“I’m not certain that’s an excuse,” Ethan said. “Not for what my people and yours have been through.”
“The elves’ interest is in keeping quiet, in staying underground. They were nearly eradicated. They wanted to live peacefully, and they have done so.”
“Until tonight,” Ethan emphasized, voice firm. “They are barbarians. They protect their lands without regret, kill without remorse. They do not believe in weakness, and they don’t overlook it. They don’t believe in pity. They kill children they don’t believe will flourish, men and women past their prime. They do not live peacefully. They wait.”
The reference to children and the elderly made me think—I hadn’t seen either at the village. Everyone appeared to be in the prime of middle age. Maybe twenty-five to forty-five in human years. Anyone outside that group could have been indoors or hidden. Or perhaps they’d been culled.
“We have no fight with them,” Gabriel said.
“Because you have not seen them fight,” Ethan insisted. There was hard experience in his eyes. He’d been born in Sweden, had served his time as a soldier, and had nearly been killed because of it. He’d also apparently been in Europe long enough to have seen elves there on the ground and know their practices.
“I have seen battlefields littered with women and children. Ground they stained with blood. They attack without mercy, and they allow no survivors. That Merit, Jeff, and Damien were allowed to live today was a miracle.”
“Or it is proof that this clan is different from those which lived in Europe,” Gabriel said. “Humans are different now, too. Humans fight differently, battle differently.”
“Humans battle with and through machines,” Ethan said. “But that does not absolve them of their atrocities.”
Mallory moved closer, catching both of their gazes. “Let’s pause,” she said, and I felt a gentle nudge of calming magic. It was a nice thought, but considering the story the elves had told about nonconsensual magic, it just left me feeling uncomfortable.
“The elves are clearly here,” she said. “If, for some reason, we can’t figure out what’s going on here in the larger sense, how bad could this get?”
“They could seek revenge for the wrongs they think have been done to them throughout history,” Ethan said. “The elves release their magic, show their societies to the world, and there’s human panic and genocide. What we saw tonight was only posturing,” he softly added. “Do not mistake their bows and arrows for a lack of savvy.”
I rubbed my face, trying to soothe the headache that was beginning to build there, then glanced at Gabriel. I didn’t think he was the type to feel guilty, but there was obvious regret in his eyes. It was time for a little optimism—or at least a little strategy.
“Then we need to ensure it doesn’t get that bad,” I said, meeting Gabriel’s gaze. “If we do as they’ve agreed—find Niera and bring her back—will they go back into the woods again?”
He shared my gaze for a moment, then glanced at Ethan. “Sullivan?”
The question was an obvious concession—he was recognizing Ethan’s expertise, looking to him for information.
“I don’t know how honorable they are,” Ethan said. “Fear tends to make new enemies. But we’ll assume they’ll hold to his deal.”
“Go team!” I said with false cheer. As no one seemed moved by the faux enthusiasm, I waved it away. “So that’s our solution. We find Niera. We have two attacks here—one on shifters, one on elves. The first attack by harpies, which weren’t supposed to exist in the first place. The second against elves, which weren’t supposed to exist.”
“Is that a coincidence?” Mallory asked, face scrunched with the question.
“I don’t know. But it seems significant. Harpies aren’t an obvious weapon, and elves aren’t an obvious target. So the person—or people—behind this have good information about supernaturals.”
“So probably not a human,” Ethan said.
“Not unless they have better knowledge than even you,” I said. “And you believe yourself to be quite knowledgeable.”
Ethan arched an eyebrow. “I resemble that remark.”
“She has a point,” Catcher said, crossing his arms and leaning back into his stance, preparing for some serious consideration and analysis. “Knowledge of supernaturals, and very serious intent. This isn’t just a nymph pissed off because they ran a rubber-duck parade through the Chicago River without her approval.”
“That didn’t really happen,” I said. But Catcher’s flat look said different.
“Could and did. And cost me a week’s worth of time.”
“And a slew of gift cards for the stores on State Street,” Mallory said with a smile. “I know what nymphs like,” she added, in a singsong voice.
“The point is,” Catcher said, sliding her a glance, “this isn’t a run-of-the-mill issue, a minor grudge between sups.”
“It’s a full-out attack in the first instance,” Ethan said. “And something else in the second. The glamour the elves mentioned—does it ring any bells?” He glanced at Mallory, Catcher, Gabriel.
Gabe leaned against the island. “Not for me. All due respect, it sounded like typical vampire mojo. Elves acting like zombies? Doing what someone telepathically directed them to do? Fighting? Fucking? Passing out?”
“Glamour doesn’t work that way,” Ethan flatly said. “It doesn’t work over distance.”
“And you’re sure no vampire was nearby the elves when the attack occurred?”
At Gabe’s question, Ethan opened his mouth, closed it again. “I am not,” he finally admitted. “But glamour doesn’t make zombies of anyone. It is suggestive, not unlike what Mallory tried a moment ago to calm us down.”
Mal blushed prettily. “Just trying to help.”
Catcher put an arm around her shoulder, squeezed.
But they’d given me an idea. “Maybe that’s part of it—both times, the attacker mimicked some other kind of magic. In the first attack, the magic mimicked harpies. In the second, the magic mimicked vampire glamour. The attacker wasn’t actually a harpy or a vampire—he was someone with magic enough to pretend to be both.”
“That’s powerful magic,” Catcher said. “And magic with range.”
“Range,” Gabriel said, standing straight again. “How close would someone have to be to work magic that powerful?”
Catcher’s brows lifted. “I’d actually meant the other kind of range—the ability to imitate different kinds of sups—but that’s a good point.”
I drummed my fingers on the countertop. “So someone is using a lot of magic—variable magic—relatively nearby to attack two groups of sups.”
“Groups,” Ethan said, tapping a finger against my hand. “Both were in groups—the shifters were gathered together for Lupercalia. The elves were together in their village.”
Mallory reached out to a crock on the island that held spoons and spatulas and plucked out a rubberized whisk. “So they attacked when they could do the most damage?” she asked, as she toyed absently with the bent wires of the utensil.
“Maybe,” I said. “But why? If this was a political thing, a grudge thing, wouldn’t we know it? Wouldn’t there have been a statement? Overt blame? They aren’t even really framing someone, because they’ve used different magic both times. There’s no obvious motive.”
“Perhaps it comes back to the victims,” Ethan said. “To the shifters who passed.”
I glanced at Gabe. “The shifters you lost. Is there anything controversial in their histories? Anything that suggests they were targeted?”
Gabe leaned over the counter again, propping his elbows on it and linking his hands together again. “Not that I’m aware of. They weren’t related, weren’t friends. One was from Memphis—young guy who I think had some leadership ambitions. Messy childhood. Woman from New Orleans. Lawyer who went to Tulane. Excellent cook, and a very spicy woman.”