"There's an old saying among us that where the demi-fey go faerie follows. It implies that the demi-fey are the first of us to appear, and not the sidhe or the old gods grown small, but actually they are the first form of us."
"Which is true?" she asked.
"To my knowledge no one knows," I said.
"It's the fey version of the chicken and the egg. Which came first, the demi-fey or the sidhe?" Jeremy said.
"The sidhe will say that we did, but honestly, I've never met anyone old enough to answer the question."
"Some of the demi-fey who were killed had day jobs, but I assumed that they were demi-fey. It didn't occur to me that they could pass for human."
"What are the jobs?" I asked.
"Receptionist, owner of their own lawn-care business, florist assistant, and dental hygienist." She frowned at that last one. "I did wonder about that last one."
"I'd look at the receptionist and the dental hygienist," Jeremy said.
"What about the rest of them?" I asked.
"One of them worked at the lawn-care business with the boss, and the other two were unemployed. As far as I can tell, they were flower faeries full-time, whatever that means."
"It means they tended their special flower or plant and didn't feel the need for money," Jeremy said.
"It meant they had enough magic to not need a job," I added.
"Is that typical of the demi-fey, or unusual?" she asked.
"It depends," I said.
Her cell phone rang. She slipped it out of her pocket, said a few "Yes, sirs," then hung up. She sighed. "You better go and show yourself, Merry. No hiding with magic. That was my immediate supervisor. He wants you out so the press will disperse. There's so many of them they're afraid they can't get through to take the bodies out."
"I'm sorry, Lucy."
"No, the information was all stuff I couldn't have gotten with just human cops. Oh, and he said to take your men with you just in case."
"He means the sidhe, not me, right?" Jeremy asked.
She smiled. "We'll go on that assumption. I'd like to keep at least one of you here until we clear the scene."
"You know that the Grey ..."
Julian added, "And Hart."
Jeremy smiled at him. "Grey and Hart Detective Agency is happy to help."
"I sent Jordan home. He's a little more of an empath than I am, and the residual emotions were getting to him."
"That's fine," Lucy said.
"If you hurry he's just outside in the hallway," Julian said.
I studied his pleasant face and asked, "Does he need a ride?"
"He won't ask for one, but if you go out at the same time he'll take the ride from you, Merry."
"All right, then I'll go and I'll drop Jordan off at the office so he can type up his report and I'll maybe see you tonight after dinner."
He nodded. "I hope you don't see me."
"Me, too," I said and went to the other room to get Rhys and Galen, who as licensed detectives were allowed past the apartment door, and pick Saraid and Cathbodua up from the hallway, which was as far as the police would let her get without a detective license. It was also why Sholto wasn't allowed at the murder scene. I hoped Jordan was still in the hallway. Julian wouldn't have mentioned him if he wasn't badly shaken. I couldn't sense emotional debris from murder scenes, and any time I watched the effect of it on an empath I was glad all over again that it wasn't one of my gifts.
Chapter Thirty-one
We found Jordan in the stairwell leading down. He was sweating and pale, his skin clammy to the touch. I'd been afraid we'd missed him when he wasn't in the hallway, but he actually leaned on Galen going down the stairs, which meant he was in bad shape. Jordan wasn't the touchy-feely one of the Hart brothers.
He had the same short-on-the-sides, spiky-on-top hair as his brother, but his jacket was a reddish-brown tweed over the brown slacks, and his shirt was a tomato red. All the extra color must have looked good when Jordan started the day, but now it just emphasized the sick paleness of his skin.
We'd all dropped the glamour so when we stepped out into the sunlight there were cries of, "There she is!" "Princess!" "Princess Meredith, over here!" One reporter did actually ask a question about something else. "What's wrong with Hart? Why does he look ill?"
A female voice rang out, "Is the murder that gruesome?"
It was nice to know that the mass of humanity on the other side of the police barriers wasn't all here just for fairy-princess pictures. People were dead; that should have been more important.
A man in a suit stepped forward and yelled in a voice used to yelling above noise, "The princess and her people aren't authorized to answer any questions about the crime." He turned to a pair of uniforms near him, and they started walking toward us. I was betting that they were supposed to be our escort to our car. I glanced out at the crowd of reporters. They had spilled into the street until even if the police hadn't blocked off the road there wasn't room for a moped, let alone a car. We were going to need more uniforms.
Then there was movement across the road, almost a restless roll of the press, like water when you stir it with a big enough stick. Uther waded into the mob. Maybe we wouldn't need more uniforms. One nine-foot-tall Jack-in-Irons might just be enough.
It wasn't just Uther's sheer size that was impressive. His face was part human and part that of a boar, complete with tusks that curled up and out so big that they'd begun to do that spiral curl that only long years will give to tusks. The last time Uther had helped with crowd control the press had parted like the proverbial Red Sea, as some did now, too, but others turned to him, and started shouting questions at him, too. But they weren't about the murder, or me.