medium tall but built on graceful lines that didnt quite hide the whipcord muscle beneath. Warren, Adams third, was built along the same lines.
He didnt look like a sun god, a storm god, or a trickster, as Lugh was variously reputed to be. Beauclaire had been a lawyer before his dramatic YouTube moment, and that was what he looked like now.
Of course, fae could look like whatever they wanted to.
When I stepped back and gestured him into the living room, he moved like a man who knew how to fightbalanced and alert. I believed that more than I believed the lawyer appearance.
He walked into the living room, but he didnt stop there since the main floor of the house has a circular flow. He continued through the dining room and around the corner into the kitchen, where he pulled up a chair with his back to the wall and sat down.
I was fairly sure that his choice was importantthe fae place a great deal of emphasis on symbolism. Maybe he picked the kitchen because guests came to the house and sat in the living room. Family and friends sat in the kitchen. If so, maybe he was trying to present himself as a friendor point out that I didnt have the power to keep him out of the center of my own home. It was too subtle to be certain, so I ignored it altogether. Trying too hard to figure out the meaning in what the fae say or do would send anyone to Straightjacket Land.
Ms. Hauptman, he said after I sat down opposite him, It is my understanding that you have one of my fathers artifacts. I have come for the walking stick.
2
I dont have the walking stick, I told Beauclaire.
He should know that. Id told Zee, and, according to his son, he had told some of the other fae to protect me from exactly this scenario.
If he didnt know, was it only because he was not from the nearby Walla Walla fae reservation? Or did that mean that Zee didnt trust him?
Where is it? His voice slid silk sweet and dangerous into the room.
If he didnt know, I didnt want to tell him. He wasnt going to like it, and I didnt want to enrage a Gray Lord while he sat at my kitchen table.
I tried to give it back to the fae, I told him, stalling for time. I gave it to Uncle Mike and it just came back.
It is very old, Beauclaire said, and his voice was halfway apologetic. The fae dont have it, at least none of the fae in the local reservation. Do you know where it is, now?
He was assuming that Id given it to the fae again. If it hadnt been for the apology in his voice, I think I might have been happy to not lie, not precisely. Because I didnt know where the walking stick was, I only knew who it was with.
Not exactly, I told him, then stalled out. Zee had been very clear that the fae would not be amused at where that walking stick had ended up.
Then what exactly do you know? Whom did you give it to?
There was a thump from the stairs, and both of us jumped. Beauclaire focused his attention, and I felt his magic send shivers of ice along my arms.
Hold on, I said. Ill check. Before the first word had left my mouth, I hopped out of my chair and headed for the stairway. Whoever had made the noise was likely to be someone I cared about, and I didnt want them to get blasted by a Gray Lord.
I turned the corner, and Medea stared up at me from the fourth step from the bottom. Its okay, I told Beauclaire. I picked her up, and, true to form, the cat went limp and started purring.
What was it? he said.
I know its a horrorfilm cliché, I said as I walked back into the kitchen. But, really, its just the cat. I thought you put her to sleep like everyone else?
Beauclaire frowned at my cat, the magic in the air dissipating gradually. I sat down, and the cat consented to continue to be petted.
Cats are tricky, he told me. Rather like you, they tend to shed enchantments. I didnt expect to find one in a house full of werewolves, and magic on the fly, delicate magic, is not my specialty. He looked at me, and there was a threat in his voice when he said, Hurricanes, tidal waves, drowned citiesthose are easier.
Dont feel too bad about it, I told him, my voice conciliatory. His brows lowered, and I continued in a bland tone, No one else has heard of a cat who likes werewolves, either.
Medeamaybe because dangerous men with threatening voices, in her experience, were the people most apt to drop whatever they were doing and cuddle herdecided that Beauclaire was fair game. She oozed from my lap to the tabletop and began a veryslowmotion creep across the table toward him.
We were talking about the walking stick? he said, raising an eyebrow. I couldnt tell if the eyebrow was at me or at my catwatching Medea do her slomo cat stalk can be
disconcerting.
An oakman used the walking stick to kill a vampire, I told him. It was either the beginning of the story or a diversion, I wasnt certain myself.
I reached up and wrapped a hand around one of Adams dog tags, which hung from my necklace along with my wedding ring and a lamb. If I was going to keep Beauclaire from destroying me and my alltoovulnerable family in a fit of pique, hed have to understandas much as I didwhat had happened to the walking stick.