I frowned at him. “I hope this kid inherits my sense of humor.”
Gallagher led the way around the house, and in the backyard, he seemed almost to draw shadows around himself as he unscrewed the floodlights one by one, then threw small rocks with unerring accuracy at the security lights over the broad back patio.
I followed him onto the porch, where he used brute strength to break the doorknob lock, then pull the door open. Wood creaked as the frame split beneath pressure from the still-engaged dead bolt, and the door swung open.
From just inside the back door, a green light flashed insistently against the kitchen wall—a high-tech alarm system with a touch screen, waiting to accept a four-digit code. Gallagher laid his entire huge right hand flat on the display, and it began to flash beneath his fingers in an irregular, fitful pattern. The system beeped softly for a second. Then it went dead, fried by thefae’s inability to operate electronic devices.
“That’s convenient,” I whispered.
Gallagher snorted softly. “Unless you want to be able to use a cell phone.”
I followed him through the dining room, across an ostentatious, marble-floored front entry and up a curving staircase, to where a set of double doors faced us from the end of the second-floor hallway. “Bingo,” I whispered.
While I watched from near the staircase, my heart racing with anticipation, he stalked silently toward the doors and threw them open. I held my breath, but there was no response from inside.
Gallagher growled, then stomped into the master bedroom, intentionally taking loud, aggressive footsteps. He reached to the left of the door and flipped on the overhead lights. He wanted his prey awake. And terrified.
A disoriented grumble echoed from the room, then became an inarticulate sound of confusion. And as I made my way slowly toward the master suite, the shouting started.
“Who the fuck are you? What the hell are you—?”
Something flew across the room, past the open double doorway, and I recognized the crunch of a cell phone smashing against the wall. A second after that, a clunky cordless landline phone followed.
“Take whatever you want. My billfold is on the dresser. Just take it and go. Please.” Malloy’s voice slid down my spine like melting ice, leaving a cold trail the length of my body. I consciously remembered very little of hearing him speak, yet my body knew his voice...
“Do you remember me?” Gallagher’s demand was a rumble like the growl of heavy machine parts. The grinding of a blade against a whetstone. “Think hard.”
“You...”
I stepped into the doorway. Across the room, Oliver Malloy sat in the center of a king-size bed. His legs were a thin outline beneath the rust-colored satin comforter, his spindly arms ending in knobby fingers that clutched the covers.
He hadn’t noticed me yet. His terror was focused entirely on Gallagher, who loomed over him from the side of the bed, the threat of violence evident in each tense bulge of muscle and every breath that expanded his powerful chest.
I blinked, and suddenly Gallagher’s faded red baseball hat was gone. In its place sat the traditional cap of thefear dearg, no longer glamoured as part of his human disguise. Malloy’s eyes widened. His hands began to tremble. “You...”
“And me,” I said from the doorway. Startled, he turned to me, and his gaze dropped to my stomach. I saw the conclusion reflected on his horrified features. Terror shined in his eyes.
“The Savage Spectacle.”
“We took it down,” I told him.
“And now you’ve come for me.” He understood his fate.
I nodded calmly, content to let thefuriaerage inside me. But Gallagher had more to say.
“We will make a rattle for our child from your teeth and phalanges, and stacking toys from your vertebrae. She will teethe on your kneecaps and we will rock her to sleep whispering tales of your bloody demise.”
I ran one hand over my stomach, and the sound of Malloy’s rapid, panicked breathing made thefuriaesquirm with delight inside me. “Wait. Let’s talk about this,” he said. “I have money.”
“This isn’t about money,” Gallagher growled. And though we could certainly have used some cash, his vow prevented him from killing for profit.
“I can help you,” Malloy insisted. “I can get you out of the country. Do you need passports? ID? A private plane? Name it. It’s yours.”
The plane might have been nice, if we’d had anywhere to go. And if we’d already found the rest of our cryptid family members. But even if he’d wanted to—and no matter what he was offered—a redcap could not abandon his vow.
Gallagher shook his head. “You know what we need.”
“They’ll catch you.” Malloy’s voice was steady, but his hands were not. “People saw you fight in the ring. They’ll know who this was.”
