“Exactly,” I told her. “We don’t want war with the fae—and I don’t think they want war with us, either. But we won’t give them the boy, who has been a victim of the fae for a very long time. We won’t give them”—I paused, because in this instance I probably couldn’t speak for the pack—“I won’t give them Zee or his son. Ideally, the Gray Lords will decide we are too much trouble or not important enough to screw with, and they will take over and police their own. Otherwise, we’ll try to bargain with them to get them to respect our territorial boundaries.”

“Zee?” Margaret asked. “You said his name to Thomas, too, as if he were someone we should know?”

“Siebold Adelbertsmiter,” I said. “He’s had a lot of names over the years. You might know him better as the Dark Smith of Drontheim.”

There was a long pause. “You are a friend of the Dark Smith?”

“Zee is a grumpy old fae,” I said. “But he is my friend.”

She drew in a breath. “He was my father’s much-admired enemy.”

“If it helps,” I said, “when I told him your father was dead, it hit him pretty hard. I’d say the admiration went both ways.”

She laughed.

Thomas said, “Margaret is what is important.”

“We will protect her,” I said.

“All right,” he said. “But you come. You and your mate. I’ve met you, and I’ll have you at my back, but no strangers.”

“Deal,” I said.

Which is how I came to be riding shotgun instead of someone more useful like Warren or Honey—but we were hoping this wouldn’t turn into an actual battle.

Zee came, too.

I hadn’t asked him. Adam hadn’t asked him. Zee hadn’t said anything, he’d just been sitting in the backseat of Adam’s car when we were ready to leave. He wouldn’t say anything, and he wouldn’t get out. None of the other cars parked at the house would start. So, instead of being late, we drove to the hotel with him in the backseat.

Thomas and Margaret came out to meet us. The sky wasn’t quite dark, and Thomas wore gloves and a black hoodie with the hood pulled over his head. The hoodie made him look . . . smaller, and less dangerous—more like a gang member and less like a vampire.

Adam started to explain our stowaway to Thomas, but Zee got out of the car and looked at Margaret.

He frowned at the crutches and the scars on her wrists. “Your father was an honorable enemy,” he told her. “He deserved better followers. Are you as tough as your father?”

She raised her chin, but it was Thomas who said, “Tougher. They were both trapped underground in mining tunnels for decades. He died, and she survived.”