Samuel nodded. "I noticed it, too. That staff, whatever it is, was stolen from one of the murder victims—and he didn't want to talk about it."

I yawned twice and heard my jaw pop the second time. "I'm going to bed tonight. I have to go to church in the morning." I hesitated. "What do you know about the Black Smith of Drontheim?"

He gave me a small smile. "Not as much as you do, I expect, if you've worked with him for ten years."

"Samuel Cornick," I snapped.

He laughed.

"Do you know a story about this Black Smith of Drontheim?" I was tired and the heap of my worries was a weight I was staggering under: Zee, the Gray Lords, Adam, and Samuel—and the wait for Marsilia to find out that Andre had not been killed by his helpless victims. However, I'd been searching for stories about Zee for years. Too many of the fae treated him with awed respect for him not to be in stories somewhere. I just couldn't find them.

"The Dark Smith, Mercy, the Dark Smith."

I tapped my toe and Samuel gave in. "Ever since I saw his knife, I've wondered if he was the Dark Smith. That one was supposed to have forged at least one blade that would cut through anything."

"Drontheim…" I muttered. "Trondheim? The old capital of Norway? Zee's German."

Samuel shrugged. "Or he's pretending to be German—or the old story could have it wrong. In the stories I heard, the Dark Smith was a genius and a malicious bastard, a son of the King of Norway. The sword he made had a nasty habit of turning on the man who wielded it."

I thought about it for a moment. "I guess I could believe a villain before I'd believe a story about him being a goody-goody hero."

"People change over the years," said Samuel.

I looked up sharply and met his eyes. He wasn't talking about Zee anymore.

There were only a few feet between us, but the gulf of history was much larger: I'd loved him so much, once. I'd been sixteen and he'd been centuries older. I'd seen in him a gentle protector, a knight who would rescue me and build his world around me. Someone for whom I would not be an obligation, a burden, or a bother. He'd seen in me a mother who could bear his living children.

Werewolves, with one exception, are made, not born. It takes more than a nip or two—or as I read in a comic book once, a scratch of a claw. A human who wants to change must be savaged so badly that he either dies or becomes a werewolf and is saved by the rapid healing that is necessary to surviving as a hot-tempered monster among other such beasts.

Women don't survive the Change as well as the men for some reason. And the women who do cannot bear children. Oh, they're fertile enough, but the monthly change at the full moon is too violent and they abort any pregnancies when they shift from human to werewolf.

Werewolves can mate with humans, and often do. But they have a terribly high miscarriage rate and higher than usual infant mortality. Adam had a daughter born after his Change, but his ex-wife had had three miscarriages while I knew her. The only children who survive are completely human.

But Samuel had a brother who was born a werewolf. The only one that anyone I know had ever heard of. His mother was from a family that was gifted with magic native to this land and not Europe as most of our magic-using humans have. She was able to hold off the change every month until Charles's birth. Weakened by her efforts, she died at his birth—but her experiences had started Samuel thinking.

When I, neither human nor werewolf, was brought to his father for his pack to raise, Samuel had seen his chance. I don't have to change—and even when I do, the change is not violent. Though real wolves in the wild kill any coyotes they find in their territory, they can mate and have viable offspring.

Samuel waited until I was sixteen before he made me fall in love with him.

"We all change," I told him. "I'm going to bed."

Just as I've always known there are monsters in the world, monsters and things even more evil, I've always known that it is God who keeps evil at bay. So I make a point of going to church every Sunday and praying on a regular basis. Since killing Andre and his demon-bearing spawn, church was the only place I felt truly safe.

"You look tired." Pastor Julio Arnez's hands were big-knuckled and battered. Like me, he'd worked with his hands for a living—he'd been a lumberman until he retired and become our pastor.

"A little," I agreed.

"I heard about your friend," he said. "Would he appreciate a visit?"

Zee would like my pastor—everyone liked Pastor Julio. He might even manage to make being in jail more bearable, but getting close to Zee was too dangerous.

So I shook my head. "He's fae," I said apologetically. "They don't think very highly of Christianity. Thank you for offering."

"If there's anything I can do, you tell me," he said sternly. He kissed my forehead and sent me off with his blessing.

Zee on my mind, as soon as I got home I called Tony on his cell phone because I had no idea how to get in to see Zee.

He answered, sounding cheerful and friendly rather than coolly professional, so he must have been home.

"Hey, Mercedes," he said. "It was not nice of you to sic Ms. Ryan on us. Smart, but not nice."

"Hey, Tony," I said. "I'd apologize but Zee matters to me—and he's innocent, so I got the best I could find. However, if it makes you feel any better, I have to deal with her, too."

He laughed. "All right, what's up?"

"This is stupid," I told him, "but I've never had to go visit anyone in jail before now. So how do I go about seeing Zee? Are there visiting hours or what? Should I wait until Monday? And where is he being held?"

There was a short silence. "I think visiting hours are weekends and evenings only. But before you go, you might talk to your lawyer," he said cautiously. Was there something wrong with me seeing Zee?

"Call your lawyer," he said again when I asked him.

So I did. The card she'd given me had her cell on it as well as her office.

"Mr. Adelbertsmiter is not talking to anyone," Jean Ryan told me in a frosty voice, as if it were my fault. "It will be difficult to mount an effective defense unless he talks to me."

I frowned. Zee could be cantankerous but he wasn't stupid. If he wasn't talking, he had a reason.

"I need to see him," I told her. "Maybe I can persuade him to talk to you."

"I don't think you're going to persuade him of anything." There was a bare hint of smugness in her voice. "When he wouldn't respond to me, I told him what I knew about O'Donnell's death—all that you had told me. That was the only time he spoke. He said that you had no business telling his secrets to strangers." She hesitated. "This next part is a threat, and I normally would not pass it on, as it does my client's case no good. But…I think you ought to be warned. He said you'd better hope he doesn't get out—and that he's calling the loan due immediately. Do you know what he means?"

Numbly I nodded before realizing that she couldn't see me. "I bought my shop from him. I still owe him money on it." I'd been paying him on a monthly basis, just as I did the bank. It wasn't the money, which I didn't have, that left my throat dry and pressure building behind my eyes.

He thought I'd betrayed him.

Zee was fae; he could not lie.

"Well," she said. "He made it clear that he had no desire to talk to you before he went mute again. Do you still wish to retain my services?" She sounded almost hopeful.

"Yes," I said. It wasn't my money that was paying her—even at her rates there was more than enough in Uncle Mike's briefcase to cover Zee's expenses.

"I'll be honest, Ms. Thompson, if he doesn't talk to me, I can't do him any good at all."

"Do what you can," I told her numbly. "I'm working on a few things myself."