Hermes snapped his fingers, and another cookie appeared between them. He dipped it in his tea before popping it in his mouth to chew. “I guide the dead, but I’m not the only one who does so. Those prayers the Patriarch of Souls shepherds aren’t for me.”
“Then who are they for?”
“Peklabog.”
It was one thing to know a necromancer wanted the Morrígan’s staff, quite another to realize the human was only a proxy for a god of the Slavic underworld.
“Peklabog has to know we would go to war in his realm to retrieve the staff,” Órlaith said.
Hermes shrugged and sat up, swinging his leg back around to put both feet on the floor. “Medb is selling the staff for money instead of prayers. She isn’t the only one looking to make a killing off it.”
“Do you think he’s in London?” Patrick asked.
“Hard to say. Peklabog goes where he likes, much as I do.” Hermes set his teacup on the table and stood, bowing extravagantly to Órlaith. “Until we meet again.”
Hermes left through the veil, taking all the cookies on the platter with him. Patrick looked at the empty platter and sighed. “I’d say he’s worse than Wade, but no one is worse than Wade when it comes to stealing cookies.”
“The fledgling is sweet,” Órlaith said.
“The fledgling is a walking bottomless pit for a stomach.” Patrick gulped down some more tea, wishing it was coffee. “What do you have for me?”
“Rings. Two of them. Brigid placed the glamour, and we will want them returned after use. These are artifacts we do not want mortals to have.”
“I’ll make sure they get back to you.”
“Good.”
Órlaith set her teacup down and reached for the box, placing it between them on the love seat. Opening it revealed a pair of silver filigree rings that burned with magic to Patrick’s senses.
“May I?” Patrick asked.
At Órlaith’s nod, he picked one up, the spark of recognition in his magic hot in his soul. He turned the ring around, studying the knotwork and flowers carved with incredible precision into something so small.
“They will size to fit whoever wears them. The magic will mask itself once worn, and the glamour will give you a new face,” Órlaith said.
“The auctioneer is fae. Do you think he’ll be able to sense the magic?”
Órlaith frowned. “Who is the auctioneer?”
“Dillon Rossiter.”
“The name is not familiar.”
Patrick put the ring back in the box and pulled out his cell phone, unlocking it and swiping through to get to the encrypted folder stored on it. He pulled up a picture of Rossiter and showed it to her. Órlaith’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she studied the image.
“I do not know him, but that is not to say he isn’t fae. He could be from either court,” she said.
“Could it be a glamour?”
“We fae are not always what we seem when you meet us.”
Patrick nodded, thinking of Gerard. “But the rings will work?”
“My grandmother’s power can connect Tír na nÓg to the mortal world if she so wishes. The rings will work.” Órlaith reached for one of the tea sandwiches. “Let’s finish our tea, and you can tell me how your pack is doing.”
As much as Patrick wanted to take the rings and leave to get ready for tonight, he knew the polite thing to do was to stay. He didn’t know Órlaith well, not how he did Gerard, but sipping tea for another hour and making small talk wasn’t the worst way to spend a Sunday morning.
* * *
