Page 103 of Crown of Wings and Whispers

He chuckled. “Oh, yes. We can’t forget the witches. Imagine my surprise when I learned Wickham Muir is now theSeanathair.I didn’t know that particular power could be passed, but of course, if Wickham took his head… And all this time, I’d been looking for my old friend Afi Cean More.” He cocked his head and struck a pose now becoming familiar to me. I suspected he liked the move because it drew attention to his golden curls. “Of course, you knew this all along.”

“I did.”

“I should have taken you that day, at the police station, to discover all your secrets. It would have saved me a great deal of trouble.”

I didn’t bother pointing out how useless I’d been then, how little I’d known. Instead, I teased. “Oh, you’ve enjoyed the game, and you know it.”

“True. And what fun we shall have now. Two Fae, negotiating the fate of the world.”

“So you admit we don’t want the same future.”

He bit his lips together. His eyes flashed hazel, then back to green.

I chuckled. “If we were keeping score, I would say that’s one point to me.”

* * *

Persi knockedon the door to the bedroom the boys had given up for Bridie.

“Come away, then.”

She pushed it open and found Griffon’s sweet mother sorting and folding little boy’s clothes in the dresser drawers.

“Never had children of my own,” Bridie said, without looking to see who had joined her. “My, but their clothes are weee.”

“Bridie?”

She finally turned.

“We’re having trouble…with Griffon. Wickham asked that you come down.”

Without another word, the woman rushed past Persi and preceded her down the stairs.

“Kitchen,” Persi said, as they neared the bottom step.

Bridie turned right and right again, then burst into the kitchen demanding, “Where’s my laddie?”

Cabinet doors hung askew. Some were missing. Some were still in place but sections had been sheared off by Griffon’s wings. Once his fit had started, they’d left him alone in the room until the demolition ended. Now, he sat on a kitchen chair. Urban had produced a white cable knit sweater and forced it over Griffon’s head. Wickham and Kitch had used half a roll of duct tape to secure it in place, hoping to keep his wings from unfurling again, despite Griffon’s slurred warning that it wouldn’t work.

Finally, Wickham had looked to higher powers. “Fetch his mother.”

“My poor son,” Bridie crooned, and pulled Griffon’s head against her bosom.

Wickham had been inspired. There was no chance the Fae would let loose those giant razor blades with his mother’s arms wrapped around him.

Bridie scowled around the room, searching faces. “Which bumpot spoke ‘er name?”

Urban dropped his chin and raised his hand. She snorted at him, then caught Wickham’s attention. “Pop us upstairs, will ye?” She spoke quietly, as if her wild-eyed child were napping. “I’ll watch ‘im whilst he sleeps it off.”

Wickham hesitated. “Do we really want him sober?”

“Unless ye prefer the rest of the hoos to look like this.”

The three of them disappeared, and Persi smirked. “Lesson learned. A bird that size needs a bigger cage.”

Urban shook his head. “A bird like that needs clipping.”

Kitch produced five whisky glasses and poured two fingers in each. “I hope ye’re not deludin’ yerselves,” he said, as he passed glasses to Urban, Alwyn, and Flann. “We might none of us survive what’s comin’.”

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