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Patrick received his award. He cobbled together a hasty acceptance speech. Then he signed books, posed for photos, answered reader questions . . . and, at the first possible moment, made a beeline for the exit, waving off Carla's protests with, "I'll be right back."
As he reached the rear halls, he broke into a jog. He hadn't just made a mistake. He'd mistreated someone who thought she was helping him, and to a bocan, that was intolerable.
He would make it up to Lisa. Step One: get her out of that supply closet.
He wheeled into the staff room and--
The closet door was open. His blazer lay over the back of a chair.
"Cach," he muttered.
He had to find her. Preferably before she told anyone he'd locked her in a closet. While the compulsion should leave her confused about what actually happened, there was a limit to how far he dared trust that.
He wheeled to go . . . and Carla moved into the doorway, two other librarians flanking her rear.
"Sorry to run out." He held up his blazer. "I was worried I'd forget this. Thank you so much for the award. It was a huge honor, and I hope we can chat another time, but right now--"
"Right now, we need to talk about your son, bocan."
Carla moved into the room, her companions blocking the exit. Patrick narrowed his eyes and picked up the faint glow of a glamour on all three. He mentally kicked himself for his carelessness and spat a "Cach."
"Yes, cach, bocan. We do thank you for so graciously accepting our invitation. Now, let's talk about your son."
Patrick eased back and pasted on his best devil-may-care smile. "Oh, you're going to need to be a lot more specific. That's a cast of thousands."
"But only one who counts. Gwynn."
"Gwynn?" His heart thudded. Gabriel. They were after Gabriel. He kept the smile plastered in place. "So one of my human lovers named our son after Gwynn ap Nudd? That's ironic. I like it, though. Gwynn, legendary king of the fae."
"I mean the real Gwynn. The real king. His reincarnation."
"Mmm, if you mean the Matilda legend, they aren't exactly reincarnations--"
"You know what I mean. There is a new Gwynn here. In Chicago. And you are his sire."
"Me? You're joking, right?" He looked across their faces. "You aren't joking. You're saying one of my epil is the new Gwynn? Well, this is interesting. And useful. Very useful. You don't happen to know which of my sons it is, do you?"
Carla studied him. Then she said, "How about you just tell us where to find all your recent ones."
"Find them? I rarely even know when I have them. I'm a bocan. You can't seriously think I take any interest in my epil."
"Oh, I think you do, at least in this one. And you'd better know where to find him, or you're going to wish you did."
Patrick sputtered a laugh and eased back. "Okay, I get it. I'm being pranked, right? I must be, because that line's so hackneyed, even I wouldn't use it."
"The sentiment remains, bocan. As you said yourself, a new Gwynn is useful. Extremely useful. We want access to him."
"Or you'll what? Talk very, very sternly to me? Take away my library privileges?"
Carla moved forward. "You don't want to know what we can do."
His hand shot out, grabbing her by the throat. "Oh, but I do. Now your two friends there are going to step aside, or you will find out what I can do."
"Do you think you can escape that easily, bocan? We didn't lure you into an old building for nothing. You'll find only two exits, both blocked with cold iron."
"Then there must be a third or you wouldn't be able to leave. You don't need to tell me where it is. I'll find it." Still holding Carla, he turned his face to the others. "Get out of my way."
