Their first few attempts had not landed, so they were down to this final device. Miranda was in charge of the Task Force assigned to these cases, though…technically, she was on leave and therefore not supposed to be working, let alone taking missions in the field.
But Miranda was nearest the scene when the call went out. She couldn’t stand back while people were attacked. Devin was, of course, furious about it, insisting that she wait for her replacement before charging in headfirst. But she’d been cooped up for seven months now. She was getting bored.
Miranda gave Devin a nod and his eyes narrowed with frustration. He was going to be very cross later.
But when she leapt from cover, drawing the fae’s attention, Devin seamlessly used the distraction as planned. He slid the device between the fae’s legs, released the catch, and waited. The mechanism opened and a light burst from a compartment. The beam had no effect on Devin, since it was designed to inhibit Day Fae, but the fae hurling fireballs from their palm suddenly screamed in agony. The target crumbled to the floor when the device let out a small popping sound and gas poured into the room.
Devin stood above the noxious cloud, covering his mouth with his sleeve. The first part of the trap was specific to the fae target, but the gas would knock out anyone caught in the initial burst.
“The team should be here soon for clean-up and processing,” Miranda said as Devin used his boot to shut the device, then bent down to restrain the target. People hopped up on Divinityrequired specialized restraints specific to their race, the fae kind were laced with iron to keep them from breaking through it. “Which means I won’t be staying out at all hours with reports. And no bending to pick up evidence. Is that better?”
Devin stormed to her side. “Better, would be if my very pregnant wife didn’t throw herself into danger in the first place.” He crossed his arms. “You promised Allura.”
Miranda winced. “Does she have to know?”
“How are you going to keep this from her? You have—” His face went white. “Mira, you’re bleeding.”
“What?” She looked down. “Oh, it’s just a scratch—”
“It’s more than a scratch. No more arguments. We’re going home.” He swept her into his arms and Miranda rolled her eyes.
“You’re overreacting.”
“Allura won’t agree.”
“Ah, fuck. I can’t hide this, can I?”
“It’s your own fault.”
In their carriage—which they weresupposedto use to attend an important political dinner with Lord and Lady Wilde when a commotion on this side of the park drew Miranda’s attention and then, well, no dinner party—Devin tied off Miranda’s leg at the knee. It would slow the blood oozing from the gash on her calf.
Her parents would understand. They didn’t approve of her career, but she hadn’t needed their approval and she learned that, when pushed, they chose to love her more than cling to their traditions. Devin said nothing as the carriage rattled along, bobbing on the uneven dirt streets until they transitioned to the cobbled roads of the Garrison. Once they reached their home, he threw the carriage door open and then spun to lift her before she could attempt the two steps to the sidewalk. Up the stairs to the door, he kicked at it with his boot.
“Why does this feel so familiar?” He asked, partly seething, partly amused.
She snuggled into his arms, not willing to admit that getting off her feet felt amazing.
Haversham answered the door and merely stepped aside with a nod. They had not even made it through the threshold when a nine-year-old girl marched down the stairs. Long, pointed ears stuck out from dark silky hair and her eyes—a soft, human shade of brown—narrowed with anger.
“How could you!”
“Sweetheart, it’s really—”
Their eldest, Allura, pointed swiftly and silently toward the sitting room in a manner that brokered no argument. She followed Devin with a huff and glared as her mother was nestled into the couch, her leg propped on the table. Allura heaved a case from the corner, the one she kept stocked with all manner of first aid and various emergency supplies. She opened the case and, with the silent calm of a surgeon, began to tend to her mother’s wound.
“You promised no more missions in your condition. What if something happened to the baby?”
“I know, but I was careful and your father—”
“Daddy agrees with me, so I know you did that thing where you look at him funny and he does whatever you want.”
Devin crossed his arms, nodding in agreement, then he frowned. “Hang on, that is not how it works, Allie.”
Allura rolled her eyes as she slipped on gloves and began cleaning with gauze and some concoction that bubbled when it hit the open wound. Miranda winced, but did her best to hide her discomfort.
“Wait,” Devin hung his head. “Where’s the nanny?”
Allura ignored him.
