“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 phone while I walked.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s too loud in here. Give me a second and I’ll be outside.”

I stepped outside to, well, not silence—that area of town has a lot of noise—but it was quieter than inside the bar.

“Zack,” I said. “How can I help you?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I’m not really sure there’s anything wrong. But Warren left this morning in a big hurry. Kyle just got back.”

When Warren and Adam together had tried to get Kyle to stay safe at the pack house, he’d just looked at them. When he left for home, Zack and Warren had gone with him. Kyle might be just human, but making him stay would have taken more threat from either Adam or Warren than either of them was willing to be responsible for.

“Isn’t it early for him to be home from work?” I asked.

Zack said, “Kyle took the afternoon off because he and Warren were supposed to go out shopping for a new bed. He can’t reach him by phone—the phone is off. We both think that it’s not like Warren, but Kyle is too angry to worry.”

Zack, our submissive wolf, lived with Warren, third in the pack, and Warren’s boyfriend, Kyle. Zack wasn’t gay, but he’d come to us damaged and everyone felt better with him living with someone in the pack—and Kyle’s house was bigger than ours.

Kyle and Warren had both taken him under their protection. It was cute that most of the pack was more afraid of Kyle. It wasn’t that anyone in the pack would hurt Zack. But if someone inadvertently scared him . . . well, if Kyle was around, they would never do it again.

“I’ll try to call Adam, but if you can’t reach Warren, likely Adam will be in the same boat,” I told Zack.

Maybe the president had stopped in, I thought. They take away people’s cell phones when the president’s around, right? Something that big might be a good reason for why Warren had turned off his phone and not told Zack what was up.

Or maybe it was just another boring meeting, but the president would be a better story. And it had a better chance of pouring water on Kyle’s temper than just a meeting.

I called Adam and, not unexpectedly, got his voice message. I hung up and called Zack back.

“I can’t get through, either, but the pack bonds feel fine. So I don’t think anything is wrong.”

“Okay,” Zack said. “I’ll let Kyle know.”

“If he decides to be worried instead of mad, you could call Hauptman Security. They won’t be able to tell him anything.” I paused. “Wait. They might be able to tell me more than they could either of you. I’ll do that, too.”

Hauptman Security answered on the second ring.

“Hey, Mercy,” said Jim.

“Hey,” I said. “Is the boss around?”

“Nah,” he told me. “He and most of the crew—that crew, if you know what I mean—got called out this morning. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No,” I told him. “Thanks.” “That crew” had to be the werewolves.

I called and told Zack that all seemed quiet on the Hauptman Security front. I promised to let him and Kyle know if I heard anything before they did.

By the time I got back to Ruth, there was food on the table. We ate, Uncle Mike flirted—and I realized that I didn’t see this side of Uncle Mike very often anymore. There was a time when I wouldn’t have known there was another side to him.

Ruth polished off her mead—which she told Uncle Mike she usually didn’t like. We both ate the last of the stew and homemade bread and said our good-byes.

Ruth stood by her car for a moment, looking thoughtful. Then she looked at me. “Was I bespelled?”

“Nope,” I told her. “He can, but he doesn’t. Won’t do it at his place of business.” I didn’t feel obligated to tell her that he’d started to—because I believed Uncle Mike that he hadn’t done it intentionally.

“He was funny and kind,” she said.

“Mostly people are just people when you get to know them,” I told her. “Even fae people.”

“Did you plan this with him?”

I shook my head. “I did not tell him we were coming. He’s an old friend of mine—but he doesn’t usually give me that sort of personal attention when I come here. He definitely knew who you were, and gave you the red-carpet treatment. Someone clued him in, but it wasn’t me.”

I wondered if it was Zee, but that didn’t feel like something he’d do.

“Why did he make such a fuss?” she demanded, and there was a hint of fear in the air. “I’m nobody.”

“That’s not true,” I told her. “As to why . . . for the same reason that anyone treating with the US government puts its best foot forward. They don’t want you scared. They don’t want a war. They want an agreement that everyone can live with—on both sides.”

“You like him,” she said. It was almost an accusation.

I nodded. “I do, and so do most people—fae or not.”

“You trust him.”

That was harder. “I trust him to be himself,” I told her. “I won’t say he isn’t dangerous. But I’ve seen him protect two men, humans whom he did not know, at a significant risk to himself. He knew that those men were important to me—but the chance of my finding out that he had been there and done nothing was, in my estimate and his, not very great. He did it because it was the right thing to do.”

“They are not Christians,” she said. “They are not moral people.”

She said it as if it were a mantra, something she’d been taught. I’d heard it just the other day in a JLS sound bite on Facebook. As if only Christians were moral. As if all Christians were moral.

My old pastor liked to say that church is a hospital for the sick, not a mausoleum for the saints.

“They do not lie,” I said, choosing my words with care. “Otherwise they are, morally, a great deal like us. Their morality spans the spectrum of good and evil. Like us, they have rulers—and those rulers, pragmatically, know that they have to enforce laws that keep the peace between fae and humans.”

“Okay,” she said. She stared at Uncle Mike’s for a moment. “You’ve made me think about things that I thought my mind was made up about. I’m not saying I’ve changed my mind. Just that I’m reconsidering.”

“That is very”—what could I say that didn’t sound patronizing?—“open-minded of you.”

She looked at me. “You seem so straightforward. Jake thinks that you are your husband’s minion, doing the great Alpha werewolf’s bidding, poor human that you are. But you are your own person, aren’t you? And you aren’t nearly as straightforward as you appear to be.”

“Stick with me,” I intoned lightly, “and I’ll have you thinking that Adam and I, that the werewolves, are the good guys.”

She held out her hand, so I did the same and we shook. She started to say something, shook her head, and got in her car. She gave me a wave as she drove away.

“I hope I didn’t make a mistake,” I muttered.

“That’s both of us,” said Uncle Mike, who was somehow right behind me. “But all you can do is show them your cards and hope they show you theirs. It might have been nice if you’d warned me that you were coming.”

I smiled grimly at him. “You knew.”

“Kinsey saw her in the parking lot,” Uncle Mike told me. “But I could have used more time.”

“I may trust you, Uncle Mike,” I told him, “but you have twenty or more fae in there that might owe allegiance to any one of the Gray Lords. If I’d told you we were coming, it could have compromised her safety. Isn’t her safety the real reason you joined us for lunch?”

“Well, now,” said Uncle Mike, “can’t I flirt with a pair of pretty women when they come to dine at my place without getting accused of ulterior motivation?”

I shook my head and laughed. “No.”

“That’s all right, then,” he said happily.

* * *

? ? ?

Tad was at the shop by himself when I got back. His hands were newly bandaged and he was reading a book.

“Hey, Mercy,” he said. He held up a hand. “Look what I did. The lady at the doc-in-a-box said they’d heal in a week or so if I gave them a chance.”

“What are you doing here?” I demanded. “I sent you home.”