Sebastian swung back around to face Lee. “You’re comparing me to a dog?”
“Protective,” Lee said. “I just meant you’re being a little too protective.”
“Don’t go ragging on the boy, Lee,” Jeb said, giving Sebastian’s shoulder a friendly pat. “He’s just practicing to be a good daddy is all.”
Lee watched all the color drain out of Sebastian’s face.
“Daddy?” Sebastian said, his voice coming close to a squeak. “Daddy? Is she…? Did we…? How?”
“I thought he was an incubus,” Yoshani said.
“He says he is,” Jeb replied.
“Shouldn’t he know how babies are made?”
“You would think so.”
It’s the drink, Lee thought. It’s the whiskey I had in the Den that’s making me feel like I’m nine years old again and Mother has tossed us both outside because we were being a pain in the ass. But knowing that didn’t stop him from looking at Sebastian and saying in the same tone he’d used when he was nine, “Daddy. Daddy, daddy, daddy.”
Sebastian didn’t come up swinging. He just got paler.
Then Jeb said, “You know, the day Sebastian becomes a daddy, you become an uncle.”
And Lee felt the blood drain right out of his head.
Jeb bobbed his head once, indicating approval. “Thought that would do it.” He looked at Yoshani. “Have you seen Nadia’s personal gardens? I just finished making a bench for her.”
“I would be delighted to see other examples of your handiwork,” Yoshani said, smiling.
“What do you think is going on out there?” Glorianna said, taking a quick peek out the kitchen window before setting the dishes on the table, which Lynnea had just cleaned off. “Jeb and Yoshani look amused, and Sebastian and Lee look like they’ve been sucker punched.”
“Lee shouldn’t tease Sebastian,” Lynnea said. “He’s still getting used to being a Justice Maker.”
“Instead of being a troublemaker?” Glorianna asked too innocently.
Nadia turned away from the counter where she was rolling out the biscuits. “One of you girls might want to mention that if everyone behaves for the rest of this visit, I won’t ask why Lee had been in the Den drinking enough that Sebastian had to bring him home. And let’s have a little more help getting the meal on the table and a little less mirth.”
As soon as Nadia had turned back to her biscuits, Glorianna grinned at Lynnea. It didn’t matter that they were all committed to saving Ephemera from the Eater of the World. When it came to home and family, some things didn’t change.
Chapter Ten
The closer he got to Kendall’s docks, the more uneasy Michael felt. It was as if he were walking through ankle-deep tar, and every footstep was an effort. But the streets were as clean as they ever were in this part of the seaport, and that feeling had nothing to do with the physical world around him. This was something else, something different, something…evil.
And worse, the music that represented Kendall’s docks sounded wrong.
He shuddered. The rattle of the pans on the outside of his pack sounded too loud, drew too much attention. He stopped walking and looked around, as if he needed to get his bearings.
He’d had this same feeling when he walked through the fog that had smothered Foggy Downs.
Michael tipped his head, even though the music he was listening to wasn’t a physical sound. Yes, he recognized it now—the sly riffs of temptation, the trills of fear, the harsh rumble of despair. Whatever had touched this part of Kendall had been the same thing that had poisoned Foggy Downs. And Dunberry. He’d managed to turn Foggy Downs back to the rhythm and beat of his own tune. Maybe he could do the same here. He couldn’t afford to lose the Kendall docks as a safe place where he could blend in. And, damn it, he couldn’t afford to lose this particular port since he depended on the generosity of the ships’ captains to make the traveling easier.
Hurrying now, he moved through the streets until he reached the Port of Call, a tavern that was cleaner than most, didn’t water the drinks as much, and had a proprietor, Big Davey, who usually was willing to trade an evening of music for a bit of supper and a cot for the night.
But conversations sputtered into silence when he walked through the door. Hard-eyed men, toughened by a life spent at sea, studied him with a wariness and distrust that made him wonder if he would be able to back out the door without getting into a fight. He wasn’t a stranger to fights—and had a few scars from broken bottles and shivs to prove it—so he knew when to hold his ground and when to back away.
He’d taken that first step back when a voice called from one of the tables. “There’s the man! Barkeep, bring my friend a whiskey and ale.”
The sailors, recognizing the voice, relaxed and went back to their conversations. Michael made his way to the table and shrugged out of his pack before sitting across from the man who had hailed him.
“Captain Kenneday,” Michael said. He glanced up at the barkeep—a new man who hadn’t been working at the Port of Call the last time he’d visited Kendall—and began digging in his pockets for the coins needed to pay for his drink.
Kenneday waved a hand. “On me.” Then he raised his glass of ale. “To your good health, Michael.”
“And yours,” Michael replied, raising his own glass to return the salute. He looked around the room. “Doesn’t seem to be a night to drink for the fun of it and get pissed enough to tell a bald-faced lie to your mates and believe it’s the truth.”
“No, no one is drinking for the fun of it.” Kenneday drained half his glass, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Did you hear about the murders?”
Michael’s hand stuttered, almost spilling the ale. “Murders?”
“Four streetwalkers and a young gentleman who had picked the wrong night to go slumming around the docks.”
“Someone killed four women?” The young gentleman wasn’t that surprising. Anyone who came around the docks at night dressed like he had money was a man begging to be robbed at the very least.
“Three women.” Kenneday shrugged to indicate he didn’t pass judgment on who was earning a living in the alleyways. “All viciously killed. Caused quite a stir.”
“They didn’t find the man who did it?”
“The constables didn’t find anything. It’s like whatever killed those people just melted away.”
“Which is impossible.”
“Is it?” Kenneday whispered. “Is it really, Michael?” He scrubbed his salt-and-pepper hair with the fingers of one hand, then smiled, clearly trying to change the mood. “So where are you off to now? Heading for your southern ports of call?”
How many other people realized his wandering wasn’t as aimless as it seemed? It had started that way, but by the end of his second year he found himself making a circuit, returning to the same villages several times a year.
Just like his father had done. Odd that it had never occurred to him before, but the last year the family had traveled together, he’d been old enough to anticipate revisiting places but too young to appreciate what the pattern of traveling meant.
“Actually, I’m heading north,” Michael replied, suddenly feeling cautious. Kenneday was ten years his senior and an open-minded man who usually wasn’t inquisitive about another man’s personal life, except for a bit of bawdy teasing. The question sounded friendly, but he couldn’t shake the notion there was something behind it. “Going up to Raven’s Hill to spend some time with my aunt and sister.”
“I’m heading that way myself. Got cargo to take up to the White Isle, so we’ll be sailing past Raven’s Hill. I can drop anchor there long enough to see you ashore.”
“That’s kind of you to offer,” Michael said, feeling more wary by the moment.