“What is it with our attackers not doing their homework?” I shook my head. “Who employed you?”

She sniffed. “Don’t know.”

“Was it Kaitlyn?”

Kaitlyn was a part elf who operated an antiques shop in Old Deva, but it was in truth little more than a front for her more profitable brokering services. If you wanted something bought, traded, stolen, or even threatened, Kaitlyn was apparently your woman.

She’d been responsible for allocating the contract that had led to the attack on the tavern and the knifing attempt on me—though I did believe the idiot shifter when he said he’d only meant to scare me. He’d been under pixie influence—a handy little ability we females had that enabled us to control humans, shifters, and most fae except elves with voice and touch—at the time, so he’d had no choice but to tell the truth.

“No,” the woman said, with perhaps a little too much vehemence.

I leaned across the table and gripped her shoulder. Her teeth snapped toward my hand, the sound loud in the hush of the basement. She didn’t get me, thanks to the fact I’d been careful to keep out of biting range. But this close, I couldn’t help noticing that not only was she looking much paler, sweat now beaded her forehead. The infection had started, and that meant our questioning window was closing. I might be annoyed at her, but I didn’t want her dead.

That sort of thing never went down well for Aodhán and Tàileach lines of pixies.

The fact I’d wounded her in self-defense might not invoke the whole “never shed blood except in service of the old gods or in self-protection” curse that had been placed on us eons ago, but I had no desire to test its boundaries or realities.

“You will answer all our questions honestly and do exactly as we ask.” My voice took on a deeper timbre, filled with magic as powerful as it was old. “Now, tell me, was that denial the truth?”

Her face twisted for several seconds then she spat out, “No.”

I released her and stepped back again. “What was the contract you accepted, and what information did Kaitlyn give you about us?”

“Nowhere near fucking enough, obviously.” Sweat trickled down the side of her face, and she shook her head with quick impatience. Droplets of sweat hit the metal table, sizzling lightly on the surface before becoming inert. “And if you know anything at all about Kaitlyn’s business model, you’ll know we never get the name of the contractor.”

“What was the job, then?” Lugh asked.

“To follow Bethany Aodhán, record where she goes and what she finds, and report back on a daily basis.”

“To Kaitlyn?”

The shifter nodded.

“How many of you are in the team?” Lugh asked. “It’s not a job you could do on your own.”

Once again, she fought replying. And once again, it was of no use. She hissed; it was a sound filled with frustration. “Three. We do eight-hour shifts.”