In situations like this, speed limits are optional. The benefit of being on a bike is that I can slide between cars. But so can the poenpoeth and they are surprisingly good at avoiding their wheels too, which is rather unfortunate.
“Where now?”
Megan’s head rests on my shoulder and I can tell that this is a struggle for her. “Left up Robinson. Left again.”
“And then?” I follow her directions at a speed that is illegal, but still safe for me. I’m fae, so my reflexes are faster than a human’s.
I have one small magic that has saved me many a speeding ticket—I can make the cops forget I’m there. I could’ve done the same to Megan in the shop, but I didn’t.
Maybe after I take her home, I will. But I can taste the lie forming and I don’t like it.
I’ve never believed in the bullshit about finding the one woman to take home to faery as a reward for hunting. There was no spark when I met Megan, but she’s pretty and clearly has a thing for fairies. And she is the most promising prospect I’ve found to take home. I don’t even care if she picks someone else. I’ll have done what I was told to do, and I’ll be home.
The thought of returning to faery spurs me on.
This is her street. I watch the numbers flick by then slow and pull into the driveway. “This is your house?”
“Not my house…it’s a share house.”
“A what?”
“I have two roommates.”
Oh shit.That changes things rather dramatically. I glance up the street as one of the poenpoeth hops around the corner. It pauses, as though waiting to see what I’ll do next. “Will they be home?”
“I don’t know.”
There are no cars in the driveway, and no lights on that I can see. “Where are your keys?” I slide her handbag off my shoulder and hand it to her.
She pokes around before pulling out two sets, one for the shop and one for the house—or at least I hope it is.
I gather her up. My hand brushes the welt on her leg, and she cries out.
“I’m sorry.” The welts shouldn’t be causing her that much pain. She’s reacting differently to me.
We manage to reach the front door, and I unlock it before carrying her in. I shut and lock the door, and a measure of relief sweeps through me. I roll my shoulders to ease the tension that has gathered. As long as no one lets the poenpoeth in by accident, we’ll be safe.
“Where’s your room?”
“Down the hall, at the end.”
Her head is lolling in a way I don’t like, and she feels like a limp rag doll in my arms. A feverish doll. Her skin is burning my hands. My own welt is hot and sore when it gets bumped, but her fever is everywhere. I put her on the bed. “I need to see the welts.”
She pulls up the skirt of her dress. Both her knees are speckled with blood where she fell. Where the poenpoeth stung her is a large red swelling. I place my fingers gently on her swollen skin, and she pulls away with a hiss.
“And the other one?”
She touches her stomach, beneath her breasts, of which there should be only two, but it looks like there’s a third one growing just off center.
“I’m going to need to undo your dress.”
