“Laurie!” he exclaims, wrapping Laurie in yet another enthusiastic hug. The easy affection continues to surprise me.
I watch this interaction with growing fascination. The physical affection, the genuine joy at seeing each other, the complete lack of political calculation or hidden agenda. Have I ever seen such a thing? I’m not sure I have.
The next few minutes involve a flurry of introductions and explanations that I only half follow. Something about Selwyn declaring the house a sanctuary, about protection during the fey invasion, about love and foresight and bargains made before meetings. I file it all away to discuss with my brother later.
What strikes me most forcefully is the atmosphere. These people have clearly been through trauma. I can see it in the way some of them hold themselves, in the careful spaces they maintain, in the quick glances that assess escape routes. But they’ve built something warm and stable together. Something that feels like safety.
“You are staying for lunch!” The golden-haired kelpie declares.
I glance at Laurie, who’s looking at me hopefully. The smart thing would be to decline, to return to Downing Street and the urgent business of saving this world. But something about this place, these people, makes me curious.
“That sounds... interesting,” I hear myself saying.
The lunch that follows is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. The dining room is elegant and clearly designed for large gatherings, with a table that stretches from one end to the other. But instead of the formal seating arrangements I’m accustomed to, everyone crowdstogether at one end, elbows bumping as they pass dishes and talk over each other.
There are perhaps twenty people present, a mix of ages and species that somehow works together seamlessly. Several children are integrated into the group rather than segregated at a separate table, and I watch with fascination as they’re treated as full participants in the conversation.
The food is hearty and homemade. Roast chicken with herbs, vegetables that clearly came from their own garden, bread that fills the air with the scent of fresh yeast. It tastes of love and shared work, and unlike all other human food I’ve ever had, it is delicious.
I find myself seated between Laurie and a woman who introduces herself as Cara, and across from a cluster of children who seem determined to include me in their animated discussion about whether dragons prefer to eat fish or sheep.
“They like both,” I tell a serious-faced little girl named Sorcha, who appears to be wearing armour made of decorated cardboard. “But they’re very particular about the quality. Dragons have excellent taste.”
This leads to an intense debate about dragons that somehow encompasses everything from gemstone sparkliness to the proper way to polish armour. I find myself drawn into the conversation despite myself, charmed by their earnest curiosity and complete lack of fear.
When was the last time I talked to children? They are usually kept away from court, and I now can’t even remember when I last saw a child. And also, when was the last time anyone asked my opinion about dragons, or anything, because they thought I might know somethinginteresting rather than because they were trying to extract strategic information?
The conversation flows around me, multiple discussions happening simultaneously with people jumping between topics as something catches their interest. There’s an easiness to it that I’ve never witnessed before, the kind of comfort that comes from people who know they belong.
After the meal, as people begin to disperse to various activities, a young man approaches me with obvious reluctance. He’s beautiful in the way vampires often are, but his brown eyes hold a wariness that speaks of hard experiences.
“You’re Dyfri,” he says without preamble.
“I am,” I confirm, immediately alert. “And you are?”
“Ned.” He glances back toward a group of children who are now engaged in some complex game involving a ball and much giggling. “Those are mine. Three of them.”
I follow his gaze and feel something warm settle in my chest at the sight of children playing.
“So, I have a vested interest in what you are planning,” he says. “I don’t want my children to grow up enslaved by the fey.”
My heart picks up pace, but it is fine. These people are clearly Laurie and Selwyn’s. I don’t need to deny anything.
“I know things,” Ned continues, drawing my attention back to him. “About magic. Old magic, the kind your people might not know about.”
My attention sharpens. Information from unexpected sources has proven invaluable before. “What sort of things?”
“There’s a standing stone.” His voice is carefully neutral, but I can sense the importance he places on his words. “It’s sacred to vampires. We fought for the right to possess the territory, back when the fey didn’t own everything.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I don’t understand the full magic technicalities of it, but the standing stone is a key. A lynchpin. A stabiliser.” His brown eyes meet mine steadily. “If you want to destroy all the portals at once, you need it.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Another piece of the puzzle, offered freely by someone who has every reason to distrust my intentions. The standing stone he’s describing sounds like exactly what we need to anchor the spell Ninian was explaining.
“Thank you,” I manage, meaning it more than he could possibly know. “This information could be crucial.”
Ned nods curtly, then calls to his children. “Come on, kids. Time to help with the washing up.”
