And when we lay naked on the mats, the smell of sex and sweat in the air, his hand wrapped tightly around mine: I felt the problem of Christy shrink down to a manageable level.
As long as Adam loved me, I was sure I could deal with the worst Christy could throw at us. I pushed aside the nagging thought that the euphoria of Adam’s lovemaking sometimes left me with delusions of invulnerability.
Late that night, long after we’d gone to bed, someone knocked on the front door.
Adam’s arm was heavy across the back of my thigh. Somehow, I’d rolled until I was curled up mostly sideways in the bed. Medea, the cat, lay behind my head, answering my question about why I was in such an odd position. She had a way of shoving me off my pillow while we slept, so she could have the high ground.
Someone knocked again, a polite knock‑knock.
I groaned and pushed Medea off my pillow, so I could pull it over my head. Adam stayed relaxed and loose as I wiggled. So did the cat. She didn’t protest, didn’t get up and stalk off. Just kept sleeping where I’d put her.
Knock. Knock.
I stiffened, half lifted myself off the bed, and looked at Adam. Looked at the cat. I shook Adam’s shoulder to no effect: something was keeping him asleep. Since it had taken the cat, too, I assumed it was magic.
I am immune to some magic, and maybe that’s why it wasn’t affecting me, but that persistent knock–
Knock. Knock.
–that was the one, made me think that perhaps my exclusion had been deliberate. Someone wanted to talk to me alone. Or do something to me when I didn’t have Adam to back me up.
I rolled off the bed and grabbed my Sig Sauer out of the drawer in the nightstand, dropped the magazine with silver bullets, and replaced it with copper‑jacketed hollow points. No werewolf I knew had the magic to keep an Alpha of Adam’s caliber sleeping this deeply. That meant fae or witchcraft, and both of them could be killed by a regular bullet. I was pretty sure. Witches I was certain of–as long as it wasn’t Elizaveta–but the fae were tricky.
The hollow points would do more damage than silver bullets to any of them, anyway. Silver was too hard to be good ammunition. And armed was better than unarmed when facing an unknown enemy.
I looked in on Jesse on my way to the front door. She was sleeping on her back, her arms wrapped over her head, snoring lightly. Safe enough, for now.
Knock. Knock.
The gun gave me the courage to ghost down the stairs. It was heavy. Like the daily fighting sessions with Adam, carrying the gun had become part of my routine. I wasn’t human, not quite, but I was very nearly as helpless. It hadn’t mattered much until I took Adam as my mate. In some ways, being part of the pack had made me a lot safer–but it had also made me the weakest link in the pack. The gun helped equalize the difference between me and the werewolves.
It was dark outside, and the narrow glass panel next to the door was opaque anyway. I had no way to tell who was there.
Knock.
“Who are you?” I asked, raising my voice without yelling.
The knocking ceased.
“We do not give our names lightly,” said a man’s pleasant voice. That he didn’t raise his voice told me that he knew enough about me to understand that I could hear better than a regular human. His answer told me what he was, if not who.
The fae were careful with their names, changing the ones they used regularly and concealing the older ones, so that they could not be used against them. Fae magic works best when it knows who it is working upon. However, giving an enemy your name could also be a show of strength– See how little I am worried about you? I will give you my name, and even with that, you cannot hurt me.
Thanks to my friend and former employer Zee–iron‑kissed, self‑proclaimed gremlin, and mechanic extraordinaire–I knew a lot of the fae around the Tri‑Cities, but the one at my doorstep was no one whose voice I recognized. Fae were good with glamour: they could change their faces, their voices, even their sizes and shapes. But all the fae were supposed to be on their reservations after having all but declared war upon the US.
“I don’t open my door to people whose names I do not know,” I told the stranger outside my door.
“Recently, I have been Alistair Beauclaire,” he told me.
Beauclaire. I sucked in my breath. I knew who he was, and so did anyone who watched the viral YouTube video someone had filmed. Beauclaire was the fae who killed the man who had kidnapped his daughter with the intention of murdering her as he had so many other half‑blood fae (as well as a few werewolves). Beauclaire was the man who had declared the fae independent from the US and all human dominion. He was a Gray Lord, one of the powerful few who ruled all the fae.
But he was more, much more than that, because he’d given up another of his names on that day.
“Gwyn ap Lugh,” I said.
I’d looked up Lugh after an encounter with an oakman fae who had tossed Lugh’s name about. The results of my research were confusing to say the least. The only thing for certain was that in a history of legendary fae, Lugh stood out like a lantern on a dark night. “Ap Lugh” meant son of Lugh, so at least I wasn’t dealing with Lugh himself.
The fae on the other side of the door paused before saying, slowly, “I have gone by that name as well.”
“You are a Gray Lord.” I tried to keep my voice steady. As Beauclaire, this one had lived a long time in human guise, and he’d been, from all the interviews of his friends, ex‑wife, and coworkers, well liked. No sense offending him if I didn’t have to, and keeping him on the porch might just do that.
“Yes,” he said.
“Would you give your word that you intend me no harm?” Not offending him was important, but so was not being stupid. Though I was pretty sure if he wanted in, a door wasn’t going to keep him out.
“I will not hurt you this night,” he said readily, and so unfaelike in his straightforward answer it made me even more suspicious.
“Are you the only one out there?” I asked warily, after examining any possible harm he might be able to do without breaking his word. “And would you promise not to harm anyone in this house tonight?”
“I am the only one here, and for this night, I will ensure no harm comes to those who are within your home.”
I engaged the safety on the gun, backed into the kitchen, and put it under a stack of dish towels waiting to be put away. Then I went into the front room and opened the door.
The cold night air, still around freezing this early in the spring, made the long t‑shirt I wore, a black Hauptman Security shirt washed to gray, inadequate for keeping me warm. I don’t sleep naked: being the wife of the Alpha means unexpected visits in the middle of the night.
I am not shy or particularly body conscious, but Adam is not okay with other men seeing me naked. It makes him shorter‑tempered than usual. Adam’s t‑shirts were exactly the right size to be comfortable, and having me wear his shirts helped him keep his cool around other males.
Beauclaire didn’t look below my chin. Politeness or indifference, either one was okay by me.
He smelled like a lake, full of life and greenness with a hint of summer sun even though he stood under the light of the stars and moon with the bare‑branched trees that held only a hint of bud. Reddish brown hair, lightly graying at the temples, gave him a normalcy that the still‑sleeping werewolf in my bed told me was a lie.
Beauclaire was medium tall but built on graceful lines that didn’t quite hide the whipcord muscle beneath. Warren, Adam’s third, was built along the same lines.
He didn’t 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.