"The lesser fey are all better at glamour than the bigger folk."
"I've seen sidhe make garbage look like a feast and have people eat it," I said.
Doyle said, "And the Fear Dearg need a leaf to create money, a cracker to be a cake, a log to be a purse of gold. You need something to pin the glamour to for it to work."
"So do I," I said. I thought about it. "So do the sidhe that I've seen able to do it."
"Oh, but once the sidhe could conjure castles out of thin air, and food to tempt any mortal that was mere air," the Fear Dearg said.
"I've not seen ..." Then I stopped, because the sidhe didn't like admitting out loud that their magic was fading. It was considered rude, and if the Queen of Air and Darkness heard you, the punishment would be a slap, if you were lucky, and if you weren't, you'd bleed for reminding her that her kingdom was lessening.
The Fear Dearg gave a little skip, and Frost was forced a little back from my side, or he would have stepped on the smaller fey. Doyle growled at him, a deep rumbling bass that matched the huge black dog he could shift into. Frost stepped forward, forcing the Fear Dearg to step ahead or be stepped on.
"The sidhe have always been petty," he said, as if it didn't bother him at all, "but you were saying, my queen, that you'd never seen such glamour from the sidhe. Not in your lifetime, eh?"
The door of the Fael was in front of us now. It was all glass and wood, very quaint and old-fashioned, as if it were a store from decades before this one.
"I need to speak with one of the demi-fey," I said.
"About the murders, eh?" he asked.
We all stopped moving for a heartbeat, then I was suddenly behind the men and could only glimpse the edge of his red coat around their bodies.
"Oh, ho," the Fear Dearg said with a chuckle. "You think it's me. You think I slit their throats for them."
"We do now," Doyle said.
The Fear Dearg laughed, and it was the kind of laugh that if you heard it in the dark, you'd be afraid. It was the kind of laugh that enjoyed pain.