A Sliver of Shadow (3 page)

Angel, indeed. Spitting image of his father.

Startled by how much he looked like Robert when he thrust out that chin, I tsked at him soothingly, gently extricating
the wing without knocking any feathers loose. His volume lowered about two decibels and I picked him up to rest his head on my shoulder. He snuffled, dark hair damp against my neck, his mouth rooting to take hold of my collarbone. “That time again, is it?” I patted his back and covered him with a blanket, starting up what had become a twice-nightly ritual of pacing.

This time Benjamin wasn’t having any of it, though. I quickly changed his diaper for good measure and then the two of us headed into the kitchen so that I could warm up a bottle. I continued rocking side to side as the pot on the stove heated up. My enchanted fridge always had his milk in good supply, though what it was, I wasn’t entirely sure. Moira wouldn’t hear of giving him mortal formula, but I’d never actually seen her carrying a breast pump either. In the end, I supposed it didn’t matter. Whatever it was seemed to keep him healthy and it’s not as if I’d even know where to begin to find food for a half-angel/half-Fae child anyway. Based on the amount the little booger was going through, I could only imagine his metabolism was higher than a mortal child’s, although his somewhat limited development was troubling. At eight months, a human baby would have been at least starting to wean, and certainly wouldn’t require two feedings a night. On the other hand, human babies couldn’t fly, so maybe the comparison was unfair.

Two weeks ago, Moira had been called away to the Faery Court to give her testimony about Maurice’s betrayal. Consumed by jealousy, Maurice had concocted an elaborate scheme to remove his former lover from power in a last-ditch bid to land himself a place in Faerie—a plan I had somehow managed to thwart, although that was mostly just dumb luck on my part. Of course, the offshoot of that had nearly been my death, so it wasn’t like I’d gotten away unscathed.

Undoubtedly I was on his ultimate shitlist, but I’d been spared the testimony requirement and acquired a bodyguard in the form of Moira’s brother, so some things had worked out. On the other hand, staying behind meant I had to run things on my own—including the task of being Benjamin’s nanny.

Talivar had been happy enough to take the night shift, but when the infant had sprouted wings a few days ago, the prince had decided it was worth the risk of leaving us behind to tell his sister directly.

Regardless of what Moira had told me, the knowledge of who was Benjamin’s father wasn’t for public consumption, but feathers would be hard to hide for too long.

Benjamin began to whimper. The bottle was nearly warm now, so I shushed him until it was the right temperature. I retreated into the living room, and curled up on the sofa. He smacked his lips at the sight of the bottle and suckled greedily. “Better be careful,” I warned him. “Keep eating like this and you’ll be too heavy to fly.”

If he heard my words, he ignored them, eyes closing in contentment. “Silly boy,” I murmured, shifting him so that he was crooked in my elbow. Now that his needs were fully taken care of, I blinked sleepily myself, my gritty eyes burning. “Not yet. Gotta get you all tucked in first, eh?” I glanced down at the pile of loose papers on the coffee table and turned the lamp to its dimmest setting, grabbing the top few sheets.

Might as well try to get some work in.

Dear Abby…

I rolled my eyes. Just my luck to be stuck with the same name as the columnist. I couldn’t recall exactly when the first letters started showing up, but shortly after the whole Maurice debacle, I began to find them. At first, they’d be
randomly slipped under the door of the Midnight Marketplace, or even sometimes at the Pit, the used bookstore where I worked. I wasn’t foolish enough to think the letters were meant for me. Not really.

Moira was the Protectorate of Portsmyth. Part of her job was to oversee disputes and issues of the OtherFolk living here. As her mortal TouchStone, I was simply a conduit to possibly getting her attention faster.

But as I tentatively began to read the letters, Moira decided I could use the practice and allowed me to try to answer. Like a floodgate opening, they started showing up on my pillow, in my bathroom, taped to the fridge. I drew the line when I found the one in my underwear drawer.

