Where A Witch Goeth

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Bonnie & Clyde

In the half-hour since he'd shadow-walked us back to his subfloor suite in the resort, Van hadn't said anything to me except, "I still have to meet with my men. There's time enough for you to change your wet clothes. Please don't wear anything that makes you look too beautiful, powerful, or even...unusual. Especially not those...faery shoes. They are too strange, and I don't want anything about you to stand out to the Alpha."

He frowned at the sopping sneakers on my feet, soaked from my journey through the source spring to and from Tir Na Nog. Maeve had obviously returned in fae fashion, and I guess Evander assumed I had acquired these otherwordly shoes in "Faery," too.

I stared down at the shoes, and I thought about how Evander's fears were warrantless. I already stood out to the Alpha. Probably no one in this time could stand out more. Then I thought about Nick's wolf's obsession with "Liadh," and something inside me warned that this might be the last chance I would have to tell Van the truth in my own way. But I pushed that thought away. He was not going to die tonight at the hands of the wolves. That was ridiculous.

Still, I did not like the distance that was suddenly between us. No sooner than he'd said that to me, he'd walked straight out of the suite. He didn't want to make any room for more argument about my trip to Faery. It was reasonable for me to assume the reason was a need to move on with the night's work before the morning came, but it stung slightly, the coolness of his instruction and the way he'd walked from the room without a backward glance at me, leaving me dripping on the polished floor.

Now, I was donning a plain beige sweater and a slightly darker pleated skirt and making sure I had sturdy stocking garters and sensible shoes, and I could hear Van had returned with a crowd. When I opened the door, Dare, Troy, Thacker, and a dozen more mundane men that worked at the resort and in town—including Henry's father and all the Buchanan men I had met so far—were loading shotguns and pistols from plain wooden boxes filled with silver ammunition.

Half of the men were looking at Van like he was a vampire—and they never looked at him that way. The other half were looking at each other with expressions of shock no less real than the ones staring at a vampire. It was a grim room. I could only imagine the instructions Van had given them.

Probably something like... if things go to shit, kill every damn dog you see, then stomp on their fleas. And stay out of my way, so I don't accidentally rip your head off.

Van, unjacketed, in suspenders, with shirtsleeves tightly rolled to the elbows and a cigarette hanging from his mouth, looked more like a mobster than a vampire as he loaded the round drum of a Thompson gun.

"Who do you think you are, Mister? Al Capone?" I teased as I stalked across the room to him then smiled at the men. "Aren't you fellas a Dirty Dozen?"

Troy and Thacker gave me genuine smiles, but everyone else remained shell-shocked at their sudden press into Van's gang.

Van said nothing, just handed off the Tommy-gun to Tracker and puffed on his cigarette wondered how to put the fighting spirit in this team. But first things first.

"How is Henry?" I asked.

"He remains unconscious as you said he would. Jesse has his holes plugged, which is good news—his bleeding is slowing. That's also good because it frees Ace and Geordie to patrol the ridges and make sure no enemies sneak in the back door while we take our little party on the road." Evander said all this casually while loading another big gun—this one destined for Trotter's hands, Goddess help us. "But it needs to be a quick trip and an even quicker resolution. I think it's just as likely that Henry has burned through all the blood he's been given, and the Moon Disease is taking hold and healing him now."