from day to day, but that doesn’t mean that they have to. But I was pretty sure he was new to me; he didn’t smell familiar. A lot of the fae forget about scent.
The crowd was tame today, and mostly human seeming. I could smell fae, thick in the air. But this looked very much like any bar-restaurant lunch crowd.
The hobgoblin who came bustling up to the table with drinks neither of us had ordered was as fae as fae get. He set down a glass full to the brim with something that was a lovely amber for Ruth. For me he brought a bottle of water. Unopened.
“Compliments of Uncle Mike,” he said, his voice a bass rumble far too big for his wiry greenish-gray body, which was barely tall enough to keep his head above the height of our table. His ears, more fragile and larger than anything Mr. Spock had ever sported, moved rapidly, as if they were wings.
I’d never seen another hobgoblin with ears like his. I was curious as a cat, but it had always felt rude to ask why his ears fluttered like that.
Like the other employees he wore black pants, but there was no sign of the kelly green shirt emblazoned with Uncle Mike’s logo all the rest of the staff wore, including Uncle Mike. Instead, the hobgoblin’s upper body was as bare as his long-toed feet.
Hobgoblins and goblins are related, I’d been told, but it was a long way back and they both liked to pretend it wasn’t so.
“I didn’t intend for Uncle Mike to treat us, Kinsey,” I said.
“Pssht,” said the hobgoblin. “He said nothing owed for it, Mercy, don’t fuss.”
“All right,” I told him. He grinned and scurried off.
Ruth sat very still in her seat, almost as if she’d forgotten to breathe.
The guitarist grinned at me, briefly, and his sharp teeth were slightly blue. He slid callused fingertips over the strings to make a shivery-raspy sound, then began picking his way through a Simon and Garfunkel piece.
The music seemed to break the spell that held her still. Ruth blinked and lifted the glass to her mouth for a careful sip. She paused and drank another swallow before she put it down.
“That is lovely,” she said. “Am I going to need someone to drive me home after I drink it?”
Uncle Mike, who’d bustled past us without a glance a couple of times, paused at her question. He dragged over a chair from another table and joined us.
He had a glass that looked and smelled very much like Ruth’s. He hadn’t been carrying it a moment ago, and I hadn’t seen him pick it up. Usually he was more circumspect about using magic, especially in front of the enemy.
“Not if you only have one, Ruth Gillman,” he said. “This is mead of my own making. I won’t deny there’s some powerful spirit in’t, but it will do you no ill.” I felt the magic in his words, but I was sure she hadn’t. Since I was sure that the magic was attached to his guarantee, I let it pass without challenge.
“And,” he continued, “not if you eat some of my lovely stew for lunch. We have sandwiches and such, but the stew is the best thing on the menu today.”
For the rest of lunch, Uncle Mike set out to charm Ruth Gillman. Only once more did I catch a whiff of magic emanating from him. This time it was to amp up the power of his smile, and I tapped my toe against his leg.
He shot me an apologetic glance. “Habit,” he told me.
“What is?” Ruth asked.
“Flirting with pretty ladies,” he said.
“I’m married,” she told him. “And happy.”
“My favorite kind,” he said. “Happy is a wonderful thing. Tell me about your wife?”
She had not told him that she had a wife. That told me that the fae might not let the humans know who or what was coming to their meeting, but they knew an awful lot about who the government was sending.
My phone rang. I glanced down at it. “I have to take this call,” I said, slanting a concerned look at Ruth. She didn’t see it, but Uncle Mike did.
“She’ll be safe as houses with me,” he promised.
“Where did that come from?” asked Ruth. “‘Safe as houses,’ I mean. I’ve heard it all my life and never understood it.”
With Uncle Mike’s promise to play guardian, I abandoned Ruth in the land of the fae, though not without misgivings. I answered the