“Are you done now?” Striker asked, and Kett smiled as she stepped back into her dress, feeling invigorated, feeling like herself, feeling better than she had since before that damn tiger ripped her leg open.
“Thanks, by the way,” she said to Striker, who just shrugged. To Chance she added, “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“About the enchantment on you,” Chance said. “I thought Striker might be able to lift it. And now,” her lovely eyes sparkled, “you and Bael have something in common.”
Abruptly, Kett’s happiness morphed into a mallet and smacked her on the head. Her smile vanished.
“Don’t you want to have something in common with him?” Chalia asked. “He’s gorgeous, Kett. And he clearly adores you.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Kett said automatically.
“He’s your mate,” Chance pointed out.
“No, he’s not. There’s no such thing as mates. Not for me.”
“But-”
“He’s confused. That’s all. He thinks I’m-”
Her words snapped themselves off. He thinks I’m his mate. Someone I’m not.
What if he thinks I’m someone else?
She could change her shape again. She could make herself look like anything she wanted. It took practice, of course, and if she wanted to make herself an exact replica of something new or someone in particular, it was incredibly difficult.
But it was possible, with practice, to change her human appearance. To look like someone else. Bael’s words came back to her…
Well, you could have sex with someone else. If you’re my mate, that should be impossible.
“Kett,” Chalia said warningly, exchanging a look with her daughter.
“You’re right,” Kett said. “We do have something in common now. I think…” They’d need to be somewhere else, somewhere she wouldn’t run the risk of meeting someone she knew who might blow her cover. “Keep this quiet, yeah? I’ll tell him myself.”
And then they’d go away. Back to the ranch, maybe, or to wherever Bael lived. Yes. Where he had friends or whatever. The more witnesses the better.
She smiled suddenly. “You know what?” she said to her aunt and cousin. “This changes everything.”
The Free Hospital was crowded and noisy, the staff sullen under their jolly Yuletide hats. Bael didn’t blame them. The place was depressing as hell. After the third person snapped at him that animals were simply not allowed in the hospital, he merged Var with himself, helped the young garda frogmarch the three miscreants through the hospital and waited with them until a couple of gardaí who were actually on duty could come to take watch.
When the one called Willifus complained, Bael broke his other arm.
It wasn’t that he wanted to spend his evening in a disease-ridden hellhole with three sullen, braying teenagers, but he figured it might earn him some points with Kett. And her family would definitely think he was wonderful.
And he got to legitimately beat the shit out of someone, which was always stress-relieving.
When the pale green light of a faery lit up the ward, Sergeant Verrick looked up expectantly, but the tiny winged creature flew to Bael and handed him a small scroll.
“I’m to wait for your reply,” he said in his shrill faery voice, and Bael nodded, unrolling the paper.
“Bael, stop haring off like that. Where the hell are you? What are you doing?”
Bael sighed. Bloody Albhar never let him have any fun. Usually he’d skim such a letter, but right now, with nothing else to do, he might as well read it.
“You do have responsibilities here, you know. We had a shapeshifter almost within our grasp and now it’s escaped.”
Any second now he was going to read the phrase “your father’s research”, and that other personal favorite, “disrespecting your heritage”.
“Quite apart from being necessary to continue your father’s research,” yep, there it was, “the creature also owes you a debt, you know.”
Bael tried to remember who owed him money, or if he’d ever gambled with a shapeshifter.
“I know your father believed otherwise, but I am sure the shapeshifter was instrumental in the death of your mother. It is my belief it killed her to escape your father’s research. Such a creature cannot be allowed to roam free, Bael.”
A shapeshifter? No, a kelf had killed his mother. His father had told him so repeatedly. “Don’t trust kelfs, boy, they’re a lot more treacherous than humans think.”
This stupid damn ritual, the background noise of Bael’s youth. Find the shapeshifter. Do the ritual. Bael didn’t know what it was for, and he didn’t care either. Albhar had been wittering on about the stupid thing for years…
In letters that Bael had barely read. Gods dammit. The old man nagged so much that Bael had stopped listening years ago. As far as he was concerned, if Albhar spent his time obsessing over a shapeshifter, it just made it less likely that he’d spend his time noticing Bael was actually Nasc.
Because if he knew…if anyone knew what he was-
Bael shook himself. He hadn’t been bothered by the Federación so far. Chances were, they had no idea Nasc Magi even existed. They’d never come after his parents, for one thing. And Albhar…well, Albhar knew a lot about magic, but he had very little innate skill. He was clearly below the interest of the Federación.
He had some mad idea about a shapeshifter, always muttering on about it. Some ritual Bael’s father had been working on. Something he’d tried to get Bael to help him with, but despite his heritage Bael had never even been able to light a fire without using a match. His parents had been disgusted with him.
But why was Albhar suddenly telling him it was this shapeshifter who’d killed his mother? Was it just some ploy to get him to look for it, or had his father, blinded by hatred of kelfs, lied to him?
The story had always been that it was the kelf who killed his mother, that ungrateful kelf who escaped his parents then came back to get revenge for its servitude. The only kelf ever known to have killed a human.
Bael tried to work up some anger over it, tried to even picture his mother, but his parents had been so distant, always haring off on some trip or another, that he couldn’t really remember what she looked like.
He remembered his father more clearly, especially in that last year after his mother had died. An old man, suddenly older than he should have been, stomping about the place muttering like a lunatic. He’d brought in Albhar then, a human Mage with a minor talent, to assist him, but the guy had nowhere near the power Bael’s mother had.
Bael shook his head. If Albhar thought he could pull some emotional blackmail on him, then he’d gone about it the wrong way. It was hard to get sentimental about parents who barely seemed to know you existed. The only time Bael ever remembered his father showing him any attention was when he’d first realized his son was a Mage too.
But that hadn’t been attention Bael had particularly enjoyed. His father had never said so, but he gave the distinct impression he was trying to work out a way to exploit his son’s talents. A way to increase his own power. Because apart from Albhar, whose talents were negligible, there was no one else around whose power he could steal.
Bael read through the rest of the letter, mostly full of Albhar’s fussing about responsibilities and duties, and scribbled a note on the back to the effect that he was busy and the estates could run themselves. Hell, they always had before. He paid plenty of people plenty of money so he didn’t have to worry about them.
In fact, he paid Albhar plenty of money to worry about them.
“Anything interesting?” asked Verrick, as Bael sent the faery away with the note.
“Nah. Just business stuff. Speaking of-well, not really speaking of, but I can’t think of a segue and I’m nosy-why doesn’t Kett’s dad like you?”