“Cuchulainn, you idiot. What were you thinking? No, hold that. You weren’t thinking at all.” Ewan slammed his fist against the dining room table. It didn’t split, but only because the table had been built to withstand young Vampire and Were temper tantrums and Sidhe, even an adult one like Ewan, were not nearly as strong as either of those. Not that Sidhe normally needed extra strength, glamour usually worked.

But not on Cuchulainn, this Vampire Were Cross who stood before Ewan staring at his feet and wringing his felt hat in his hands. Ewan loved him, this boy, this man, neither, both, but not enough to forgive him for, yet again, fathering a child with a human girl.

A child Ewan would be forced to steal as soon after its birth as he possibly could. Sometimes he was not soon enough. The first child he’d gone to snatch—retrieve—was a Vampire and in the new grandmother’s joy she’d taken the little one outside to show him to the neighbors. Ewan was not able to revive the babe. Not to mention the Were pup, who’d been born on a full moon or little Araksya, whose scars still stood out dark against her pale green skin. Glamour was a skill learned over a long Sidhe childhood.

Maybe that was Cuchulainn’s problem. Weres grew up fast, looking like adults after only six years, and half Were grew like Were whether they were also half Sidhe or Vampire. Half human didn’t exist, either you were one of the People or you weren’t. But while full Were matured in both body and mind at that fast pace, Were Vampire Crosses were notorious for immature behavior long into adulthood.

But racing cars down lanes meant for wagons or learning to fly biplanes was not the same as fathering children willy-nilly. Anger flared though Ewan again. “Getting yourself killed, I could understand that. But a babe, an innocent… who did you think you were? Casanova?”

Cuchulainn bit his lip and tears dripped down his pale cheeks, but Ewan was too angry to stop. “No, even Casanova knew how to protect himself.”

“Ewan, stop that right now,” his mother said, coming out of the kitchen. “You’re scaring the children.”

The door to the playroom was open, the children watching him. Ewan ran his fingers through his blonde hair, feeling guilty. He picked up Culhif, Cuchulainn’s youngest, a six month old Were, who having mastered walking, now set his eye on climbing everything in sight. Cuchulainn wasn’t the reason Ewan was angry. Uncle Ian had been by that morning. Ewan, forty-three and finally grown, was supposed to take up the role that his king had picked for him, that of priest. Humans, while less superstitious than in the past, at least here the city, still felt more comfortable knowing that the family contained clergymen. Especially Ewan’s family, who grew old so slowly they looked like they never aged.

Olwen, the same size as her younger brother, although she was almost four—Vampires were tiny—grabbed her father’s pant leg. “Papa-Cuchulainn, what’s wrong? Was Papa-Ewan mean to you?”

She glared at Ewan.

“Sorry Olwen. Sorry Cuchulainn. I shouldn’t have yelled.” Ewan wrapped his free hand behind Cuchulainn to pat his back, glad that Cuchulainn hadn’t picked Olwen up; she still hadn’t forgiven her brother for being born. Or for destroying her toys during the full moon.

But instead of standing still, Cuchulainn turned in Ewan’s arm and buried his head against Ewan’s chest. Now what? Culhif reached for his father, but both of Cuchulainn’s fists were held fast around handfuls of Ewan’s shirt. Cuchulainn breathed in loudly and it caught on a sob.

Ewan looked at his mother. She hurried over, taking Culhif in her arms and Olwen by the hand. She disappeared with them into the kitchen after shooing the older children back into the playroom. Ewan hugged Cuchulainn tight. Why did he want to be so close? Why did he have to smell so good? And be just the right height to hold?

Cuchulainn, full grown though his body might be, was only twelve. He’d been born during the day of the full moon. His father wore four legs and his mother was hysterical with worry over the sun, the moon, everything. When Ewan’s mother brought him to the birthing to watch the other midwife’s young Sidhe daughter, Ewan was almost grown, but still definitely a child. As they’d neared the house at the edge of town, Ewan commented that the babe would be a Cross. As a reward for being right, he was the first person allowed in the birthing room, the first person besides the parents and the midwives to hold the babe.

Readers were rare. More common among the Sidhe than other People, but still rare. Uncle Ian decided Ewan should he a priest. Priest saw nearly everyone in the city at some point. He could inform the People which women were carrying Faie babes.

Not all children of the People were Faie. For Crosses like Cuchulainn and some of the others, all their children were Faie, but for most, it was half when they bred with a human and three-quarters with another Faie, based on Ewan’s research. At least Ewan didn’t have to switch babes, although it was in a baby snatcher—retriever’s— job description. The Seelie Queen couldn’t bear to part with any of her people, even those born human. And the Unseelie King found homes for them among his human minions. His decision to have humans raise the babes was the only holdover from the old days.

The Unseelie court was more like a business now, or an organization. Uncle Ian no longer called himself king. He was Mr. Ian Delaney or Boss to his court and humans alike. Instead of sitting in a glade in a toga and a laurel wreath, listening to fairies sing, he ran the city wearing a zoot suit and fedora. His people edited the paper, lead the police, owned businesses, and ran speakeasies, smuggling alcohol across the border, now that it was illegal.

Nothing came into the city without his knowledge. And nothing left.

Cuchulainn’s sobs eased. “I’m sorry, Ewan.”

“You’re still young. You’ll get the knack,” Ewan soothed. “I’ll find the girl. Don’t worry. Mother’s always wanted a lot of little ones around her.”

Cuchulainn took several deep breaths and unclenched his fists, but didn’t move away. His dark hair was getting long, covering his pale face. Ewan’s fingers ached to brush it away and stare into the smaller man’s eyes, which were still the black of a young Vampire, not yet the rich brown that he’d get after his fiftieth year. Cuchulainn shifted against Ewan chest, getting his full attention. “Are you sure I’m not a bother?”

Ewan took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the smell of soap and the last vestiges of Cuchulainn’s three days on four legs. That didn’t help clear his mind, but if he stepped back or took his time answering, Cuchulainn would think it was him. “Never. Not since the day you were born.”

Cuchulainn pulled away quickly. “You aren’t supposed to remember that.”

“How can I forget? You were the first baby I ever held.”

Cuchulainn paced around the room. “Don’t say that.”

Ewan ran his hands through his hair; he needed a haircut himself. “Don’t take it wrong. Time runs different for all of us. If you were my age, you would be married with two kids and one on the way. Not that that isn’t what you have without the wife.”

“I’m not getting married.”

Ewan pulled out a chair from the table and sat down. “Aren’t you a bit young to be saying that?”

Cuchulainn set he hands against the table top and pressed down hard enough that the table groaned. “I’m not getting married and you’re not becoming a priest.”

Ewan didn’t want to argue with that.

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