Or really, Phineas blew a gasket.

“I don’t mind you having your hobbies,” he’d exploded at me that morning, “but goddamn if you could keep them out of your lingerie?”

Even aside from the fact that he wasn’t actually supposed to be
in
my underwear drawer either, this was one time I agreed with him.

I formally set up a separate address at the Marketplace, with occasional diversions to the Hallows, and made it clear that any letters showing up in my sheets were going to be burned.

Still, the flow kept on here and there; how useful my answers were was up for debate.

I was hoping you could settle a little issue between me and this ghost I’m living with.

“Not bloody likely.”

I’m a brownie, and I used to work for Mr. Jefferson. Now, technically, brownies work until their
chosen masters pass on and then we are set free. But in this case, Mr. Jefferson did not fully move into the light and his ghost haunts the place and refuses to let me go …

I groaned, placing the letter on the cushion beside me. I hated these kinds of questions. Not as much as the TouchStone or the star-crossed lover ones, but without knowing both sides of the story, how was I supposed to answer this?

Even if I meant well, there was no telling what the repercussions would be if I gave them the wrong advice. “Have to find a ghost whisperer, Benjamin.” Benjamin’s jaw was slack now, the nipple hanging off his lower lip, milk in the corners of his mouth. “All right, little man. Back to bed with you. And Auntie,” I amended as the front door creaked open.

“Here, I’ll take him.” Talivar emerged from the darkness with a quiet grace. The elven prince-cum-bodyguard had finally relaxed his rather minimal dress code of tunics and torcs a few months ago, even as he had relaxed his vigilance.

With a little shopping help from me, he had taken casual chic to an entirely new level. Dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, he cut a nice figure in the dim light, his long hair tied in a loose queue and a bit of hipster scruff on his chin setting off the strong jaw. Frankly, I found that the oddest thing about him, given that I’d always thought elves couldn’t actually grow facial hair, but I was hardly an expert.

Besides, I liked it.

The delicate points of his ears poked between the sable strands of his hair, silver hoops gleaming near the tips like tiny stars. He still retained the leather eye patch, though. My threats to glitter it up had been met with a slightly chilly smile, and in the end I’d decided to leave well enough alone.

“Ah. I didn’t hear you come in.” I peered up at him. “Good trip?”

“There is much to discuss, but I think it can wait until tomorrow.” He watched the baby, a strange expression ghosting over his face. “My sister wasn’t overly happy to hear about the wings, as you can imagine, but she’ll manage.”

I grunted, not really sure I cared about anything other than getting back to my bed. Not at this hour, anyway. “When do you think the trial will wrap up?”

He gently took Benjamin from me, cradling his nephew’s head with a careful hand. “Maurice is not being cooperative, as we suspected. His refusal to explain how he removed all that succubus blood is becoming most … vexing.” Talivar’s mouth compressed in a way that left little doubt that
vexing
probably wasn’t the word he was looking for, but it curved into a crooked smile a moment later as he shrugged at me.

“I don’t think it’s the removal so much as what he did with it.” Although probably insane on some level, Maurice had somehow discovered a way to use the blood of succubi in the form of paint. Which sounds harmless enough—until he used it on Moira and myself, among others, to trap us in portraits made of our own nightmares.

“No doubt. And Moira has given her testimony, but …” He hesitated. “Well, the truth is our mother is not doing as well as she might. Moira is keeping an eye on her.”

“Translation: Things are fucked,” I quipped with a sigh. “I already know where this is going.” Visions of raising Benjamin to his college years filled me with a weary sort of resignation. “What are the chances I’ll be seeing Moira again before my Contract is up?”

“Well enough, I’m thinking. The Queen won’t keep her there forever.”

Easy for him to say. Maybe six years didn’t seem like much to a nearly ageless elf, but it might as well have been forever as far as I was concerned.

“I still think we need to tell Robert. Benjamin
is
his son,
and however uncomfortable that makes people, he should know. After all,” I said dryly, “who’s going to teach him to fly?”

