Doyle and Galen exchanged a look, and it was Doyle who said, “They felt that the human authorities had no sway over them. I sent Rhys and Barinthus to convince them that they were mistaken.” There was something ominous in the way he said the last; at another time I might have asked how harsh the methods of persuasion had been, but frankly, I didn’t care. How dare they not want to help solve Sholto’s … murder.
“They refused to help when they thought that I’d been the attempted target?”
“They said that Sholto was not their king, and that he died so easily proved he was either not sidhe or contaminated by your mortality.”
I just stared at him for a few seconds. “What?”
They exchanged another look between them.
“What was that look just now? You’ve mentioned almost everybody but Frost; where is he?”
“He’s with a doctor,” Doyle said.
I started to sit up, and he held me down with one hand on my shoulder. “He is all right, or as all right as when he entered the hospital,” Doyle said.
“What does that mean?” I asked, and it was as if the fear from the dream had just been waiting below the surface, because it came bubbling up now. I fought the panic, and knew it was at least partly the nightmare and Taranis, but … sometimes there was so much that I felt as if I’d been on the edge of panic for months.
As if talking about him had conjured him, the door opened and Frost was there, looking tall and unbelievably handsome. His hair glinted in the dim light of the room the way the Christmas tree had looked on Christmas Eve when I was little, all gleaming and beautiful as my father turned out the lights because Santa wouldn’t come if the lights were on. We celebrated Yule and the winter solstice as a religious holiday, but he wanted me to have a more American holiday when I was very small, and had even been willing for me to go to Christian church with some of my school friends, and to temple with my friends who were Jewish. My father had wanted me to understand my country, not just our people. Frost’s hair looked like that long-ago Christmas tree tinsel, and the Christmas mornings I’d seen on television, but that never quite happened to me. I’d so wanted brothers and sisters, and family holidays that hadn’t been full of political debate, or photo opportunities for the press. Frost coming through that door made me feel like Christmas morning was supposed to feel, and never had.
Whatever he saw on my face made him smile, that bright, too-wide one that made his face both less model perfect and more amazing all at the same time. Galen moved back so Frost could take my hand and lean in to kiss me. He hesitated somewhere in the middle of standing back up, as if something in the middle of his body had caught, or hurt.
“What did the doctor say?” Doyle asked.
“He gave me some antibiotics and told me not to do anything physically taxing for at least three more days.”
“Wait, are you saying that the dog scratches are infected?” I asked.
“It would seem so,” he said; he held my hand in his, and smiled down at me.
“You can’t get infection from a wound, except through poison, or an evil spell. None of the fey can just get an infection.”
“Nonetheless, it is why I am not healing as I should.”
“Frost, you … I’ve seen you heal bullet wounds in less time than these scratches. They were deep, but not that deep.”
“The doctor assures me that these are natural antibiotics, not man-made, so I should not have an allergic reaction to them, and because I have never had antibiotics before, the infection shouldn’t be immune to it, as it might be if I had had more modern medical care.”
“Frost, are you saying you’re healing human-slow, as slowly as I might heal?”
Frost wouldn’t look at me. I looked at Doyle and Galen at the foot of the bed. “Someone talk to me, now,” I said.
“Some of the newer sidhe were not happy that Frost isn’t healing as he did before he left faerie,” Doyle said.
“Before he was with me, you mean,” I said. I held both their hands in mine, squeezed them tight.
“It doesn’t matter what caused it,” Frost said, and his face was still serene, peaceful, even happy.
“You were immortal and unaging. You would have been this beautiful and amazing forever, and loving me has stolen that from you. How? How did just being my lover damage your immortality?”
He raised my hand and rubbed his lips along my knuckles. It felt wonderful, but all I could think was that he would age now. That in loving him I’d killed him.
“We do not know why or how it happened,” Doyle said.
“So Sholto dying is my fault; that he couldn’t heal it like a nightflyer might, or a sidhe might, is because he loved me? How can that be?”
I wasn’t panicked now, I was horrified.
There was a hissing from the nightflyers and one of them slid to the floor and rose upward as if a manta ray could stand. It spoke with the flat, lipless mouth on its underside, gesturing with its tentacles that were so like Sholto’s.
“Our queen, it was a fearsome wound; even we might have died of it.”
There was a hissing, sibilant chorus from the others.
“Do not blame yourself, and if your mortality did spread to our king, he was still the happiest we had ever seen him.”
One of the others peeled itself back enough from the wall to say, “So young and so sad, until you came.”
The one that was standing, swaying like a fleshy carpet, was able to walk forward. “We will see you safe, and the killer punished. Your little goblin shamed us into coming to protect you and the babes; it is the last duty we can do the best king in all of faerie.”