Seduced by Moonlight (Merry Gentry #3)(51)

I got laughter for the cute act, and more flashbulbs, until I was nearly dazzled blind by them. I answered the next question with spots dancing through my vision. I’d have worn sunglasses if my aunt hadn’t sent word that I couldn’t. Sunglasses weren’t friendly. We wanted to look friendly. She’d allowed the guards who had brought sunglasses to wear them. Nearly a first. It meant that she was worried, more worried than the last time I’d been home. And still none of us knew why.
I had to admit with most of them in dark glasses, they did look like backup singers. Merry and her Merry men. That’s what the media had coined for us. Not quite the name of a rock group, but I’d heard worse.
“Which of your guards is the best in bed?” This from a female reporter.
I shook my head enough to make my hair swing, and the emerald earrings catch the light. “Oh, now—” Madeline whispered the woman’s name in my ear. “—Stephanie, a lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”
“But you’re not a lady,” a man’s voice piped up from the back of the room. I knew the voice. He’d spoken loud enough that the room had gone quiet, so that his next shout was very clear: “Just another faerie slut. Royal blood doesn’t change that.”
I leaned into the microphone and made my voice low and rich. “You’re just jealous, Barry.”
A portion of the policemen in the circle were already working their way toward the back of the room. Barry Jenkins was always on the do-not-let-him-in list. I had a restraining order against him dating back to my father’s death. He’d gotten better, or worse, photos than anyone of my father’s body, and me weeping over him. The courts had agreed that what he’d done subsequently had infringed on the rights of a minor—me. They’d ruled that he could not profit by the exploitation of a minor child. That meant that all his photos that he hadn’t used yet were useless. He couldn’t sell them. He had to give the money he’d already received for photos and articles to charity. He’d gone from maybe winning a Pulitzer to nothing. For that and an incident on a lonely country road, where I took my own revenge, he’d never forgiven me.
He’d had his own revenge, in a way. When my once-upon-a-time fiancé, Griffin, had sold intimate pictures to the tabloids, it had been with Jenkins’s byline. I wasn’t a minor anymore, and Griffin had gone to him, so he hadn’t even had to come within fifty feet of me to write the story.
My aunt, the Queen of Air and Darkness, had declared a death sentence on Griffin. Not for hurting me, but for betraying our intimate secrets to the humans. That was not allowed. To my knowledge they were still hunting for him. I think if she could have sent Doyle after him, he’d have been dead by now, but her Darkness had better things to do than revenge. Keeping me alive, and getting me pregnant, were more important to her than Griffin’s punishment. Hell’s bells, they were more important to me.
I didn’t want Griffin dead. His death wouldn’t change what he’d done. It wouldn’t change that he’d been my fiancé for seven years, and that he’d betrayed me with anything he could sleep with. We’d been broken up for more than three years before he betrayed me in the press. Griffin seemed to believe that he was so good that I’d take him back. His delusions weren’t my problem. So he’d gone back to the queen’s guards, and because I refused him, she’d declared him celibate again. If he didn’t sleep with me, he slept with no one. Part of me had enjoyed the irony of it. Part of me had enjoyed the revenge. The next day the tabloids had carried the pictures, and his interview with Jenkins.The policemen stationed at the doors closed off Jenkins’s escape so he could only stand there and wait for the other policemen to come get him. “What’s the matter, Meredith, afraid of the truth?”
“The restraining order says that you must stay at least fifty feet away from me, Jenkins. This room isn’t that big.”
He was unpleasant enough that Major Walters sent another three men to help control the situation. I think it was more to keep the cameras back, and see that Jenkins’s struggles didn’t break any expensive equipment, than any thought that Jenkins was a danger to me or anyone else.
The remaining police tried to cover the front of the podium, but there weren’t enough of them. If the press rushed us now, we were finished, but of course they were more interested in the scene with Jenkins. It’d make some headlines tomorrow. So far the disruption was the most interesting thing to happen, and they’d lead with Jenkins and the old feud, unless we gave them something juicy.
