“Certain kinds of fae can reproduce this way; several of those share some characteristics with spiders. Though they like to claim that spiders share characteristics with them,” Zee said as he worked. “Some of them have bodies covered with fine quills designed to break off inside their victim’s flesh.”
The foot he worked on burned, and flashes of electric pain shot up my leg and through my spine and wrapped around my forehead like one of those awful contraptions that black-and-white science fiction and horror movies so love. I screamed.
Unfazed, Zee continued talking. “The bits become the equivalent of fertilized eggs. Once that happens, they release a magical contaminate to turn their host into a guardian who will defend them in whatever way possible.”
There was a metallic clink. It sounded just like when Zee dropped a nut into a tin pan. I couldn’t see what he was doing because George didn’t allow me enough freedom to turn my head far enough. I grew convinced that he was breaking off pieces of my feet and what I’d heard was the sound of my discarded bones—now turned to gems by the dangerous old smith.
“If you had waited much longer,” Zee said, “we’d have had to find one of the healers to deal with it, and the cost for that would be a lot higher than a story.”
“Story?” Adam’s voice was rough with the wolf’s rage.
“Mercy paid me with the story of what happened last night—except for some pack business, which we both agreed could be private. She told me about the vampires and Stefan, the missing witches and the dead people. I might have a little to add to that.” There were several more clinks.
It took him about twenty-five minutes to do my feet. By the time he’d started on my second foot—which apparently had absorbed fewer bits of spider—my determination to stop him at all costs was mostly gone. That allowed me to quit screaming, though by then my throat was raw.
“Better?” Zee asked.
I nodded. “George can get off of me.”
“No.” Zee’s voice was firm. “I’m not done. Stay where you are, George.”
On my back George stiffened at Zee’s tone, but he didn’t say anything. I wondered what had put the old fae in such a foul mood. Now that I was thinking more clearly, it had been odd for Zee to be so abrasive earlier. I had hoped that Adam would take offense—but Zee usually didn’t go out of his way to push like that. He liked Adam and understood the role of an Alpha wolf.
The earlier rudeness I could attribute to worry over me. Maybe. But to act that way now was odd. I thought of Izzy’s story of Zee rescuing her and the way it had worried me. Most of the time Zee acted like—no. He was a grumpy old mechanic who showed his soft heart to very few people. But there was another truth, a Zee who was more. An ancient being who was brutal and dangerous, and that old fae was capable of serving a father wine in the bejeweled skull of his child.
When Zee finished with me, I was covered in sweat and dirt. My throat hurt and my shoulders were sore. I sported more bruises—though none that would be visible if I wore long sleeves. My wrists weren’t even sore, though George had had to hold me hard—the fine balance must be some skill he’d learned as a police officer. Or as a BDSM participant.
Both of my feet were sore—the right one was a lot worse than the left.
“I am glad my corpse isn’t going to be giving birth to six-legged spider-thingies,” I told Zee, my voice hoarse, which was as close to thanking him as I could get.
We’d agreed on a payment, but thanking him would place me in obligation to him. He wouldn’t do anything about it, but he’d worry and lecture.
“You fought the fae in your coyote form,” Zee said thoughtfully.
“Yes.”
“Let me see your hands,” he said.
If Adam hadn’t been standing between me and my best exit, if his reactions hadn’t been what they were, I might have escaped.
Adam held me wrapped in his arms, trapping my legs between his, while George held the hand Zee wasn’t working on.
My hands took longer than my feet had.
When Zee was done, Adam sat on another stool with my sweat-stained, dirt-covered self in his arms. I buried my face in his shoulder and breathed. Letting his scent—he’d broken a sweat, too—remind me that I was myself again. If I had needed a reminder that there were worse things than being linked to a vampire, one that I mostly trusted, this had been it.
“So,” said Zee, “I told you that I have an addition to the story Mercy told me. She said the grocer saw the Harvester, the villain in the horror movie, in his rearview mirror?”