“My poor mother was on the verge of cardiac arrest,” I said. “Here we are, at this thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner, and Dad’s wrangling exclusive rights for a line of designer handbags from another guest at our table. He doesn’t see the problem because, to him, if you’re going to shell out that kind of money, you’d damned well better get the chance to schmooze someone who can give you exclusive rights to his handbag line.”

“I would agree,” Gabriel said, opening the office door for me.

“So my dad says . . .”

I trailed off as I saw three people in the reception area. One was expected—Lydia, Gabriel’s executive assistant, a trim woman in her late sixties who looked as if she had a yoga mat and green-goo health shake behind her desk and could throw a would-be mugger over her shoulder.

In front of her stood an elderly couple. Handsome and well-dressed, but not overly so. They looked like retired professors—perfectly pleasant people. Except they weren’t any of that. Not professors. Not elderly. Not particularly pleasant. Not people, either.

Ida and Walter Clark were Tylwyth Teg. Welsh fae. Fairies, though they didn’t like that word. With others of their kind, they’d founded Cainsville centuries ago and interbred with select humans. That’s how a population survives when the “other” outnumber them. Not everyone in Cainsville had fae blood, but enough did for Tylwyth Teg to work their compulsions and charms and keep us from asking questions. Now I knew better, which is why I’d left Cainsville—and the resident fae—behind.

Lydia rose from her desk. “I was just telling the Clarks here that you weren’t expected at the office today, Mr. Walsh. I presume you’re just stopping by?”

“I am, but I suspect I’m not the one they came to see.”

“Actually, we would like to speak to you as well as Olivia,” Ida said. “We won’t keep you long.”

Gabriel visibly struggled to refuse. It shouldn’t have been difficult, all things considered, but we both had fae blood and that inbred compulsion demanded we listen to them.

He glanced at me. I nodded, and he turned to Lydia. “Olivia didn’t get her mocha this morning. Could I impose on you . . . ?”

“I’ll go grab one.” She stood. “When I return, though, there’s a case we need to discuss before you leave for your appointment.” Which was her way of putting the Clarks on notice that this meeting would indeed be short.

As soon as the door closed behind Lydia, Walter said, “We understand that you’re upset, Olivia.”

“Mmm, I’m not sure upset is the right word.” I perched on Lydia’s desk. “I mean, I completely understand why you wouldn’t tell me what you were. What do you say? ‘Hello, I’m a fairy.’ Sorry, fae, right?”

“Actually, we prefer Tylwyth Teg,” Ida said. “You are upset.”