“What’s her name?” Patrick asked.
“Our nanny?” Thomas replied.
“Your daughter.”
Both bristled at the suggestion the baby in the crib was theirs, but Patrick pretended not to notice.
“She’snotour daughter,” Margeaux said coolly.
Patrick hit the Record button on his app. “Then explain to me what happened. How old is she?”
“Ourdaughter would be the same age. Ten months, three weeks,” Thomas said.
“When did you suspect she wasn’t yours? Have you done a DNA test?”
“No. We don’t need one. I know she isn’t ours,” Margeaux said. “I want our daughter found. Surely the SOA has fae contacts it can reach out to and demand the return of our child?”
“That would require going through diplomatic channels, ma’am. The fae are considered members of sovereign nations.”
“Then maybe you should wake up a diplomat,” Thomas snapped with all the expectation of being obeyed.
Patrick clenched his teeth for a second.Rich people. So fucking demanding.
“Overtures to the fae aren’t done lightly. The SOA will need more than your word about the situation.” Patrick raised a hand to forestall an angry tirade as Thomas opened his mouth. “That’s thelaw. A Petition to Compel needs to be filed with the courts first before anything can be done. Have your lawyers started that process?”
“Our lawyers have been informed of the situation. My coven is helping to provide evidence,” Margeaux said.
“That’s a start. I’d like to examine your daughter’s aura, if that’s all right?”
“I don’t appreciate your insistence on calling it our daughter,” Thomas said coldly. “Genevieve is our daughter, not that creature.”
“She’s still a child. It’s not her fault she’s in this situation.”
Patrick approached the crib and rested his hands on the railing, staring down at the changeling sitting amidst plush designer blankets. She looked up at him without making a sound, tiny hands clenched into fists atop her chubby thighs.
“Hi there,” Patrick said softy. “I won’t hurt you.”
Only a quarter of the world’s population carried magic in their souls, but every living creature had an aura, that extension of their soul. Those who came from the preternatural world or beyond the veil felt different to magic users. Patrick’s magic hadn’t recognized the child as anything but human when he first arrived, but he knew fae magic was insidious. Sometimes, you never knew they were there until it was too late.
Changelings were adept at pretending to be human, no matter their age.
Patrick reached for the baby, letting his fingers hover above her upturned head. He called up his magic, pushing it out of his soul and through his shields. He ignored the soft, disgusted sound Margeaux made behind him. Patrick knew his magic, damaged as it was, felt wrong to other magic users, and was part of the reason he’d never had a partner. Right now, he had a job to do, and no amount of attitude from the Wisterias would stop him from doing it.
Pale blue sparks flickered at his fingertips before gently falling like rain down on the baby. He blinked, eyes filling with the shine of the baby’s aura—brighter than any human was capable of giving off.
Patrick swallowed, fighting the desire to look away. He pushed aside memories of August, when he’d been forced to take shine on order of a god to save a werecreature’s life. In the end, he’d survived sexual assault perpetuated by a now deceased master vampire and death herself in the form of Santa Muerte, a Mexican folk goddess. The shine of a soul still left a bad taste in his mouth these days that always made him think of marigolds.
The baby’s aura had a depth to it no human’s ever would. It felt otherworldly to his senses, recognition difficult to pin down, but the difference was stark when one knew what to look for. Patrick made a fist, snuffing out his magic.
The baby never blinked.
He looked away from her in favor of studying the photographs artfully decorating the nursery walls—every single picture that of a newborn baby who wasn’t sitting in the crib. Whatever glamour the changeling had carried over the weeks or months had slowly started to fade in this city of iron, stripping the changeling of an armor she still needed to survive.
Changelings were fae children swapped for human babies, usually within weeks of birth. Patrick had a feeling the Wisterias’ daughter had been missing for months rather than days. Until the glamour started to really fade, this child had been loved by her parents, and now that love was gone.
The changeling unclenched her fists and raised her arms, reaching for him. Patrick hesitated before smoothing his hand over her head, pushing back some of her thick hair. It felt like the finest of silk beneath his hand.
“You’re right. She isn’t yours,” Patrick said, not looking at the Wisterias.
