Heir of the Dog Black Dog - Hailey Edwards Page 0,3

did, and you aren’t her.” The cadence of those words shivered through me. “Who are you?”

“Whoever you want, a stór.” His chuckle was worse, all buttery rich and inviting. Dangerous.

“I’m not your darling.” I raised my left hand. “By whose authority have you answered my call?”

A moment of silence passed. “I am the Morrigan’s son.”

“The Raven,” I breathed.

Her son and heir, Raven, an Unseelie prince. A prickle of unease quivered along my nape. A prince in the mortal realm. What on earth had lured him here? And did the conclave know? They had to, right? The prince must have used a tether to get here, and for visiting dignitaries, that required permission from the Faerie High Court on his side and the Earthen Conclave on this one.

Straightening my shoulders, I gestured toward the body. “Then you are welcome to your feast.”

“Who do I owe for this offering?” Amusement throbbed in that nebulous swirl of magic.

“Thierry Thackeray.” Not my Name, but a name nonetheless.

“Tee-air-ree.” He dragged out each syllable as if savoring the sound on his...well, he had no lips in this form.

“Let me grab this...” I knelt and rolled up the troll’s skin, “...and I’ll leave you to it.” Tucking the proof of death under my arm, I saluted the magic blob. “Enjoy your feast.”

Eager to put Raven behind me, I turned on my heel and strode toward the mouth of the alley, tugging my glove back in place. His mother tended to rip off limbs and gnaw on them like chicken wings instead of, oh, I don’t know, someone’s arm. I shuddered and kept on walking. However her son chose to dine, he was doing it alone.

“I will savor every bite.” His voice dogged my heels. “Go bhfeicfidh mé arís thú.”

Until we meet again.

A shiver danced down my spine as I raised a hand in a half wave and kept walking. The conclave awaited my resolution, and thanks to O’Shea’s refusal to stand trial, I had a good three or four hours’ worth of paperwork ahead of me.

Chapter Three

On the dusty outskirts of Wink, a ramshackle farmhouse slouched on three hundred acres of dried weeds. Or so its glamour led you to believe. Those who knew the Word and braved the gap-toothed front porch were rewarded with entrance into the modern brick office building run by Mable, who was receptionist, secretary and den mother to us all.

Murmuring a Word, I keyed the ward locking the front door of the marshal’s office. I stepped inside Mable’s domain in time to catch her licking a dollop of honey from a teaspoon before dipping it into her glass of sweet iced tea.

The sight of Mable’s lopsided bun sliding down the back of her head always made me smile.

She was a bean-tighe, a housebound spirit. They were one of several nocturnal races of Seelie. Their personal glamours were usually of the cookie-baking, apron-wearing, booboo-kissing grandma variety, but Mable had taken her illusion one step further. She emulated the ultimate grandmother figure. She was a dead ringer for Mother Christmas, if Mrs. Claus had never met a shade of pink she didn’t love. And possibly if the North Pole was, in fact, a dude ranch staffed by ten-gallon-hat-wearing elves.

“Knock, knock.” I waited while she adjusted her alarmingly fuchsia glasses. “Did I interrupt your dinner?”

“Thierry.” Her round face split into a grin. “Always good to see you, sweetie. Come on in.”

“I brought you something.” I pulled the troll skin from under my arm. “Quinn O’Shea.”

“Oh dear.” She covered her mouth with a plump hand. “An execution.”

“I...” Old guilt tightened my throat until it trapped my excuse. “It was self-defense.”

“I don’t doubt it.” She bent down, opened the mini fridge under her desk and produced a pitcher of iced tea and a glass that matched hers. “Yours is a dangerous job.” She poured the syrupy liquid to the brim then passed the drink to me. “Out in the field, anything can happen. You do the best you can to see that justice is served, and then you do whatever it takes to get home in one piece.”

The miserable tightness making it hard to breathe eased enough that when she passed me a tray of my favorite iced lemon cookies, the smile bending my lips was as genuine as the affection behind it.

She jabbed her finger at the chair across from her desk. “Go on, sit. I’ll get the papers together.”

“First, I have a gift for you.” I reached into my messenger bag, a graduation gift from