Talivar shifted Benjamin to his shoulder and shook his head. “We do not recognize paternal claims in Faerie, Abby. All lineages are drawn through the mother. By that logic, I’m actually more closely related to my nephew than Robert is.”

“Yeah, I can tell, what with those
wings
and all. Still makes no damn sense.”

“Yes, well, we’re a rather promiscuous bunch. We cannot trust our wives to be faithful, any more than our wives could trust us. At least this way I know my sister’s children are related to me. But my wife?” He shrugged at my raised brow, a wan smile on his lips. “My hypothetical wife, anyway. She could take a hundred lovers over the course of our marriage and I would have no right to gainsay her that.”

“And that doesn’t bother you? Knowing that you have no real acknowledgement of your own children?”

“Children are rare and precious to our kind. We tend not to look too closely at where they come from. Usually.” He looked down at the baby, his gaze distant. “And that, I think, is enough for one evening. Or morning, as the case may be,” he noted, glancing at the false dawn through the blinds. “I’ll tend to him now. Hopefully your rest wasn’t disturbed much.”

“Mmm … you’re assuming I
like
to be awakened by a horn half up my ass.”

“Probably depends on the horn.” A smirk crossed his face before he slipped through the kitchen and down the hallway to the baby’s room. I watched him go, rubbing my eyes again. He didn’t have Brystion’s blatant sexuality, but there was an ethereal beauty to him that sometimes stunned me.

A pang of sadness twisted in my chest and I told it to shut the hell up, ambling to my bedroom to try to catch a few more hours of shut-eye. Today was Katy’s eighteenth birthday, after all, and I had things to do—party plans to set in motion and her werewolf boyfriend to keep under control. My duties didn’t get put on hold simply because I had a messy personal life.

Phineas was unabashedly drooling on my pillow, his equine mouth half open. “Lovely.” I grimaced, snatching up a spare from the closet. I hunched beneath the blankets, wrapping them partway about my head as though I might shut out the memories.

The unicorn snuggled closer, making kissy sounds.

I shoved him beneath the blanket. “You’re an ass. See if I make you any breakfast.”

“Be still my wounded heart,” he retorted. “However shall I manage without a plate of burned bacon?” There was a snuffling sound and a sigh, and then a miniature chainsaw revving next to my ear.

Out of a perverse sense of revenge I nudged him with my shoulder. “I’ve got to try to find a ghost whisperer today, if I can. Remind me when you wake me up again.”

There was a sudden silence. On instinct, I jerked my backside away from him, peering out of my nest to catch his teeth clicking shut on the space where my ass had just been. The unicorn gave me a sour look. “Almost got you,” he mumbled, flopping onto his back with his legs spread obscenely. “Ask Charlie. She’s always talking to dead people.”

I frowned. I hadn’t spoken to Charlie in quite a while. At least not about anything that didn’t end up being awkwardly … awkward. “Charlie as in ‘the girlfriend of the angel who cheated on her with my boss and whose baby I’m taking care of’?”

“Yeah.” His mouth pursed. “Hmm … I guess I could
see where that might be a problem. Good thing I don’t have to talk to her.”

“Nice.” I slouched down and rearranged the blankets, rolling to the other side to keep my posterior out of range. “Whose side are you on anyway?”

“Thought you’d have figured that out by now.” He yawned, one eye cocking open to wink at me. “Mine.”

W
ell she’s never in the way. Always something nice to say …”

Benjamin promptly scrunched up his face and wailed, his hot infant breath hitting me full on in a wash of sour milk and something vaguely reminiscent of wet feathers. “Well,
you
certainly don’t have anything nice to say,” I said as I shifted him in my arms. “My mamma used to play this one for me all the time when I was a kid. Shut me right up.”

His dark eyes blinked at me, appearing to give weight to my words. For about two seconds. As if to make his point, this time the wail was encored by a dribble of spit-up.