Page 11 of The Fae’s Treasure

“It’ll be during those thirty minutes that he stops breathing,” I groan, and really wish I’d remembered a baby monitor the first time around. I stagger back to the room and tell myself it’s not so bad. He’ll need another bottle around two, so—

“Whh. Ennnnn!”

I fly into the room, tripping over something, and my first thought is that Rory is on the floor!

But it’s not Rory. The whimper that happens as the toe of my slippered foot collides with a soft, furry belly tells me that there is a dog in the room. A small dog.

And a man. A man that’s more shadow than skin, standing over my son’s crib.

The shadow moves, and I see glowing silvery eyes and can barely make out a startled face.

As tired and scared as I am, some kind of hidden strength comes pouring out of me, a torrent, a hurricane of rage and protectiveness (and foul language) that I have never known.

“Leave my baby alone, motherfucker!” I scream, and I fly, knees ready, elbows ready, fingers looking for eyes. Everything I ever learned about self-defense blurs as I try to use it all at once.

My knees hurt. My elbows hurt. My chest burns, and I don’t stop pummeling until the figure is on the floor in the fetal position, curled up under a rain of stomping feet and sobs. “Leave my son alone! Get out! Get out, so help me, I’ll kill you if you’ve touched one hair on his head!” I hear myself pant-screaming, clawing at his face—and finding nothing.

Nothing but a burst of wet, cold autumn air, air so fresh and cold and full of leaves that I scream as they swirl around me. “Get away!” I shriek, putting myself between the crib and the window.

My hand finally scoops up Rory, and I run to my room, to my phone—and it’s only then that I turn on the lights and look across the hall.

There’s nothing in Rory’s room.

Nothing. Not a leaf. Not a twig. The window is shut.

But my knees and elbows hurt as if I army-crawled for twelve miles on gravel.

I hug Rory tight, hearing his startled, snuffly breathing, still half-sobbing, half-panting. “Something was there. Something really was,” I whimper.

“Ah-ohhh. Ow-ooo.”

I yelp and look down.

The tiniest little brown and black puppy is stumbling into my room on its fat little sausage of a body, looking at me like I’m going to mother him, too.

Something was here. Someone. Someone made of shadows and magic... which, okay, that could track. Someone who can fly away, and magic a whirlwind of autumn leaves in and out of a room at his command.

A man. Who brought a dog. A puppy. A man who was leaning over the crib, but didn’t even wake Rory.

“Oh. Oh, wait...” I whisper, a hand to my mouth. All thoughts of calling the police are temporarily on hold. Would they even believe me?

Do I even believe me?

And another, more worrisome question has just presented itself. “Rory, was that your father?” I ask the silence.

“Worf.” The puppy gives the smallest, gruffest bark.

I’m up now. I scoop him up, too, and put the baby on the bed with one hand on his back, and the puppy in the nest between my legs as they fold up.

“Baby monitor. Puppy training pads. Puppy chow. Dog bed.” I close my eyes and look at the miniature hound, something that might be a cross between a Basset and a beagle, but that’s currently the size of a loaf of sourdough. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” I hiss. “And if you pee on this bed—you’re going to the pound.”

Chapter Five: Dairmuid

“Why didn’t you come in?” Bonwit moans in my arms. “I’m dying, I’m dead, I’m gone!” he wails, head lolling back.

“I tried! I can’t get in the house. I... I bet you a golden harp that Saz rigged this house somehow. I can’t get in unless I’m invited—that’ll be it. I still got you out, didn’t I?”

“Oh, yes, the wind scooping me up and throwing me out of the window was very useful, Dair,” Bonwit groans. “She fought like a hellcat! And she believes the child is hers, or she’s taken it to her heart as if it were. She would have ripped me limb from limb if you hadn’t swept me up just then. I may still be damaged beyond repair. Tell me mam that I always—”