“Hey,” Jono yelled as he approached the limo. “What the bloodyfuckdo you think you’re doing? Your light was red, arsehole.”
The side passenger door opened up and a tall, lithe woman in an ankle-length wool coat with fur trim got out. Jono paused midstride, taking in her scent. Even without the strangely floral scent emanating from her, he’d have been hard-pressed to ignore her fae heritage upon first look. Her impossibly beautiful face was dominated by pale pink eyes, while her dark green hair was twisted back in a half dozen intricate braids. Her delicate ears were adorned with tiny hoops of gold that went from lobe to sharply pointed tip.
“Apologies for the damage to your car. Our metalsmith will be happy to fix it while we give you a ride home,” the fae woman said, her Irish accent a subtle hint in her voice.
Her voice was familiar to Jono only because he’d heard it on the other side of the mobile whenever he had to speak with Sage’s managing partner about her absences due to pack business. He’d never met the woman, and this wasn’t how he’d thought they’d be formally introduced.
“Deirdre?” Jono asked, unable to keep the wariness out of his voice.
The fae attorney gave him a slight smile as a stocky, barrel-chested man no taller than four feet got out of the limo. His wrinkled face was walnut brown, eyes the color of earth even though his hair and beard were the color of dirty snow. Unlike Deirdre, the dwarf wore grease-stained coveralls and didn’t look like he belonged in that limo at all.
“Dinnae worry. I’ll take good care of yuir car,” the dwarf said in a deep voice, his accent that of the Old Country more than Deirdre’s.
“I’m not giving you my car,” Patrick said.
The dwarf smiled, the wrinkles deepening in his face. “Never asked ye fer it.”
“I am sorry that we must meet under these circumstances, but the situation could not be helped.” Deirdre gestured with one leather-gloved hand at the open limo door. “My lord wishes to speak with you, alphas of the New York City god pack.”
The title made Jono clench his fist, because it wasn’t a title they publicly called themselves—yet. Jono glanced at Patrick, then around them at the people who were walking and driving past as if they weren’t standing in the middle of the street having a chat.
“Your doing?” Jono asked Patrick.
Patrick shook his head. “No.”
Jono looked at Deirdre again, meeting her gaze and not backing down. “You lot set your Wild Hunt on me last night.”
“We had no say in what happened last night. Please join us. Allow my lord a chance to explain,” Deirdre said.
Patrick stepped closer, his arm brushing against Jono’s. “I think we’re gonna have to take that ride.”
The dwarf walked forward, thrusting one large hand at them. “Your keys.”
“Just so we’re clear, I’m still not giving my car to you.”
Jono let Patrick set the terms even as he handed over the keys. The dwarf ignored them as he retreated to the damaged Mustang and got behind the wheel, starting the engine. Deirdre stepped aside, gesturing once again at the limo. Patrick eyed her warily, his mageglobe gone but magic sparking at his fingertips. He climbed inside the limo without further argument.
Jono could do nothing but follow him.
Inside, four posh, tan leather seats faced each other, two on each side. The partition was drawn up between where they sat and the driver up front. Deirdre deftly climbed inside and closed the limo door behind her, taking a seat beside a Seelieduine sídhefae lord that reeked of magic—a fae lord Jono recognized from August.
“You were at the Crimson Diamond,” Jono said as the limo pulled forward with a smoothness he’d have appreciated better if it didn’t feel like they’d been kidnapped.
The fae lord wore a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit. Silver hair fell to his shoulders, and his violet-eyed gaze held secrets Jono had no desire to share. A gold-tipped wooden cane rested at an angle against the opposite car door. The hand that gripped it was wrapped in silver filigree plates and links that arched over every knuckle and over the back to connect to a silver cuff. Gemstones adorned the larger plates, flashing in the light. Jono could practically taste the metal, making him wish he had some iron at hand.
“For a mediation, which you interrupted,” the fae lord said, his Irish accent thicker than Deirdre’s, but not by much, an echo of Ireland from long ago in his words.
Jono refused to apologize for their role in taking down Tremaine’s Night Court and handing it over to Lucien. He took the fae lord’s measure, aware that no name had been offered, but Jono remembered who Sage had wanted them to speak with.
“Tiarnán, is it? Could’ve rang us rather than run us off the road.”
“An unfortunate necessity, Jonothon.”
“This feels a little too mafia for my liking. What do you want?” Patrick said.
Tiarnán didn’t seem put off by Patrick’s direct demand. Beside him, Deirdre kept her mouth shut and her hands clasped together on her lap, but her attention never wavered.
“The Wild Hunt is not commanded by the Spring Queen. It is guided by a different hand. We had nothing to do with the ones who tried to claim you for eternity last night.”
