I wasn’t sure what shocked me more—the profanity or the undiluted venom behind it. Hate shone from Patrick’s eyes, the kind that chilled the marrow in my bones and reminded me that, however charming Patrick might seem, a bòcan wasn’t a fae you wanted to cross.

There’s more to this story than I thought.

“Come along, Seanna. Let’s go chat. Catch up. It’s been so long.”

He said those last words with a bite that sparked genuine fear in Seanna’s eyes. I’d always presumed Patrick had seduced Seanna. He’d suggested as much, happily taking credit for impregnating a teenaged girl. Now I saw the looks on their faces and knew that wasn’t the story. Not at all.

As he took her arm, she said, “I won’t go anywhere with—”

“Yes, actually, you will.” His grip tightened, and he met her gaze and said slowly, “You are coming with me, Seanna,” as he worked his fae compulsion.

When he started leading her to the gate, she didn’t resist. Patrick tossed back a jaunty, “Ciao, kids,” and escorted her out.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The gate had closed behind Patrick at least ninety seconds ago, and Gabriel and I were still exactly where we’d been when he walked out. We stood there waiting for that gate to swing open and Seanna to march back in. Finally, I checked the latch, as if I could somehow bar re-entry.

Talk to Gabriel.

Don’t talk to Gabriel—find him something to do.

Help him compose his plan to deal with Seanna.

No, avoid the topic of Seanna, and get him doing work instead.

I turned to see him on his phone, typing something in. As I walked back, he looked up.

“Can I trouble you for a coffee?” he asked.

“A…?”

“Coffee. Please.”

“Sure…”

“Thank you. I’ll be in momentarily.”

It might seem that Gabriel was so traumatized by this reunion with his mother that he wanted me to go into the house so he could break down in private. Yet it was also possible that having seen the mother he thought was dead, the most pressing thing on his mind really was rectifying a late afternoon caffeine slump.

As I stepped onto the porch, I snuck a glance back at him. He was still typing, but his face was relaxed, no sign of tension in his shoulders. Yep, he might actually just want coffee.

I went inside, and I’d just begun filling a mug when the back door opened.

Gabriel stepped in and said, “Do you have travel mugs?”

“Uh, sure. Are you…leaving?”

“We are. The trunk on the Maserati is quite small, as I recall. Correct?”

Again, I thought I couldn’t possibly have heard right, but said, just to clarify, “Yes, the Spyder has a very small trunk.”

“And not enough space behind the front seats for both Lloergan and luggage.”

“Umm…”