And got an almost shockingly long comment in return from White Hair. I couldn’t understand it; I don’t speak troll. But compared to the one-, two-, and three-word answers I was used to, it was positively loquacious.
It also wasn’t appreciated.
“She can’t help,” Olga said, using the language everyone understood, because she had manners. “He can!”
“No!” This was another troll, shorter but even more well muscled than the last, with a shock of gray hair and a face that looked like it had been dragged behind a truck at some point. Some point a long time ago, because it had healed and scarred over, yet still had little bits of gravel embedded in it, all along one side. They glittered in the low light, reminding me of the big guy from the fight, the one with all the scars, except this one lacked the exotic coloring. He was the same greeny brown as the rest, but looked like he’d lived a harder life.
Much harder.
And he wasn’t having it.
Which sucked for him, because Olga was.
The next thing I knew, she was up on the table, crossing the expanse of shining mahogany faster than I could blink. And, okay, that did not help the tension any, I thought, as the other trolls stiffened. But she didn’t pull a knife, didn’t have any weapons that I could see at all. He did—a short sword, which in this case meant slightly less than the six-foot length of some of the others’, and it was out. But he didn’t turn it on her.
I waited, but nothing was said for a long moment, as they faced off. Literally: there wasn’t so much as a millimeter between the two of them. It was nose to nose, eye to eye, and while it might not sound like much, just two people looking at each other, it was somehow more intimidating than any of the chest-beating and wall-thumping I’d seen last night.
Suddenly, I could barely breathe, my arms broke out in goose bumps, and my hands flexed, wishing for a weapon, any weapon. I glanced at Claire, and she didn’t look any better. Her face was flushed, her eyes so green they almost looked electric, and her hands were gripping the back of the nearest chair, like she was thinking of throwing it at somebody. But then the bigger troll looked away, even turned his head slightly. And while nothing was said, the tension snapped like a rubber band, hard enough to stagger me.
I had no freaking clue what had just happened, but I didn’t have time to worry about it.
Because Caedmon was doing something.
He didn’t touch the little troll, or even move out of the doorway. But a light suddenly shone through the cracked and darkened skin of the small one, as if he’d been lit from within. It was soft at first, gentle, visible only because the room was dim.
And then it flashed outward, shining up through pores and mouth and eyes, turning the skin translucent and highlighting the too-fragile bones and organs beneath.
It was almost as good as an X-ray, a truly impressive display that danced on the ceiling and everyone’s faces. It was also useless, because there was nothing left to save. The internal organs were all but pulverized, from a beating so savage that even a couple of the trolls made noises. The slavers who had done this hadn’t just intended to kill; they’d intended to write a message in his pain: come after us again and this could happen to you.
But Caedmon must have helped a little, because the small eyes opened after a moment, and a hand raised, trying to grab Olga’s.
She’d shuffled back down the table, to squat by the little troll’s head. She took the hand. His jaw was fractured, off-center and sagging, but he managed to whisper something anyway. I didn’t catch it, and wouldn’t have understood if I had, but Olga did better.
“Yes.” Her fist hit the middle of her chest. “Swear.”
He nodded slightly and said something else, and her expression grew confused.
Then the light died, and the small face went slack, and I thought that was it.
But I’d reckoned without fey stubbornness, and I don’t just mean the trolls’. Because a second later, I was knocked aside by someone glowing like a small sun. The sudden radiance eclipsed the electric lighting, caused the trolls to throw arms over their eyes, and prompted Claire to make a sound of distress, probably worrying that somebody was about to attack her father-in-law.
But no one did. Even when he got his hands on the child, pressing them into the little chest, almost hard enough to crack it. And then all that light, all that power that had allowed a fey king to fight his way to a portal in enemy territory, that had practically seared our shadows onto the walls, that had caused havoc all over the house because it needed a place to go—
Found one.
It poured into the little body, a flood of power that looked like it would rip him apart, but instead did the opposite. I stood there with my mouth hanging open, because it was like watching a film move backward: rebuilding tissue, plumping muscle, brightening eyes. Which opened in pain and panic and confusion halfway through, with only Olga’s hand on the boy’s shoulder stopping him from getting up and trying to flee.
But he didn’t.
He just lay there.
And I continued to stare, as healthy color flooded over gray, as the cap of scaly skin on his head sprouted with hair, as blood dried up and flaked off, and ribs, cracked and scattered and broken, began working their way back into some semblance of order under his sk
in.
Then the light cut out, not fading away, but all at once, like a switch was flipped off. Caedmon staggered and almost fell, but Claire and I caught him. And Olga stepped protectively in front of him, palms out and arms extended, because showing weakness is never a good thing among the fey.
But nobody tried to take advantage of it.