Page 53 of Be the Serpent

“He’s no blood of yours, little hero, whatever you’ve been told.”

A bubble of anger formed in my chest. I narrowed my eyes. “You were there when he divorced my mother,” I said. “You were there when August and I both made our choice. And you were there when Faerie decided on this ridiculous idea that humans don’t count. If you didn’t want me to call him my father, you should have made that title a little more connected to biology, and a little less connected to civility. Whatever you think about the world you helped to make, he’s mine, and I don’t know why he’s standing there like a damn lawn gnome, but I don’t like it. Please give him back.”

For the first time since our frenzied arrival in the receiving room, I realized who else wasn’t here. I blinked again, then glared. “I’d also like my squire returned, if you don’t mind. I’m sort of responsible for his care and well-being, and misplacing him reflects really poorly on me.”

“The Daoine Sidhe boy?”

“You should know his name by now.” Oh, I liked this man less and less the more time I spent with him—and I hadn’t liked him all that much when he’d just been the missing patriarch who ran out on all of Faerie.

Tybalt’s hand settled on my shoulder, a warm reminder that picking this fight probably wasn’t the world’s best idea if I wanted to walk away from it, or if I wanted to survive to find Stacy.

“He went with the dog man to find you,” said Oberon. “I’m sure he’ll come running back at any moment. Leaving your kind alone in the mortal world has accelerated your idea of urgency beyond all reason.”

“And whose fault is that?” I asked.

Oberon sighed. “You blame me for a great deal.”

“You deserve to be blamed for a great deal,” I shot back. “My father. Simon Torquill. Now.”

“I thought you might like to converse without being overheard,” said Oberon, in the mulish tone of a child being denied a dearly wanted treat. He waved a hand. The green, verdant smell of an oak forest in the summer afternoon rose around us, too dense and complicated to be comprehensible as a magical signature, too distinctly Oberon to be anything else. I suppose that when you’re the one making the rules, it doesn’t seem as important for them to apply to you directly.

Simon took a sudden, deep breath, coughing, as he jerked upright and away from the rail. He turned to face us, eyes gone wide and bewildered.

“October!” he exclaimed. “When did you get here?”

I decided to stab Oberon at the earliest reasonable opportunity.

“A few minutes ago,” I said. “You were a little bit distracted by being under some sort of stasis spell cast by an asshole. It’s okay. He won’t be doing that again.” I shifted my gaze back to Oberon as I spoke, glaring.

He sighed. “No, I won’t enchant the man you claim as your father to keep him from our counsel. You have my apologies. When last I walked among my children, such an act would be civil, even expected, in a circumstance such as this one.”

“Sure,” I said. “Because Faerie used to be a dictatorship controlled by giant jerks, and now, we’re still pretty awful, but we’re not quite as bad. Good to have that worked out. Simon, Tybalt and I were about to go after Stacy. Do you want to come with us, or stay here and help Arden deal with the cleanup?”

“I . . . Where would I be of the most use?”

Selfishly, I wanted to say “with me.” I wanted more backup than it looked like I was going to have, what with Quentin off somewhere in the knowe hunting for a door that might or might not currently exist. I felt bad about the thought of running off and leaving him, but not as bad as I would have if this hadn’t been the definition of friendly ground. Arden would tell him where I’d gone, and he could either stay with the Browns or find May and help her get Raysel back to the house. He had options.

Simon, though . . . Simon would absolutely come with me if I asked him to, and then we’d have to deal with all the people he left behind. The issue with having allies is that your allies have allies, too, and sometimes they need to not be inconsiderate assholes and run off with their stepdaughters when their husband and wife are elsewhere, probably worried about them.

“Here,” I said firmly. “Tell Arden you want to help and I’m sure she’ll put you to work. Just . . . borrow a phone from somebody and call Saltmist, okay? I don’t want to be the reason Dianda declares war on the Mists.”

He smiled, still looking more than a little shaken. “I can do that.”

“Great.” I watched him go inside before I turned back to Oberon. “All I have to do is drink this and I can track her without worrying about the magic binding thing? Tybalt can’t borrow blood the way I do. Is he safe?”

“As long as she doesn’t target him directly, he will be,” said Oberon. “His veins carry the base of Malvic, my son, and nothing of hers. She has no hooks into him.”

“The Llangefni screen thing from before was infectious,” I said.

“It latched on to you because of the way your mortality encourages magic to move through your body. From there, it could be spread to others whose magic moves the same. The cat cannot amplify it in the same fashion.”

“Great.” I uncorked the bottle and lifted it to my lips.

The contents smelled like Oberon’s magic, like an entire forest impossibly distilled and concentrated into a single small vessel, a few ounces of liquid containing the essence of a whole biome. Normally, blood smells like blood to me, repulsive and appealing in equal measure, even when it’s been poisoned or carries traces of a magic that should tell me not to touch it. This smelled like . . . dirt. Like grass and trees and dirt, and maybe a hint of deer urine. It didn’t smell like anything I particularly wanted to be putting in my mouth.

I glanced at Oberon. He was watching me, face neutral, not judging whatever I did next. Swell. I don’t like being told what to do; I like being left to walk into a situation without enough of a clue even less. If I’m not charging in completely half-cocked, I want to be as fully cocked as I can be. He knew something he wasn’t telling me.

Then again, I was going off to potentially kill his wife, so maybe he had good reason to be a little bit reluctant to help me out.