Antoine rang the bell in the kitchen to tell me one of my orders was up, and I scurried off to serve Sid Matt Lancaster and Bud Dearborn their cheesy chili bacon fries. The recently widowed Sid Matt was so old I guess he figured his arteries couldn’t harden much more than they already had, and Bud had never been one for health food.

When I could return to Niall, I said, “Do you have any idea who did it? The werepanthers are searching, too.” I put down an extra napkin on the table in front of him so I’d look busy.

Niall didn’t disdain the panthers. In fact, though fairies seemed to consider themselves apart and superior to all other species of supernaturals, Niall (at least) had respect for all shapechangers, unlike the vampires, who regarded them as second-rate citizens. “I’ll look a little. I’ve been preoccupied, and that is why I haven’t visited. There is trouble.” I saw that Niall’s expression was even more serious than usual.

Oh, shit. More trouble.

“But you need not concern yourself,” he added regally. “I will take care of it.”

Did I mention Niall is a little proud? But I couldn’t help but feel concerned. In a minute I’d have to go get someone else another drink, and I wanted to be sure I understood him. Niall didn’t come around often, and when he did, he seldom dallied. I might not get another chance to talk to him. “What’s up, Niall?” I asked directly.

“I want you to take special care of yourself. If you see any fairies other than myself or Claude and Claudine, call me at once.”

“Why would I worry about other fairies?” The other shoe dropped. “Why would other fairies want to hurt me?”

“Because you are my great-granddaughter.” He stood, and I knew I’d get no more explanation than that.

Niall hugged me again, kissed me again (fairies are very touchy-feely), and left the bar, his cane in his hand. I’d never seen him use it as an aid to walking, but he always had it with him. As I stared after him, I wondered if it had a knife concealed inside. Or maybe it might be an extra-long magic wand. Or both. I wished he could’ve stuck around for a while, or at least issued a more specific danger bulletin.

“Ms. Stackhouse,” said a polite male voice, “could you bring us another pitcher of beer and another basket of pickles?”

I turned to Special Agent Lattesta. “Sure, be glad to,” I said, smiling automatically.

“That was a very handsome man,” Sara Weiss said. Sara was feeling the effects of the two glasses of beer she’d already had. “He sure looked different. Is he from Europe?”