Bruce didn’t have that problem. He stepped closer to the bed and peered at the man’s bloody face. “You’re a mess, and they can’t clean it unless they can see it.”
Wulfric’s gaze shifted to Bruce. “I thought you might be able to see through the glamour.”
“The what?”
“Fairy glamour. It puts out an illusion that most people can’t see through.”
Oh right. Nero had mentioned that when they’d first arrived in the barn. They’d done something then to dispel the illusion, but obviously it had worn off because no one but Bruce could see the truth.
“So even magical people can’t see through it?” Bruce asked. Laddin had said that paranormal folks could see fairies, so a powerful werewolf like Nero should have been able to see through a fairy glamour.
Wulfric’s lip twitched up. “I see your brother isn’t the only smart one in the family. Let’s just say that this is an extra-strong glamour.”
That explained why Nero couldn’t see through it, but not why Wulfric felt he had to keep up the illusion in the first place. Thinking he might as well get started, Bruce went into the bathroom and filled a basin with water. The first step was to clean out the wounds. Then he’d see what mess was underneath.
“I thought that cleric woman healed you,” he said as he came out with washcloth and basin. There was a basic first-aid kit by the bed, but it was nearly empty. He’d have to send someone for the full med kit, if there even was one.
“She did, but all magic requires belief,” Wulfric answered. “You should remember that.”
He would. “She looked like someone who believed.”
“She does. I don’t.”
Bruce paused just before dabbing at Wulfric’s face. “You don’t believe in magic?”
“Not really.”
“Aren’t you over two hundred years old? And a werewolf who uses a fairy glamour?”
Again, the guy’s lips twitched. “Irony is one of the few joys left to me.” And while Bruce stared at him, Wulfric’s shoulder lifted in a weak shrug. “They believe, and so the glamour gets stronger when they’re here. They want me healed, so her spell worked to keep me alive.”
“But you don’t want any of it?” He’d met many people who didn’t care if they saw tomorrow, usually the severely depressed and the elderly. He supposed a two-hundred-year-old guy would count as elderly, though the body he saw—even the injured one—looked to be around thirty years old. If it wasn’t for the swollen, damaged face, he’d seem as vital as anyone, even if he was on the thin side.
“I don’t believe in any of it. There’s a difference.”
Not one that Bruce could understand, so he focused instead on what he did know. He rinsed out the washcloth and held it up. “This could hurt a bit.” Or a lot.
“If I can use a fairy glamour, I can dull pain.”
Really? “I thought you didn’t believe in it.”
The guy’s eyes flashed with humor. “I believe in the hydrocodone I took an hour ago.”
Now that was something Bruce understood. He started cleaning out Wulfric’s wounds. He was as gentle as he could be, but the guy’s face needed a plastic surgeon. “I don’t usually work on this end,” he said. “I’m the ‘scoop them up and get them to a hospital’ guy.”
“And now you’re the werewolf who eats a fairy apple so he can save the world.”
Bruce didn’t even blink. “There’s lots of irony there too, if you care to look.”
“I am. Believe me, I am.”
Well, wasn’t that cryptic? “Care to explain how I’m going to do that?”
“You’re the one who ate the apple. Don’t you know?”
Bruce shook his head. “All I’ve got is a bunch of murderous fairies telling me I’m going to save them.”
“My mother says it too. About you saving the world.”
