There was a long pause as he worked through things.
"Okay. I think I can talk about Nemane."
"Who?"
"Uncle Mike said the Carrion Crow, right? And I assume he wasn't talking about the smallish crow that lives in the British Isles, but the Carrion Crow."
"Yes. The three white feathers on her head seemed to be important."
"It must be Nemane then." There was satisfaction in his voice.
"This is a good thing?"
"Very good," he said. "There are some of the Gray Lords who would just as soon kill everyone until the problems go away. Nemane is different."
"She doesn't like to kill."
Tad sighed. "Sometimes you are so innocent. I don't know of any fae who doesn't enjoy spilling blood at some level--and Nemane was one of the Morrigan, the battle goddesses of the Celts. One of her jobs was delivering the killing blow to the heroes dying in the aftermath of a battle to end their suffering."
"That doesn't sound promising," I muttered.
Tad heard. "The thing about the old warriors is that they have a sense of honor, Mercy. Pointless death or wrongful death is an anathema to them." "She won't want to kill your father," I said.
He corrected me gently. "She won't want to kill you. I'm afraid that, except to you, my father is an acceptable loss."
"I'll see what I can do to change that."
"Go get that book," he said, then coughed a bit. "Stupid geas." There was real rage in his voice. "If it cost me my father, I'm going to have a talk with Uncle Mike. Get that book, Mercy, and see if you can't find something that will give you some bargaining room."
"You'll stay there?"
"Until Friday. If nothing breaks by then, I'm coming home."
I almost protested, but said good-bye instead. Zee was Tad's father--I was lucky he agreed to wait until Friday.
The Uptown Mall is a conglomeration of buildings cobbled together into a strip mall. The stores range from a doughnut bakery to a thrift store, plus bars, restaurants, and even a pet store. The bookstore wasn't hard to find.
I'd been there a time or two, but since my reading tastes run more to sleazy paperbacks than collectibles, it wasn't one of my regular haunts. I was able to park in front of the store, next to a handicapped space.
I thought for a moment it had already closed. It was after six and the store looked deserted from the outside. But the door opened easily with a jingle of mellow cowbells.
"A minute, a minute," someone called from the back.
"No trouble," I said. I took in a deep breath to see what my nose could tell me, but there were too many smells to separate much out: nothing holds smells like paper. I could detect cigarettes and various pipe tobaccos, and stale perfume.
The man who emerged from the stacks of bookcases was taller than me and somewhere between thirty-five and fifty. He had fine hair that was easing gracefully from gold to gray. His expression was cheerful and shifted smoothly into professional when he saw that I was a stranger.
"What can I help you with?" he asked. "Tad Adelbertsmiter, a friend of mine, told me you could help me with a problem I have," I told him and showed him the stick I was carrying.
He took a good look at it and paled, losing the amiable expression. "Just a moment," he said. He locked the front door, changing the old- fashioned paper sign to CLOSED and pulling down the shades over the window.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Mercedes Thompson."
He gave me a sharp-eyed look. "You're not fae."
I shook my head. "I'm a VW mechanic."