wanted to. "First, put me down; we're attracting attention."
They glanced out from the circle of their arms over me, and there were people staring, whispering among themselves. I didn't have to hear them to know what they were saying. "Is that her?" "Is that Princess Meredith?" "Is that them?" "Is that the Darkness?" "Is that the Killing Frost?" If we weren't careful, someone would call the press and we'd be besieged.
Frost put me down, and we started to walk. A moving target was always harder to photograph. I tried to keep my voice low as I said, "I can't avoid this case, Doyle. They're killing fey here in the only home we have left. We're nobles of the court; the lesser fey are watching us, waiting to see what we'll do."
A couple came up to us, the woman saying, "Are you Princess Meredith? You are, aren't you?"
I nodded.
"Can we take your picture?"
There was a sound to the side as someone else used their phone to take a picture without asking. If they had the right phone, the photo could be on the Internet almost instantly. We had to get to the car and get out of here before the press descended.
"The princess is feeling unwell," Doyle said. "We need to get her to the car."
The woman touched my arm and said, "Oh, I know how hard the baby thing can be. I had terrible pregnancies every time. Didn't I, dear?"
Her husband nodded, and said, "Just a quick picture?"
We let them take their "quick" picture, which is rarely quick, then moved away. We'd have to double back for the car. But the voluntary picture had been a mistake, because other tourists wanted a picture and Doyle said, no, which upset them. "They got a picture," they said.
We kept moving, but a car stopped in the middle of the street, a window glided down and a camera lens came out. The paparazzi had arrived. But it was like the first hit in a shark attack. They came in to hit you to see what you'd do and whether you were edible. If you were, the next hit used teeth. We had to get out of sight and onto private property before more of them arrived.
A man was yelling from the car, "Princess Meredith, look this way! Why are you crying?"
That was all we needed, not only pictures of us but some caption about how I was crying. They'd feel free to speculate on why, but I'd learned that trying to explain was worse. We made ourselves a moving target. It was the best we could do as the first photographer ran up the sidewalk toward us, from the direction we'd been heading. We were trapped.
Chapter Eleven
Doyle used his more-than-human speed to pick me up and take us inside the nearest shop. Frost locked the door behind us. A man protested, "Hey, this is my business."
Doyle set my feet on the floor of the small family-run deli. The man behind the counter was balding, and round under his white apron. The entire store matched him, old-fashioned, with cut meats, cheeses and unhealthy sides in little containers. I didn't think anything like this could have survived in L.A., land of the health obsessed.
Then I saw that the short line of customers was made up almost entirely of fey. There was one elderly man who looked full human, but the short woman behind him was small and plump with red curly hair and eyes like a hawk's, and I mean that literally. They were yellow, and her pupils spiraled up and down as she tried to get the best look at me. A little boy of about four clung to her skirts, staring at me with blue eyes and white-blond hair, cut modern; short and neat. The last person in line had a multicolored Mohawk with a long tail of hair trailing down his back. He wore a white T-shirt with a band logo on it, but his pants and vest were black leather. He was pierced, and looked out of place in the line, but then so did we.
They stared at us, and I stared back. Staring wasn't considered rude among us. Most fey didn't sweat high cholesterol or high blood sugar or any of a myriad of illnesses that might kill a human being eating foods with salt and preservatives. Immortals don't really sweat heart disease. I had a sudden craving for roast beef.
The door rattled behind us. One of the reporters was