Not Quite Human

Chapter 12

Neil made his way to the library, humming quietly to himself and rubbing his aching back.
It had been a few days since the kidnapping, and things were almost normal again — almost. He still jumped at sudden sounds, and eating remained a complicated experience. Every time he put food in his mouth he remembered the Ork shoving stale bread in after it, and his appetite promptly reconsidered. He found himself wondering whether the creature had been cruel by nature or simply by instruction. Probably the latter. It didn't make it much less unpleasant to think about.
The back situation was Nerezza's doing. She had decided, with characteristic disregard for his suffering, that it was time to teach him to use his wings. Neil had always vaguely assumed that wings came with some sort of intuitive flying ability — that the moment you had them, you simply went up. This was not the case. Flying, it turned out, involved a great deal of falling, a catalogue of humiliating crash landings, unwanted attention from several confused birds, and a persistent ache in muscles he hadn't known existed until they started hurting. Nerezza was a merciless teacher. Begging did nothing. Tears did nothing. She would have kept going indefinitely had Loki not intervened by turning her into a white mouse for five uninterrupted minutes, laughing with great satisfaction as a very small, very furious Nerezza scratched at his leg with considerable determination.
When she was turned back, her face was red — literally, which Neil suspected was also Loki's doing. She left them both in the dust, muttering something pointed about tomorrow.
Neil had tried very hard not to laugh. He had failed completely.
He figured the rest of the day called for something restorative, by which he meant sitting in a corner of the library with a book and not moving. Now that Nerezza had finally opened the fogged shelf, he had access to a whole world of fey literature. He selected a green volume and settled into his favourite corner, letting it carry him away into a world of Bokkas, brownies and dusklings. He wasn't in any rush to get home — his mother had delivered a very thorough scolding about his unexplained absence, and the memory of it was still fresh enough to make the library feel preferable.
He was deep into the book when the door opened and Abbadon walked in.
Neil had largely gotten over his initial unease around the king, having come to understand that most of Abbadon's cruelty was less calculated malice and more what happened when someone with a very short fuse made very large decisions while angry. And Abbadon had helped find him — Damien had made sure Neil knew that. He didn't want to think about what Loki's seal would have eventually meant against an Ork that determined.
Today, though, Abbadon looked genuinely troubled. His mouth was set in a hard line, his frown pulled tight, his hands — Neil noticed — faintly shaking. There was a thin sheen of sweat at his temples. The overall effect was something very close to the frightening tyrant of rumour, except that Neil had spent enough time around genuinely frightening people to recognise the difference between anger and distress.
He sat with his book for a minute or two, feeling awkward, the way he always did when someone near him was upset and he didn't know what to do about it.
Then he cleared his throat.
"Is everything alright?"
Abbadon blinked, as though the question had caught him entirely off guard — as though it hadn't occurred to him that anything might be visibly wrong. "A lovers' quarrel," he said, after a pause. "Nothing more."
Neil said nothing further. He had no business poking around in whatever had happened between Abbadon and Hissana — Hissana, who looked as though he wouldn't raise his voice to a houseplant, let alone someone like Abbadon, though Neil was well aware that was probably an unfair assessment of someone he barely knew. He kept his thoughts to himself. He'd want the same courtesy if someone tried to insert themselves into his business.
The door opened again — with slightly more force than necessary — and Damien walked in.
He looked irritated. Or possibly miffed. Neil couldn't quite determine which. He glanced at his brother, and something complicated moved across his face. Neil understood that too, in a way. Getting help from someone you'd spent years despising didn't sit neatly.
"We need to go to Lady Legasus's court tomorrow," Damien said, looking at Neil. "She wants to see the newly born blood fey."
Neil's ears pricked up immediately. Lady Legasus. Queen of the Seelie Court. Wanted to see him.
He really, sincerely hoped she was the sort of warm, round, benevolent figure who handed out blessings like party favours. Unlikely, perhaps — but then again, she was the one behind the fountain in the garden, which suggested a certain sense of humour.
A small, honest voice in the back of his head pointed out that the late king probably hadn't found the fountain funny at all, and that this same queen had killed an evil Santa Claus without apparent hesitation.
Neil turned the page of his book and tried to look unbothered.