“human”. There wasn’t so much as a feeble attempt to disguise the depth of her contempt. I wasn’t the only one who found this approach cram-jammed with folly. Murelli closed his eyes and paled a little as she spoke. “But in the royal houses of the fae, the only feelings that matter are ours.” She glanced at her family and smiled with an inclination of her head that formed more of a bow than nod.
“I see.” It was only my first case, but I could already tell this phrase was going to become a habit. “What are you thinking will be the verdict today?”
“That I did it,” she said without hesitation, haughtiness returned and firmly in place.
“And what sort of punishment were you thinking you might receive for this offense?”
Witnessing what happened next made me certain the Valley girl craze of the eighties must have resulted from an encounter with an Italian fae. After giving me an appraising look, possibly a scan for stupidity, and concluding that I fell far short of her expectations, even for a (choke, gag) human, she said, “A. Fine. Of. Course.”
Gote Murelli’s color was nearing purple because, even though his eyes were still closed, he could see what his client could not; that she’d talked herself into the worst possible outcome. If the rest of the Sforza family was like Alexilia, Murelli would surely take the blame.
“Gote Murelli.” His eyes flew open. “Please ask your client to sit.”
When he turned to her, she rolled her eyes, flopped down, and grinned at someone who was, apparently, seated in the mezzanine.
I looked at the BOBO (Bureau of Behavioral Oversight) representative. “Max.”
He got to his feet quickly. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“How many times did you say she set your client on fire?”
“I don’t have an exact number.”
“Approximate.”
“Forty times.”
I nodded. “What would happen to the pais if she was set on fire?”
After a round of audible gasps, Max, whose eyes were now boring holes into me, said, “Ordinary fire wouldn’t be of consequence.” I thought that was the end of that line of questioning until he said, “However…”
At that, a large, dark-haired man dressed in clothes from the Medici era stood and shouted from the House of Sforza gallery. “Say no more to that human bitch, else you be named traitor of your own kind.”
I heard a growl on my left. It was soft but menacing enough to raise every hair follicle on my body and make me glad the robe was too thick for contracted nipples to be noticed.
Looking as cool as if there’d been no interruption, Max returned his attention to me and continued. “However…”
The challenger jumped down from the balcony and started toward Max, but didn’t get close because Keir shifted into his sephalian form faster than my brain could process what had happened. With a roar loud enough to cause a tremor in the mighty stone building, he reached the man in a single lunge, swiped the legs out from under him with a giant paw, and stood purring loudly while pressing that paw to the back of the man who’d been trapped in a humiliating prone position on the ground.
In the midst of all the shock, awe, and excitement my gaze sought out Maeve. She was looking on with the ear-to-ear smile of a mom watching her golden boy win an Olympic medal.
To Keir, who was still standing over the prone fae like the man was a trophy, I said, “Retain custody of the disrupter until after this case is concluded. At that time we’ll address this nonsense and discuss a fine.”
Above Keir’s loud purring, I said, “Continue, Ombudsman.”
When Max said, “However,” I was thinking third time’s the charm. “Fae are susceptible to the phenomenon known by humans as St. Elmo’s fire.”
The big guy on the ground tried to speak, but Keir put more weight on his back so that it came out as an oof followed by a groan.
“It’s painful?” I asked.
The light in Max’s eyes told me that he was rejoicing in the direction of this questioning. “Oh yes.”
“Does it do permanent damage?” I asked.
“It will not end the life of a fae. Both the infliction of wounds and the healing are painful. It will not end a fae’s life. The fae will recover in time. Physically.”
“Your qualified statement suggests that there might be emotional damage?”
“Possibly, Your Honor.”
“What if this was done to the pais forty times?”
At that, a woman stood up in the Sforza gallery and shouted, “No! The new magistrate is