Charlie glanced behind the counter at the mailboxes the store provided for the local Fey. A surprising number of them got government checks, a few had magazine subscriptions—the water-based had trouble with personal electronics—and Boris regularly got the latest Victoria’s Secret catalog. Charlie really hoped it was for the obvious reason because the thought of the minotaur in drag hurt her head. Bad enough that every time she saw him she had to squash the probably suicidal urge to say, “Don’t have a cow.”

“Corbies never stay in one place for long,” Jack pointed out, setting Evan beside his brother.

“Yeah, but the whole flock’s leaving.” Joe pulled the royal blue, classic wooden yoyo from Evan’s hand just before he bit down. “I wouldn’t, kiddo. Your Auntie Catherine left these behind and they’re likely to bite back. A flock of Corbies,” he continued, moving the box of yoyos out of reach, “can’t agree on what day it is, most days. Granted, they don’t care, but that’s not the point. For a whole flock to move on . . .” Dragging a hand back through ginger hair, he frowned at Jack. “You haven’t heard about anything that might’ve spooked them?”

“Not a thing.”

“If you caught up, think they’d talk to you?”

“They’d most likely shout insults at me.” Jack caught Evan as he threw himself off the counter and set him down on the floor by a basket of toy cars.

“Even though you’re you?” Charlie asked, pitching her voice to carry over Edward’s scream of “Down, down, down!” As she understood it, the whole Dragon Prince thing had as much to do with being the meanest SOB in the immediate area as it did with politics and, excluding the aunties, that certainly carried over to the MidRealm.

“Corbies don’t care. Not here, not in the UnderRealm. Just after I hatched, a couple used to come by and talk to my mother sometimes, but my uncles told me you couldn’t trust anything they said.”

“Could you trust anything your uncles said?”

“Not usually,” Jack admitted. He turned back to Joe and waved at the door. “You want me to catch up.”

He didn’t look thrilled by the idea, not that Charlie blamed him. The Corbies never bothered with volume control, and their insults had a way of turning both nasty and personal. “I’ll go,” she said before Joe could answer. “They’ll talk to me.”

“You can make them talk to you, sure, but I don’t think even you can make a Corbie tell the truth if they don’t want to and if they think you’re laying down a geis . . .”

“It’s not a geis,” Charlie protested. “It’s just asking questions the right way.” When both Jack and Joe looked dubious, she sighed. “Whatever. Call it what you want. Bottom line, it’s Corbie business, not ours.”