what he expected. Most sidhe would’ve been honestly befuddled by his harshness. Mayfly mortals died. It was what they did. The sidhe died, too, of violence or of an old age measured in geologic spans. Except pixies and ivyfalse brughnies, of course, but even they didn’t care much for a human life.
Remembrance was a mortal trick.
“Panko,” she murmured again. “I’m sorry. He was your friend?”
“Coworker.” Then, because she might not understand, “Yes, friend.” The concept of work and paycheck really didn’t sink in for most sidhe, either.
“Oh.” She watched him for a long moment, then rose swiftly. Robin was a good name for her; she hopped like a small bird. “I didn’t know. I’ll be going, then.” She turned, scooped the quirpiece off the counter with swift grace, and was headed for the door.
Maybe she thought he’d require bloodgilt. Jeremiah’s hands lay on the table, flat and loose. As if the tattoos weren’t itching, digging in, whispering how easy it would be. The lance could slide free, pinning her in place against the wall, and he could feel its hunger as it took yet another life. He could even tell himself it was payment for Panko, whose wife would have nobody mocking her for fearing the basement now.
Once he’d killed here in his very house, there was no reason to stay and pretend to be mortal any longer. And yet… all he had to do was sit still until she crossed his threshold, and he could be free of the whole mess. Except the questions and the lies on Monday. He could stay as he had been these past months. Hell, these past years.
Playing at being mortal. Playing at mortal grief.
His own voice surprised him. “Don’t.” He made it to his feet, creaking like an old man, a warm lump of breakfast weighing him down. “Don’t leave.”
She stopped, shoulders set. He could see the mending in the blue dress now, rips and tatters closed with exquisite needlework, probably chantment. At Court, would she wear the same dress? The glory of her hair and those eyes would be her passport; she wouldn’t need—or be allowed, more likely—finery. No cobweb lace, no cloth-of-gold, no draperies made of sighs. No damask, no sweeping train, no mantles.
Not for a half-mortal.
Was Ragged a use-name? Had she chosen it to make a badge of her mortal shame?
“You haven’t had breakfast,” he finished lamely, even though she’d taken the milk. If she was Court-raised, she might well need nothing else… but she’d said she was older when she was taken, right? It didn’t matter. After breathing the air of either Court long enough, the mortal appetite became a shadow of itself. A changeling left to mark a place, halfway between.
She still did not turn to look at him, and he suddenly wanted to cross the distance between them, take her shoulders, and make her. Because with her back to him it was as if Daisy was leaving, stepping out the door again to go to the store.
Just a quart of half-and-half, you like your cream so much. We’re almost out. She’d laughed, hitching her purse up on her shoulder… and later, the call from the police. The wreckage, the hospital’s machines, and the brassy final reek of death.
“I’m under commission. I’ve lingered long enough as it is.” Her shoes were by the door; it was a moment’s work to step into them. Still, she hesitated. “I thank you for your hospitality, Gallow. I’ll offer advice, too, though you don’t recognize any debt.” One foot slid into the low black Cuban heel, muscle in her dancer’s calves flickering. “There’s a plague about, stalking the sidhe. Bar your door and carry iron with you. She is unhappy, there is conspiracy, and things have grown dangerous of late.” Her second shoe, and Jeremiah was nailed in place.
It was all so much noise. “Don’t go,” he managed. “Please.”
She looked back over her shoulder. “If you knew me, you wouldn’t ask me to tarry.” A shadow of sadness, and it copied the weariness of mortality so exactly that for a single crystalline moment she looked like… not Daisy, but his wife as she might have been with a sidhe’s gloss. “Take care, Gallow.”
He took another two stumbling steps forward, but the door opened. A flash of blue and brown, and she was gone. She hopped over the cold iron buried under his threshold and disappeared into morning sunshine.
Jeremiah sagged on his feet. The tattoos itched unbearably. The entire trailer smelled like bacon,