“Are you both married to him?” asked Aiden, looking, of all people, at me. “Or are you a paramour? And why did they call you Adam’s coyote? Is a coyote not a small wolf who lives in this area?”
“Mmmm,” I said. “More like a large fox than a small wolf. I’m a shapechanger, but not a werewolf. My other form is a coyote.”
“Christy and Adam were married,” said Zee. “But they did not suit. Human law allows for dissolution of marriage vows.” He glanced at me. “The fae have a rather more direct method of dealing with unwanted spouses.” Returning his attention to Aiden, he said, “Marriage is not as necessary for survival of the species as it used to be, and it has suffered somewhat from the change. After the marriage was dissolved, Adam married Mercy.” There was a small pause. “I was at the wedding.” That last sounded a little bemused.
“Who told you about coyotes, but didn’t tell you what they were, Aiden?” asked Adam.
“What?” Aiden looked up. “Oh, coyotes. Someone, I don’t know who because I was too busy dry heaving to see which one, inflicted a translation spell on me. They needed to talk to me, and I refused to understand any of them no matter what language they used.”
Zee said, “Language is more than just words, it contains concepts and ideology unique to the people who speak it. The best of those recognize that and attempt to fill in.”
“With mixed results, usually.” Tad came into the room. He looked tired behind his usual cheery smile that mostly had ceased to be real sometime while he was away at college. He looked at me. “Ask Dad about the one he used when courting my mother.”
“Or not,” said Zee coolly.
There was a little more real warmth in the grin Tad aimed at his father.
“Aiden asked for sanctuary for one more day,” I told Adam.
He looked at the boy, who glanced up, then away from my mate. It isn’t just posturing, the werewolf Alpha thing. It might not be safe to meet an Alpha’s eyes because they see it as defiance, but it is also difficult. Even humans have instincts, evidently even humans who spent most of their very long life trapped in Underhill.
“Why?” Adam asked.
Aiden drew himself up and plastered on a vaguely patronizing smile that made me want to slap him. “Never mind.”
“He’d like to be safe for a day more,” Tad said. He was getting a coffee cup out of the cupboard, so his back was toward us.
Aiden stiffened.
Tad filled his cup with coffee and turned to face Aiden. “I slept in front of your door,” he said softly.
I’d thought the boy-who-wasn’t couldn’t hold himself any stiffer, but he did. If he were a glass, he would have shattered.
“Safe,” said Tad heavily, “isn’t something that Underhill is full of anymore, I think. How long were you there?”
Aiden shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Underhill was mostly closed down by the ninth century,” said Zee conversationally. “There were a few bolt-holes until the fifteenth century.”
“What would you do for one more night of safety?” Tad asked softly.
And Aiden broke. Completely. And he did it without moving or saying anything. Tears welled and slid down his face while he breathed as if it hurt.
Children don’t cry that way. Silently. Without expression. His face was a stony blank, and only the tears betrayed him.
It was the first time I’d seen him look his age.
Adam moved first. He approached him and put a hand on the top of the boy’s head. When no objection followed, he drew him against his chest and let him rest in the shelter of Adam’s arms. It had nothing to do with Aiden’s childlike appearance; I’d seen Adam do the same for any of his wolves who was in distress. That’s the base component of what an Alpha does for his pack: he provides a safe place to be. Touch is better than any word.
The boy’s feet drew up and he curled into a fetal ball, still crying soundlessly. Babies make noise when they cry, trusting that an adult will hear them and make things better. As children, we learn that tears have power to move the people who care for us. We make noise when we cry in a bid for attention, for help, for support.
Aiden was silent and tried silently to disappear into the safety of Adam. My husband looked at me with troubled eyes.
I said, “Look what followed me home. Can we keep him?”
Adam’s eyes warmed, and he smiled. “I think we have to, don’t you? Until we can find a better home.”
Tad raised his coffee cup to Adam—and his father grunted sourly.
“Aiden?” I said.
Adam shook his head, “Not now. He isn’t even hearing us right now.”
He picked Aiden up, as if he were the child he looked to be. He started to sit on the kitchen chair, but Joel had fallen asleep against it last week, leaving a leg half–burned through. Seeing what he was looking at, Tad retrieved a chair from the dining-room table. Adam sat in that and held the boy as if it were something that he was used to doing.
I grabbed a dining-room chair, too, and sat opposite Adam, next to Zee.
“So the fae who wrote the note could want the walking stick, Zee, or Aiden,” Adam said. “Or some combination thereof.”
“Or Tad,” said Zee.
“Right,” Tad said, sounding exhausted. “Let’s not forget about me.” He took the chair that Adam had rejected, spun it around, and sat between Zee and me.
Zee said, “That note is not signed—it is probably not a coordinated effort of the Gray Lords.”