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Smallish cow? Overlarge sheep? Massive pig? The jury was still out, because I couldn’t see it properly through a bunch of guards, who were crowding around to rub the meat with some kind of spice paste.
Others were putting pots on fires, decorating weathered old picnic tables with what looked suspiciously like Claire’s best bedsheets, carting in armloads of firewood they’d gotten who knew where, and chasing off a couple of little dogs, which had been drawn by the aroma. Large lanterns were being lit in the trees and smaller ones were being strung on ropes crisscrossing the garden; wooden kegs were being brought out of tents, including one that splashed Soini in the face when he opened it wrong; and groups of fey were gathered around large pans, loudly debating sauce ingredients.
Somebody brushed past Claire with a question in a language I didn’t know, but which caused her to spin and yell after him: “No! And stay out of my pantry!”
Having scared off the fey, she turned her ire on Caedmon, who was still lounging in the swing, still smiling that little smile and still holding Louis-Cesare’s eyes.
“Do stay for dinner,” he offered, which for some reason made Louis-Cesare flush almost as dark as his rose.
“Caedmon!” Claire’s voice snapped. “What is this?”
“A celebration. It’s not often we have the chance to welcome a new cousin, especially one so skilled.”
“Cousin?” Claire looked confused.
I glanced around. That was all we needed. Another fey.
“My apologies about your treatment earlier,” Caedmon said, looking past her—at nothing, because there was nobody behind me. “Reiðarr has been informed of his error. He and the others have been instructed to treat you with the respect due your new station.”
“Station? What station?” Claire asked, looking confused as I met Caedmon’s eyes.
And realized that he was talking to me.
A weird sort of chill crept up my spine.
“I told you before I left,” Caedmon said, glancing at Claire. “She is vargr. We all saw it—”
“What?” Louis-Cesare said, looking back and forth between me and Caedmon.
“—and as part fey—”
“What?”
“—she is to be welcomed by her family, as is tradition. One codified by treaty.” That last bit had a bite to it, probably because Louis-Cesare’s eyes had settled on Caedmon with an expression I really didn’t like.
“What? Wait.” That was me.
But Caedmon didn’t wait, although his smile acquired an edge. “And as there seems to be no way to tell which clan she belongs to, after so long, I have decided to adopt her into our little family. To the newest Blarestri warrior!” he said, hoisting a mug of something.
Suddenly, I was surrounded by fey, dozens of them, laughing and talking and slapping me on the back. And shoving a beer stein into my hands, while Louis-Cesare stared at Caedmon. And if looks could kill . . .
* * *
—
“Dory, what the hell?” Claire and I had ducked back into the hall, while the festivities exploded outside. And while Louis-Cesare and Caedmon faced off, because it had just dawned on my boyfriend that the king of the fey was trying to poach me.
“You tell me. Did you know about this?”
She looked shocked. “No! Or, rather, after last night I knew what you were—are—I mean, what you have to be—”
“Claire! I’m not fey!”
“But . . . you’re vargr. That’s a fey talent. It doesn’t exist anywhere else—”
“No, it doesn’t. But vampire mental powers do!”
“You think that’s what this is?”
