Iron Kissed (Mercy Thompson #3)(48)
Author: Patricia Briggs

Tim, who had no need to find work, was older than most of them.

"Tim has a masters in computer science from Washington State," Courtney whispered to me. "That’s how he met Austin, in a computer class. Tim still takes a couple of classes from CBC or WSU every semester. It keeps him busy."

Austin, Tim, and most of the students had belonged to a college club – which seemed to have had something to do with writing computer games. Mr. Fideal had been the faculty advisor for that club. When Austin got interested in Bright Future, he’d preempted the club. CBC had dissociated itself with the group when it became obvious the nature of their business had changed – but Mr. Fideal had kept the privilege of dropping in occasionally.

The first bit of business for Bright Future this meeting was to send a bouquet to O’Donnell’s funeral as soon as the time for it was arranged by his family. Tim accepted the assumption that he would pay for the flowers without comment.

Business concluded, one young man got up and presented methods sure to protect you from the fae, among them salt, steel, nails in your shoes, and putting your underwear on inside out.

In the question-and-answer session that followed, I finally couldn’t keep my mouth shut anymore. "You talk as if all the fae are the same. I know that there are some fae that can handle iron and it would seem to me that the sea fae, like selkies, wouldn’t have a problem with salt."

The presenter, a shy giant of a young man, gave me a smile, and answered with far more articulation than he’d managed during his presentation. "You’re right, of course. Part of the problem is that we know that some of the stories have been embellished past all recognition. And the fae aren’t exactly jumping up and down to tell us just what kind of fae are left – the registration process is a joke. O’Donnell, who had access to all the paperwork on the fae in the reservation, said that he knew for a fact that at least one in three lied when answering what they were. But part of what we’re trying to do is sift through the garbage for the gold."

"I thought the fae couldn’t lie," I said.

He shrugged. "I don’t know about that, exactly."

Tim spoke up. "A lot of them made up a Gaelic-or German-sounding word and used that to fill out the form. If I said I was a Heeberskeeter, I wouldn’t be lying since I just invented the word. The treaties that set up the reservation system didn’t allow any questions asked about the way the registration forms were filled out."

By the time the meeting was wrapping up, I was convinced that none of these kids had anything to do with O’Donnell’s killing spree and subsequent murder. I’d never attended the meeting of any hate group – being half-Indian and not quite human, I’d have been pretty out of place. But I hadn’t been expecting a meeting conducted with all the passion and violence of a chess club. Okay, less passion and violence than a chess club.

I even agreed with most of what they said. I might like a few individual fae, but I knew enough to be afraid. Hard to blame these kids for seeing through the fae politicians and speech making. As Tim had told me, all they had to do was read the stories.

Tim walked me to my car after the meeting.

"Thanks for coming," he said, opening my door for me. "What did you think?"

I smiled tightly to disguise my dislike of the way he’d grabbed my door before I had. It felt intrusive – though Samuel and Adam, both products of an earlier era, opened doors for me, too, and they didn’t bother me.

I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, though, so all I said was, "I like your friends…and I hope you aren’t right about the threat the fae present."

"You don’t think we’re a bunch of overeducated, under-socialized geeks running around yelling the sky is falling?"

"That sounds like a quote."

He smiled a little. "Directly from the Herald."

"Ouch. And no, I don’t."

I bent to get in the car and noticed that the walking stick was back, lying across the two front seats. I had to move it so I could sit down.

I glanced at Tim after I moved it, but he didn’t seem to recognize the stick. Maybe O’Donnell had kept it out of sight during the Bright Future meetings; maybe it had kept itself out of sight. Nor did Tim seem to see anything odd about a person who had a walking stick in the front seat of their car. People tend to expect VW mechanics to be a little odd.

"Listen," he said. "I’ve had a little time to brush up on my Arthurian myths – read a little de Troyes and Malory after we got through talking. I wonder if you’d like to come over for dinner tomorrow?"

Tim was a nice man. I wouldn’t have to worry about him practicing undue influence via some werewolf mojo or turning control freak on me. He’d never get mad and rip out someone’s throat. He wouldn’t kill two innocent victims in order to protect me or anyone else from the mistress of the vampires. I hadn’t seen Stefan since then, but I often went months without seeing the vampire.

For a bare instant I thought about how nice it would be to go out with a normal person like Tim.

Of course, there was the small problem of telling him what I was. And the little fact that I wasn’t interested in getting into his bed at all.

Mostly, though, I was more than half in love with Adam, no matter how much he scared me.

"Sorry, no," I said, shaking my head. "I just got out of one relationship. I’m not about to start another."

His smile widened a little and grew pained. "Funny, me, too. We’d been dating for three years and I’d just gone to Seattle to buy a ring. I took her to our favorite restaurant, the ring in my pocket, and she told me she was getting married in two weeks to her boss. She was sure I would understand."

I hissed in sympathy. "Ouch."

"She was married in June, so it’s been a couple of months, but I don’t really feel like getting involved again either." Evidently tiring of bending down, he crouched beside the car, putting his head just a little below mine. He reached out and touched me on the shoulder. He wore a plain silver ring, the once smooth surface scratched and worn. I wondered what it meant to him because he didn’t seem to be the kind of man who normally wore rings.

"So why invite me to dinner?" I asked.

"Because I don’t intend to turn into a hermit. In the spirit of ‘Don’t let the bastards get you down. Why shouldn’t we sit down and have a nice meal and a little conversation? No strings and I don’t intend us to end up in bed. Just a conversation. You, me, and Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur." He gave me a twisted smile. "As an added bonus, one of the things I’ve taken a lot of classes in is cooking."

Another evening of arguing about Arthurian writers of the Middle Ages sounded like a lot of fun. I opened my mouth to accept but stopped without speaking the words. It might be fun, but it wasn’t a good idea.