Frost put me down, and we started to walk. A moving target was always harder to photograph. I tried to keep my voice low as I said, “I can’t avoid this case, Doyle. They’re killing fey here in the only home we have left. We’re nobles of the court; the lesser fey are watching us, waiting to see what we’ll do.”
A couple came up to us, the woman saying, “Are you Princess Meredith? You are, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“Can we take your picture?”
There was a sound to the side as someone else used their phone to take a picture without asking. If they had the right phone, the photo could be on the Internet almost instantly. We had to get to the car and get out of here before the press descended.
“The princess is feeling unwell,” Doyle said. “We need to get her to the car.”
The woman touched my arm and said, “Oh, I know how hard the baby thing can be. I had terrible pregnancies every time. Didn’t I, dear?”
Her husband nodded, and said, “Just a quick picture?”
We let them take their “quick” picture, which is rarely quick, then moved away. We’d have to double back for the car. But the voluntary picture had been a mistake, because other tourists wanted a picture and Doyle said, no, which upset them. “They got a picture,” they said.
We kept moving, but a car stopped in the middle of the street, a window glided down and a camera lens came out. The paparazzi had arrived. But it was like the first hit in a shark attack. They came in to hit you to see what you’d do and whether you were edible. If you were, the next hit used teeth. We had to get out of sight and onto private property before more of them arrived.
A man was yelling from the car, “Princess Meredith, look this way! Why are you crying?”
That was all we needed, not only pictures of us but some caption about how I was crying. They’d feel free to speculate on why, but I’d learned that trying to explain was worse. We made ourselves a moving target. It was the best we could do as the first photographer ran up the sidewalk toward us, from the direction we’d been heading. We were trapped.
Chapter Eleven
Doyle used his more-than-human speed to pick me up and take us inside the nearest shop. Frost locked the door behind us. A man protested, “Hey, this is my business.”
Doyle set my feet on the floor of the small family-run deli. The man behind the counter was balding, and round under his white apron. The entire store matched him, old-fashioned, with cut meats, cheeses and unhealthy sides in little containers. I didn’t think anything like this could have survived in L.A., land of the health obsessed.
Then I saw that the short line of customers was made up almost entirely of fey. There was one elderly man who looked full human, but the short woman behind him was small and plump with red curly hair and eyes like a hawk’s, and I mean that literally. They were yellow, and her pupils spiraled up and down as she tried to get the best look at me. A little boy of about four clung to her skirts, staring at me with blue eyes and white-blond hair, cut modern; short and neat. The last person in line had a multicolored Mohawk with a long tail of hair trailing down his back. He wore a white T-shirt with a band logo on it, but his pants and vest were black leather. He was pierced, and looked out of place in the line, but then so did we.
They stared at us, and I stared back. Staring wasn’t considered rude among us. Most fey didn’t sweat high cholesterol or high blood sugar or any of a myriad of illnesses that might kill a human being eating foods with salt and preservatives. Immortals don’t really sweat heart disease. I had a sudden craving for roast beef.
The door rattled behind us. One of the reporters was banging on the door angrily, shouting at us to open up, saying that this was a public area. We had no right to do this.
Cameras were shoved in front of the glass so that the daylight was gone in a brilliance of flashes. I turned, shielding my eyes. Apparently, I’d left my sunglasses in the break area of the Fael.
The slender fey male with his Mohawk, who most would have thought in his teens, came forward. He made a rough bow. “Princess Meredith, may I get you a seat?” I looked into his slender face with its pale greenish skin. There was something about his face that simply wasn’t human. I couldn’t have put my finger on it, but the bone structure was simply a little off for a human. He looked like a pixie drawn to short human size by some mix of genetics. His pointed ears had almost as many earrings as Doyle’s did. But the earrings in his lobes were dangling and had multicolored feathers brushing the shoulders of his leather vest.
“That would be lovely,” I said.
He drew up one of the few small chairs and held it for me. I sank into it gratefully. I was suddenly very tired. Was it being pregnant, or was it the day?
Doyle went to the shopkeeper. “Where does the back way empty out to?” Not was there a back way, but where did it go.
A woman spoke as she came out of the back. “You’ll not be getting out back there, I’m afraid, Princess and Princes. I had to bar the door to keep the hounds of the press from outflanking you.”
At first glance she matched her husband, all soft folds and comfortable roundness, human, then I realized that she’d had the same kind of surgery that Robert at the Fael had had done, though she had only done enough to pass for human, not tried to make herself gorgeous. Pretty had been enough for her, and when she came around the counter and looked at me with those brown eyes, it reminded me so much of my grandmother that it made my chest and throat tight. I would not cry, damn it.
She knelt in front of me and put her hands over mine. Her hands were cool to the touch as if she’d been working with something cold in the back.
Her husband said, “Get up, Matilda. They’re taking pictures.”
“Let them,” she said over her shoulder, then turned back to me. She looked up at me with those eyes that echoed Gran’s.
“I’m cousin to Maggie Mae what cooks in the Unseelie Court.”
It took me a moment to realize what that meant for me personally. Once I knew that I had no sidhe relatives exiled outside faerie, I’d not thought that there might be other relatives here who weren’t sidhe. I smiled. “Then you’re cousin to my Gran.”
She nodded. “Aye,” and there was an accent in that one word thick enough to walk on. “If it’s a brownie from Scotland who came to the new world, then we’re cousins. Robert down the way, well he’s Welsh, so not related to me.”
“To us,” I said.
She gave me a brilliant smile that flashed teeth too white to be anything but dentist whitened, but then we were in L.A. “So you would own me as kin?”
I nodded. “Of course,” I said. Some tension that I hadn’t even realized just went out of them all, as if until that moment they’d been nervous, or even afraid. It seemed to free them all up to come closer.
“Most of the highborn like to pretend there’s nothing but pure sidhe in their veins,” she said.
“He doesn’t pretend,” the punk pixie said. He nodded toward Doyle. “Nice rings. You got anything else pierced?”
“Yes,” Doyle said.
The boy smiled, making the rings in the edge of his nose and his bottom lip curl cheerfully with it. “Me too,” he said.
Matilda patted my hands. “You look pale. Are you having a hungry pregnancy or a starving one?”
I frowned at the phrasing. “I don’t understand.”
“Some women are hungry all the time and some don’t want to look at food when they carry babes.”
The frown eased and I said, “I’m craving roast beef. Protein.”
She flashed that brilliant smile again. “That we have.” She called back over her shoulder to the man. “Harvey, get some roast beef for the princess.”