Fire Touched (Mercy Thompson 9)

“You’ve made it her business,” said Darryl.

The boy didn’t think much of me, but his expression told me that Darryl had made an impression.

“Darryl,” I said, “please arrange for Zack and Joel to make it back home with a couple of guards and someone who can patch them up.” I didn’t say “and then get back here,” but I knew he heard it.

Darryl bowed his head in a move that made him look like he was a thousand years old—though I knew that Darryl was only ten years or so older than he looked. He picked Joel up in his arms and without another word managed to harness Ben, Zack, and a couple of other wolves in his gaze as he strode away toward the police lines at the end of the bridge.

I returned my attention to Aiden.

“I’m a human,” he told me sullenly. “I was lost in Underhill until she opened her doors again. The fae want to keep me until they understand how Underhill changed me so that I can do this.” He waved a hand at Joel. “I’m tired of being a prisoner, and I need somewhere to stay for a day to put my options together.”

“Lost in Underhill,” I said slowly, “for how long?”

The boy shrugged. “I don’t know.”

There was a lot he wasn’t telling me.

“It’s not a difficult decision,” he said. “Tell me to rabbit, and I will. Tell me you’ll have my back, and I’ll stay.” He smiled, and it wasn’t a pretty smile. “Don’t you wolves always worry about status?” For someone who’d been trapped in Underhill, he knew an awful lot about werewolves. “Wouldn’t defying the fae give you the upper hand?”

“Unless we’re all dead,” murmured Warren helpfully. “Then we don’t care about what the fae think of us.” He paused. “Come to think on it, we really don’t care what the fae think of us anyway.” He gave the boy a cold look that seemed strange on my Warren, reminding me that though he was my friend, he’d also survived against the odds more than once, and it wasn’t because he was too nice to kill someone.

The boy, unaware of his danger, sneered.

I looked at Zee because it didn’t appear as though the boy was going to tell me anything. I knew I should just let him run. I could tell after five minutes that he was going to cause trouble.

But if Zee thought it was a horrible idea for the pack to protect him, he’d have pushed the boy at me as if he were a helpless mite that Zee was determined to help—and I’d have known to steer clear.

Aiden had saved Joel. Despite what I’d told Joel, I’d seen my death in the tibicena’s eyes. If Joel had killed me, he wouldn’t have survived that figuratively or literally. Joel would have been devastated, and Adam would have killed him. Not just in revenge, but because Joel would have proved himself a danger to the pack. Werewolves had learned to be ruthless to survive.

There was this also: Tad and Zee saw something in the boy to admire.

I wouldn’t mind thumbing my nose at the fae, Adam admitted, his voice strong and humorous in my head.

I looked at Zee, who I trusted to tell me what I needed to know. “So what exactly is he?”

“He’s human,” growled Zee. “Or mostly, anyway. He started out that way a long, long time ago. He’s been lost in Underhill since she closed her borders to the fae, and it changed him. He’s not the only abandoned one who turned up when Underhill reopened herself to us. He’s just the only one who was coherent. Underhill changed him, changed them all, gave some of them elemental powers. Powers of earth, air, water, or fire. Most of those children . . . have been returned to the Mother.” “Returned to the Mother,” I thought, meant killed, but this wasn’t the time to ask. “They were broken by their time alone.”

The boy smiled fiercely. “They don’t want to kill me,” he said. “They want to figure out why I can work fire. They want to know why Underhill likes me better than she likes them. Why she played games with me while leaving them out in the cold for all these centuries. They want to know everything I know about Underhill because they’ve forgotten what they used to know.”

From the expression on his face, I was pretty sure that “played games with me” might have the same meaning to Underhill that it would to Coyote.

“That which does not kill us makes us stronger,” I quoted.

“Nietzsche?” murmured Zee. “Appropriate. Also, perhaps this one: Wer mit Ungeheuern kämpft, mag zusehn, daß er nicht dabei zum Ungeheuer wird.”

I dragged out my college German and came up with a few words. Ungeheuern was “monsters.” Kämpft was “battles.” “Let he who battles with monsters take care lest he become one?” I translated out loud.

Aiden gave the old fae a smile with teeth. “We are all monsters here,” he said. “It’s too late for any of us to be anything else.”

His words sent a flinch through far too many of the pack, including Adam. “That depends,” I said.

He looked at me with mild inquiry.

“On your definition of ‘monster,’” said Tad. “Who do you allow to tell you what you are? Monster or angel, it’s in the eye of the beholder, surely.”

“Why . . .” I started to ask, then stopped. Aiden had told me why the fae wanted him. He knew things they had forgotten, secrets about Underhill. And they were jealous because she kept him and gave him power. Any of which, I thought, would be reason enough for the fae to want him.