We started out, still light-headed, joking about who was in better condition to drive, making each other walk straight lines and recite Sherlock Holmes quotes.

“The fact that you’re admitting you can recite Holmes quotes proves you’re in no shape to drive,” I said as we crested the last rise.

“I’ve read the comics.”

I laughed. “And that’s better than admitting you read novels? How—?”

Gabriel grabbed my arm, and the next thing I knew I was staring at his back.

“Take three steps backward,” he said.

It took a second to realize he was talking to someone else. I peeked around him to see a thin man, brown-haired, not much older than me. Or looking not much older than me, though I suspected he was many times my age.

Tristan raised a hand. “I come in peace.”

“Bullshit.” I sidestepped around Gabriel. “The last time we had contact with you, it was through your flunky, Macy Shaw, when she tried to kill us.”

“In opposition to my explicit directions. I made it very clear you weren’t to be harmed. Either of you. That’s the problem dealing with humans. Petty grievances and jealousies flare, and they ignore orders. Logic, too, as it seems. If one has to deal with them, one is better choosing sìol. They’re usually able to rise above that.”

“Sìol?” I tried to move closer, but Gabriel gripped my arm, and he was right. Maintain distance.

“Descendants,” Tristan said. “For us, it means those descended from our kind. Disgynyddion in Welsh, but that’s a mouthful. In my language, it’s diyskynnyas, which is just as bad, so we’ll stick to Gaelic. I’m not Gaelic. Or Welsh. But you are. Both of you. Part Tylwyth Teg, part human, part . . . other things. Cwn Annwn among them for you, Eden. That’s the thing about sìol. They’re terribly attractive to fae, at least as breeding stock. Keep hitting the same lineage over and over, and eventually you get quite an interesting mix.”

I glanced at Gabriel. “So that’s where we get it from. The hyperverbal gene. Fae do love to talk.”

“True . . .” Tristan said. “But in this case, I believe you’re the one who wanted to talk to me. You left an invitation.” He held out a scrap of notepaper. On it I could see my phone number . . . in my own handwriting.

“You’re Jon Childs,” I said.

“Among others. But you’ve invited me to talk, so I’m taking you up on the offer, though this might be a somewhat one-sided conversation. It appears you have a problem I may have caused.”

“Besides the fact that your psycho assistant tried to murder us?”

“Yes, besides that.”

Gabriel’s hand moved to my shoulder. “We have nothing to say to you, whatever you are.”