“Dolan is in no position to work for peace”—she cocked her head—“though I did tell Kaye that I had demands.”
Cari using Brand’s first name. Good sign. “And those are?”
She smiled. “You’ll have to wait an hour and hear for yourself.”
“Did you tell her about . . .” Names had power, and he didn’t want to use Maeve’s.
“No. Not yet. I don’t know how without fae repercussions.”
Cari was cautious of the same thing he was. She didn’t want to summon the queen without a plan in place.
“Did Kaye happen to mention Fletcher?” He’d only left ten messages.
Cari smiled, nodding. “She said she’d spoken to Webb already. That Fletcher was fine, and that you will see him soon.”
Relief did more than any amount of sleep could. “He’s fine,” Mason repeated.
“He’s fine.”
“Any other details?”
“Not that she said. It was a very quick call.”
“Forty-five minutes.” Then he could grill her himself. “Pull over and let me drive.”
Cari sighed, but she humored him and exited the freeway. Not that he could accelerate time, but he could alleviate his anxiety with speed. Plus, when they arrived at Dolan House, he wouldn’t mind hitting the Shadow protesters if they got in the way.
Stealth sneaked behind Bran and Mr. Webb down to the cellar, curious at how Mr. Webb thought he was going to catch him. Nobody could catch him if he didn’t want them to. Uh, hello—he would walk through walls.
The whispers were louder down here—follow follow follow us—which had to be because of the ward stones. His dad had told him that all the great Houses put their ward stones in their foundations, and that’s where they got their strength. It was like a little bit of Twilight, just for Webb. Stealth got the tingly feeling that the fae were watching him. He couldn’t hide from them. No one could.
The cellar was a stone room full of darkness. Flashlights didn’t work so good here. But Mr. Webb’s candle did a lot better, throwing gold light all over the floor and walls. Which made Stealth remember another thing his dad said—that fire was better light than electricity. In the time to come, people would use candles again, or else they wouldn’t see what was coming.
“Have a seat, Bran,” Mr. Webb said. The candles made a campfire on the stones of the floor in the middle of the room.
Bran sat and crossed his legs. Mr. Webb, the spidery-man, sat and crossed his legs, too. Light filled their faces, but darkness leapt around them as if creatures danced around the circle. Smelled smoky, but good, too, like moss and woods and dirt.
“Remember the last time we did this?” the old man asked.
Bran nodded. “Someone was stealing things from you.”
“And did we find her?”
“She came out of the Shadows and told us herself. She just liked shiny things.”
“Some shiny things are worth more than others,” Mr. Webb grumbled.
Well, Stealth wasn’t coming out. He was going to keep peeing everywhere he could. In fact, he’d pee down here, too.
“And this is how we are going to find Fletcher Stray.”
“We tell a story,” Bran said.
Pshaw. A story couldn’t make Stealth do anything. Stealth was an enigma.
“You begin,” Mr. Webb said. The candle fire leapt and stretched, as if it liked him.
Bran’s voice began uncertainly: “Once upon a time, there was a boy.”
“That’s fine. Keep it simple.”
“He came from Shadow and Light,” Bran continued.
“Did he?” wondered Mr. Webb aloud. “That means one of his parents was human. Very interesting. Do you see how the story can reveal him?”
Bran nodded, and Stealth frowned as meanly as he could. How did they know about his dad? No one knew about his dad. What kind of magic did Mr. Webb and Bran have?
He’d kill them, and then they’d be sorry.
“And the boy lived in darkness,” Bran continued in a weird voice. Something reached up from the candleflame, but Stealth couldn’t make out what it was. Probably just another one of Bran’s Shadow puppets, that he used to tell stories with. “And he welcomed the darkness, growing in magic to become, like his father, an assassin with no equal. The one called Stealth will be tempered only and ultimately by the pale hand of a lady. This is his stor—”
“No,” Mr. Webb said. “Do not let the story lead you. Do not be a mouthpiece. You tell the story.”
Stealth backed up until he felt the burn of a ward stone behind him. They knew his secret name? And he wasn’t an assassin . . . yet. But it was something he thought about. His dad had killed someone once, fast and gentle, but he didn’t think Stealth had seen. Maybe the Webbs could see the past. Maybe they could tell the future.
“But the story is going a different way,” Bran whined. “The words are easy. They feel right.”
“No, Bran. Fletcher is a child and has no destiny. Rip him from that path and set him on yours.”
He sighed. “But it’s boring. Assassin is better.”
“You can be more bored locked in your room after. Now tell Fletcher’s story our way.”
Stealth didn’t want to hear Fletcher’s story. Not anymore. There was too much tucked into the words.
“Fine. Umm . . . he thinks he can do anything,” Bran said fast, like he was trying to hurry. “But he’s really just a kid.”
“Yes.”
Traitor. Bran wasn’t his friend anymore. Ever.
A coldness reached inside Stealth, like long fingers made out of magic. They scraped into his guts and made him shiver where he stood. Just a kid. He felt shorter. Not nearly as strong as his dad.
“And there’s nowhere for him to go, since the wards won’t let him out anyway.”
“Correct.”
And Stealth was stuck, no matter how many walls he could go through. Because the wall that mattered wouldn’t let anything in or out unless Webb commanded it.
Bran blew his cheeks out while he thought. “And he should mind his own business and not be in your office.”
“Neither of you should play in my office, but continue.”
“And he should just come out of where he’s hiding, because he’s in really big trouble.”
The long fingers grabbed Fletcher inside, as if someone had found him after all and was going to drag him out of his hiding place.
“Yes.”
“And he’s not so great after all.”
He wasn’t Stealth, not really. He was just Fletcher. The stray.
“You’ve established that, and threading jealousy into the story is dangerous.”
Bran looked mad. “And his dad gave him to us, so he has to do what we tell him to.”
Fletcher knew that was the truth, and so did the long hand inside him. His dad had given him to Mr. Webb. Had left him behind, just like his mom had. He belonged to Mr. Webb.
“And Fletcher Stray must come when called.”
Fletcher turned to run away. Maybe if he couldn’t hear, he wouldn’t have to obey.
“Fletcher Stray!” called Mr. Webb. “Come here at once.”
The hand gripping inside of him yanked him toward the open part of the room. Fletcher tried to grab hold of something to keep himself in the dark, but his arms and legs were already taking him right into the circle of light. Never mind that the fae stood all around, looking at him with wonder on their strange faces.
Made him feel silly and small. Like he was going to cry.
“Protect the House,” Webb told Bran.
Bran nodded. “And the boy would not speak of anything he discovered in Webb House.”
Fletcher felt another magic hand come around his face to bind his mouth. He didn’t need to try to speak to know that he couldn’t. Bran’s story had told him so.