to the party. He told them, or implied, that you wanted federal help.”
“Are you calling to ask if the feds get to come inside?”
“Not exactly, I’m calling because the area around the faerie lands is federal property, and the feds are trying to tell the locals they have no right to be here.”
“Please, tell me you’re exaggerating,” I said.
His image blurred for a moment before I realized he’d moved his head. “I’m not exaggerating. We have a major mine’s-bigger-than-yours contest starting out here.”
“Can you put the head agent on?”
“No. Do you have any idea how many times I had to cut myself to get enough blood on the blade to write that message? None of them are going to come near this blade. If you want to talk to the humans you are going to have to pick a more mundane method of communication. Though I don’t think a phone call will do it.”
“What do you suggest?” Doyle asked.
“Get the princess out here because she’s the one who made the calls. What little credibility I had with them vanished into the blood-soaked snow. They’re afraid of me now.” He sighed hard enough that it fogged the blade for a moment. “I’d forgotten that look in a human’s eyes. It was a part of being Cromm Cruach that I didn’t miss.”
“Forgive me for making such measures necessary,” Doyle said. “The princess and I will be there soon.”
“See you then,” and the blade went back to just brightly polished metal.
“Your Agent Gillett misunderstood you, I think.”
I shook my head. “He didn’t misunderstand. He hasn’t seen me in person since I was eighteen or nineteen. He’s reacting as if I’m still that person.”
“He hopes to push his way into this investigation,” Doyle said.
I nodded.
“You don’t want to make the feds angry at us,” Galen said. “There’s a chance that the local police lab might need a little more help with something they find tonight.” He began walking to me, forcing Mug to raise her face and adjust her balance.It was a good point, a good clearheaded point. I smiled and went to him, and touched his face. I touched the cheek opposite the one Mug sat by. “Always looking to make peace.”
He laid his hand over mine, pressing it against his cheek. “Just to keep as much of it as I can.”
I went up on tiptoe, and he bent down so I could lay a gentle kiss upon his mouth. Mug made a sound, not a bad sound, almost a yummy sound like she liked being this close to both of us. “Give us room, Mug,” I said. She pouted, but flew off. I let myself lean into him for a moment, let his strong arms wrap around me. If we lived in different times, gentler times, Galen would have been perfect—if peace was truly what we were after, but it wasn’t, not exactly.
“What will you do about the FBI?” Doyle understood that I wasn’t going to do exactly what Galen had suggested.
“I’ll go introduce myself to the local agent, and give him a message to take back to Gillett.”
“And what will that message be?” he asked.
“That I’m not a child anymore, and he can’t manipulate me like one.”
Frost frowned. “You invited human science into our sithen to help solve these murders. That is all well and good, but I know enough of their system to agree with Galen. We cannot afford to alienate them completely.”
“Because we may need them later,” I said.
Frost nodded. “Yes.”
It was rare for Galen and Frost to agree so completely, which meant they were probably right. “I will do my best not to offend the FBI, but if we go out there and appear weak, they won’t leave, and they will delay everything. We do not have time for everyone to play turf wars. And besides, this is our turf.”
“Then let us go make that point to the authorities,” Doyle said, “both local and federal.” He actually offered me his arm, and I took it, feeling the solidness of muscle underneath the leather of his jacket. I realized, then, that my winter coat was still back at the airport, unless someone had thought to rescue it. I was going to need something to wear out into the December cold. I wondered whose coat I’d borrow.
We sent Onilwyn to find a healer. I still didn’t know whether to believe what he had said. Had he come ahead of us to curry my favor, or had he something else in mind? Something more sinister, or maybe I was just looking for an excuse not to have sex with him. Maybe, or maybe Onilwyn had earned my distrust.
CHAPTER 12

DOYLE AND FROST ESCORTED ME BACK TO MY ROOM FOR FRESH CLOTHES. And warmer ones. I don’t know whose cloak iI borrowed, but it fit me, the hem barely brushing the floor of my room. The fur was cream and amber and a gold that was almost auburn. It was truly beautiful, but I felt about it the way I usually felt about fur coats; I thought the fur would have looked better on the animal it belonged to. I’d actually tried to argue that I wanted a leather coat, or something out of wool, but since it had been centuries since the sidhe had had domestic animals of their own, wool and leather were in short supply. Besides, Frost assured me that when it was killed, they had eaten it. 
“What was it?” I asked. I’d never seen anything with fur quite this color.
“Troll,” he said.
I stopped petting the fur. I’d never seen a troll, but I knew they were a type of fey, and though not the brightest, they still had culture, were still people. “That’s not exactly an animal; that’s more like cannibalism.”
“He never said it was an animal,” Doyle said, “you did. Shall we go? The police are waiting.”
“If I have a problem wearing animal fur, didn’t it occur to either of you that wearing something made out of what amounts to one of us would bother me even more?”
Frost sighed and settled back into a huge black chair, which unfortunately matched the new decor the queen had put in my room. It looked like a set for a gothic porn movie, or a funeral where the corpse was going to get a little too much attention.
“I killed the troll. The fur is a trophy. I don’t understand your problem with wearing it.” Frost looked ghost pale against the black leather chair, and strangely decadent in his fur coat. His ankle-length silver-fox coat had made it back from the airport. It made me think that the leather coats had gone missing because no one was certain who they belonged to, and the fur stayed because who else but one of my men would have a full-length fur coat that would fit over a set of shoulders that broad.
I turned to Doyle. “It would be like wearing a person’s skin for a coat.”
Doyle grabbed my arm. His grip was bruising, and his face held the anger that his hand pressed against my flesh. “You are a princess of the Unseelie Court. You will rule us someday. You cannot show this much weakness, not if you expect to survive!”
His black eyes held bits of brilliant color like psychedelic fireflies. There was an instant of vertigo, and then I was on solid ground in my snow boots, and I could look into his eyes and not be swayed. If he’d done it on purpose, it might not have been so easily cast aside, but it was his anger that brought his power, not his will. Anger is easier to avoid than force of will.
Frost had pushed to his feet. “Doyle, it is not such a large problem as all that.” He sounded uncertain, and I knew why. This was Doyle, their captain, the immobile, unfeeling Darkness. He did not have fits of temper, ever.
Doyle jerked me close to his body, and I felt the creeping line of energy as his power began to unfold. He snarled into my face, “Won’t wear the skins of our honored enemies. The police await us, our men stand in the cold, and you don’t like your coat! Such delicate sensibilities for someone who just fucked a stranger on the floor in front of us all.”
I stared at him openmouthed, too astonished to do or say anything.