Doyle and Frost both moved forward to flank me. Doyle actually touched my arm to lead me back against the wall, closer to them all. I shook my head, and finally whispered, “I don’t want my father’s death to make front-page news again. I can’t live through it twice.”
He looked puzzled even behind the dark glasses.
“They’ll dredge it all up, Doyle. They’ll dredge it all up to explain Jenkins.”
Frost touched his shoulder. “She may be right.”
Doyle shook his head. “Your safety comes before anything else.”
“There are different kinds of safety,” Frost said. There was no trace of the petulant child I’d come to dread. Frost was acting like a grownup, and I was so happy to see it that I hugged him around the waist. It felt incredibly good to hold him that close. I hadn’t realized until that moment how anxious I was.
“What do you want us to do?” Doyle said, and his voice was gentler.
Magic prickled across my skin. The three of us looked up, and all the other sidhe were searching the room. It was a spell, but from where, and for what?
One of the policemen in front of the dais stumbled, as if he’d tripped over nothing. I saw the man turn toward us, saw the wide surprise in his eyes.
Frost turned, giving his back to the man, and beginning to move me away. I’d see the pictures later, but when it was actually happening I saw nothing but Frost’s shirt, felt nothing but him picking me up, starting to run. A gunshot exploded behind us, and another so close behind that it was almost one shot. Frost threw himself on the floor. I felt his body pushing us down, but could see nothing but the white of his shirt, the flare of his grey jacket. I could smell the shots like a burning in the air. 
There was no sound. The roar of the guns so close in such a small place with such good acoustics had robbed me of my hearing, temporarily, I hoped. I saw feet I thought were Galen’s before I felt the heavier weight as he threw himself on top of Frost, and formed a living shield around me. More weight, but I couldn’t see who, not even to guess.
The first thing that let me know I wasn’t deaf was the thick beat of Frost’s heart against my ear. After that my hearing came back in stages, like a broken video, bits of shouting. So much shouting. Screams.
I only know what happened because of the video later, and the pictures. The video that we would see over and over again on every newscast. The officer with his gun pointed at Frost’s back, trying to kill me, as if he couldn’t see that Doyle had a gun pointed at his chest from less than two feet away. The police officers on either side with their guns out, looking around, not understanding that one of their own was the problem. One had his gun pointed at Doyle. The bespelled officer fired, as another officer finally understood that something had gone terribly wrong and smashed into the first one’s shoulder. But Doyle had fired before the first bullet had gone wide and pierced the wall behind us. The police officers rode the bespelled cop to the ground, where he was already wounded by Doyle’s shot. There would be pictures of Rhys and Nicca behind Doyle with guns in one hand and swords in the other, and Barinthus and the others forming a wall around us.
While it was happening, I was crushed under the white and grey of Frost’s body while my hearing returned—and what I heard mostly was screams. Something warm dropped onto my forehead, something liquid and heavier than sweat. I couldn’t move my head enough to look up, but another drop joined the first to trickle down my skin, and I caught that whiff of metallic sweetness that was blood.
I tried to push him off me, tried to ask how badly he was hurt, but it was like trying to move a mountain. I managed to say, “Frost, Frost, you’re hurt.”
If he heard me, he ignored me. Everyone ignored me. It was as if I were strangely nonessential to the events. The man had tried to kill me, but now it was the police and the bodyguards who were on stage, not me.
I heard Major Walters bellow, “Get her out of here.” The cry was taken up, like a battle cry. “Get her out of here, get her out of here,” so many voices yelling, so many male voices yelling it.
The weight above me lifted, and I saw the lights of the room again. More voices, “My God, she’s hurt!” The cry was taken up again, “She’s hurt, she’s hurt, the princess is hurt.” There would be a picture of me later with blood running down my face, but it wasn’t my blood. I think I was the only one who knew that at first.
Kitto was still kneeling close to me, and I knew that he had been one of the bodies in my living shield. Barinthus held down his hand to me. “Merry-girl.” He hadn’t called me that in years. I took his hand while Galen tried to look at Frost’s shoulder and the bigger man shrugged him off. It never occurred to me that Barinthus hadn’t touched the ring in the other room.