“Then you’re a fool.” A dark, long-fingered hand, still holding a sweet potato fry, waved dismissal. “Down, Regan. And you . . . Jack, is it? . . . try to take up a little less space. Our Brownie’s likely having kittens in the kitchen.”

“Better not be real kittens,” the Glashtin muttered as Jack collapsed in on himself, remaking his clothes from the stack of City Light News by the cash register. “We just found homes for the last lot.”

“Alice!” The sweet potato fry beckoned.

The girl at the counter, completely unfazed by a dragon in the diner, gave a Jack a look so speculative his ears burned as she wandered over, pulling her order pad from her apron pocket.

“Pie all around, sweet Alice.” After four years with the Gales, Jack recognized the smile directed at him as distinctly female. Until that point, given the shared features under the glamours and well aware that the gender of the glamours themselves meant nothing, he hadn’t been able to tell. “I imagine Jack and his companion would enjoy a piece of pie made with nothing more dangerous than fat and sugar. Coconut cream for him and me, and lemon for my brother and his companion. Regan . . .” A graceful nod toward the Glashtin. “. . . will have apple. And to drink . . . ?”

Distracted by the tattoo of pale green leaves barely visible over Alice’s collar, it took Jack a moment to realize the question had been directed at him. “Uh . . . coffee. Please.” The please had been installed by Allie, not his uncles and it was directed at Alice’s function not her bloodline.

“Stunt your growth,” Regan growled.

Jack let a few scales rise over his cheekbones.

“Alice, take care of Regan and His Highness’ companion at the counter . . .”

Joe reappeared.

“. . . and try to keep them from killing each other.”

Regan glanced over at the two Court and sighed, lips vibrating in a distinctly horselike manner. “You can’t trust a Wyrm.”

“We aren’t going to,” the male pointed out, taking a fry from the female’s plate.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure we aren’t going to trust him, yes.”

Eyes narrowed, Regan slid from the booth. “If you need me, you know where I am.”

The Glashtin slammed a shoulder into Jack’s on the way to the counter. Jack brought his tail back long enough to flick the Stetson off, exposing a set of horse ears covered in dark fur.

“Highness . . .”

When he turned toward the Leprechaun, Joe looked worried. Which would have bothered Jack more had worried not been Joe’s default expression and he not been 99 percent . . . 75 percent certain he was playing to their audience.

“. . . if I may remind you, we are here only to talk.”

“Don’t eat anyone. Got it.” Jack tried to make it clear he’d also answered the advice Joe hadn’t voiced—“Don’t start anything.”—but he didn’t have Charlie’s way with words.