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The realization that I had to make that choice should have been like falling into the cold water of Lake Michigan. I should have staggered to my feet, blurted some excuse, and escaped, fleeing this perfect evening as fast as I could.
I didn't. The realization came hard and painful but bittersweet, too, as if I'd been mentally picking my way across the rocks for weeks now, this destination in view, getting ever closer until I reached it, dreading it a little, but knowing I had to get there. I had Gabriel--really had him--for those few hours, and maybe after tonight I'd choose to step back and I'd never have this again, and if that was the case, then I was grabbing it with both hands and hanging on while I could.
When I started yawning, I stifled it, but eventually Gabriel noticed.
"We should think about getting back," he said.
I nodded, and we did nothing more about it for at least an hour, talking instead about college, which subjects we'd liked and those we'd gritted our teeth through. Finally, yawning wasn't enough. My eyelids were flagging.
"Let's get you back," he said. "You spent last night in my office. You shouldn't spend this one on the beach."
I wanted to say I'd be fine with that, but as the alcohol slid from my bloodstream, I knew I shouldn't. If I'd come to the realization that something needed to change, I couldn't start by spending the night with Gabriel, however innocently.
We started out, still light-headed, joking about who was in better condition to drive, making each other walk straight lines and recite Sherlock Holmes quotes.
"The fact that you're admitting you can recite Holmes quotes proves you're in no shape to drive," I said as we crested the last rise.
"I've read the comics."
I laughed. "And that's better than admitting you read novels? How--?"
Gabriel grabbed my arm, and the next thing I knew I was staring at his back.
"Take three steps backward," he said.
It took a second to realize he was talking to someone else. I peeked around him to see a thin man, brown-haired, not much older than me. Or looking not much older than me, though I suspected he was many times my age.
Tristan raised a hand. "I come in peace."
"Bullshit." I sidestepped around Gabriel. "The last time we had contact with you, it was through your flunky, Macy Shaw, when she tried to kill us."
"In opposition to my explicit directions. I made it very clear you weren't to be harmed. Either of you. That's the problem dealing with humans. Petty grievances and jealousies flare, and they ignore orders. Logic, too, as it seems. If one has to deal with them, one is better choosing siol. They're usually able to rise above that."
"Siol?" I tried to move closer, but Gabriel gripped my arm, and he was right. Maintain distance.
"Descendants," Tristan said. "For us, it means those descended from our kind. Disgynyddion in Welsh, but that's a mouthful. In my language, it's diyskynnyas, which is just as bad, so we'll stick to Gaelic. I'm not Gaelic. Or Welsh. But you are. Both of you. Part Tylwyth Teg, part human, part . . . other things. Cwn Annwn among them for you, Eden. That's the thing about siol. They're terribly attractive to fae, at least as breeding stock. Keep hitting the same lineage over and over, and eventually you get quite an interesting mix."
I glanced at Gabriel. "So that's where we get it from. The hyperverbal gene. Fae do love to talk."
"True . . ." Tristan said. "But in this case, I believe you're the one who wanted to talk to me. You left an invitation." He held out a scrap of notepaper. On it I could see my phone number . . . in my own handwriting.
"You're Jon Childs," I said.
"Among others. But you've invited me to talk, so I'm taking you up on the offer, though this might be a somewhat one-sided conversation. It appears you have a problem I may have caused."
"Besides the fact that your psycho assistant tried to murder us?"
"Yes, besides that."
Gabriel's hand moved to my shoulder. "We have nothing to say to you, whatever you are."
"Spriggan," Tristan said. "I'll give that information freely as a token of my goodwill. As for what a spriggan is--"
"You murdered Ciara Conway," I said.
"Mmm, no. Macy did, attempting to restrain her. I will admit, however, that I did utilize her corpse in ways you might have found disturbing."
"You left her head in my bed."
