“I can’t go into a safe house with the babies,” I said. The room was almost empty now. Most of the flowers had gone to other people in the hospital, as had most of the toys. We’d kept flowers and presents from actual friends, or people whose gifts it would be impolitic not to keep, and just that had filled up a second SUV, leaving room only for a driver. Lucy’s bears, two pink and one blue, had been newborn safe, and were tucked into the things we were keeping.

Doyle said, “This isn’t a homicide issue, Detective; why are you here?”

“She’s a friend, Doyle,” I said.

“She is, but they sent her because they thought a friend could persuade you where the others had failed, isn’t that right, Detective Tate?” He looked at her with that black-on-black gaze; his face was unreadable, blank so that it was almost threatening in its absolute neutrality. The way a wild animal will look at you: It doesn’t want to hurt you, but if you crowd it, it will defend itself. If you don’t crowd it, then you can depart in peace, but the warning is there. Back off, or things will go badly.

Lucy reacted to it by taking a half step back, one foot in front of the other in a stance that let her move if she needed to. I doubted she was even fully aware of what she’d done, but the cop in her had seen the implied threat and reacted accordingly. Doyle wouldn’t attack and she wouldn’t do anything to push that neutrality, but it was still unsettling to watch my friend and my love face off. I didn’t want unsettling, I wanted settled. I wanted to just be happy with the babies and the loves of my life, but my family was going to make sure this milestone was as traumatic as they’d made every other important event in my life. My father had protected me from them as much as he could, but once he died it had just been me trying to survive. I was tired of this shit, so tired of it.

“I’m not going into a safe house, Lucy. I appreciate the thought, but human cops would just be cannon fodder if the king attacks us. Read the police report on what his power did to Doyle, and think what that would have done to a human being.”

“I’ve seen the reports,” she said.

“That’s how they persuaded you to come down,” I said.

She nodded. “He can turn light into heat and project it from his hand; that’s like crazy.”

“He is the King of Light and Illusion; he can do many things with light, especially daylight,” Doyle said.

“Like what else can he do with light?” Lucy asked.

Doyle shook his head. “I’m hoping he hasn’t regained all his old abilities; if he has, then it could go badly no matter where Merry is.”

“Well, aren’t you just a bundle of cheer,” she said.

“Instead of being able to spend time with Merry and our children, I have spent the last day and night negotiating with one high court of faerie or another. The king’s courtiers have assured me that he will wait until the DNA tests come back. If they show that none of the babes are his, then he will acknowledge he has no claim on them, or Merry.”

“Merry was already pregnant when he …” She stopped as if afraid she’d said too much.

“It’s okay, Lucy, but the geneticist has informed us that it may not be that simple. The king is my great-uncle, and the sidhe of both courts have been intermarrying for centuries; we could share a lot of genetics. It’s probably not enough to prove paternity, but enough to confuse the issue if my uncle wishes not to give up his claim.”

“He won’t give up,” Doyle said.

“Is it true that if he’s not able to have children, then he has to relinquish the throne?” she asked.

I fought to keep my face neutral. I hadn’t known that the human police knew that, or any human knew that.

“The blank face from both of you is answer enough,” she said.

I cursed softly inside my head—sometimes in trying so hard not to give something away, the very effort screams your answer. The big question was: Did the police know that it wasn’t a matter of stepping down from the throne, but execution, for having cursed his court with infertility a century after Taranis knew he was infertile? The old idea that your health, prosperity, and fertility came from your king, or queen, was very true in faerie. Taranis was fighting for his very life. Did Lucy know that?

“What happens if he steps down?” she asked.

“He ceases to be king,” Doyle said.

“That part I figured, but is he exiled from faerie?”

“No, why do you ask?” I said.

She shrugged. “Because exile would explain why he’s so desperate to prove one of the babies is his.”

“I think it’s simpler than that, Lucy. I think he just can’t stand the thought of not being absolute ruler of the Seelie Court after all these centuries. I think he’d do anything to keep his throne.”

“Define anything,” she said, and I didn’t like the very shrewd look in her brown eyes. She was smart and very good at her job.

One of the babies made a sound from the cribs. Lucy had ignored them except for a brief glimpse at the cloth-wrapped bundles. She was here on business, not to see babies, but the noise made us turn to find out which baby was waking up.

It was Bryluen, moving fitfully in her basket like a crib within a crib. Doyle picked her up with his big, dark hands. The baby looked even tinier. Some of the fathers had been awkward holding them, but Doyle held our daughter with the same physical ease and grace with which he did everything. Bryluen’s eyes were open enough to gleam in the light like dark jewels.