Drink Deep - Chloe Neill [40]
Catcher took the dagger with a nod, his gaze skating across the engraving on the end.
“Are you going to be okay in there, babygirl? You sure you need to do this?” my grandfather asked. There was concern in his voice, but I didn’t think he was worried about me. I think he was worried about Tate. After all, if it hadn’t been for Tate’s machinations, Ethan would still be alive.
I took a moment to actually consider his question. Honestly, I didn’t know if I was going to be okay. I knew I needed to talk to him. I also knew he was dangerous. While he’d been masquerading as a politician with Chicago’s best interests in mind, he’d been a drug kingpin and a manipulator. And he’d practically scripted the drama that had taken place in his office two months ago.
Fear and anger battled. I was smart enough to be afraid of who Tate was and what he might do. His motivations were opaque but surely self-interested, and I had no doubt he’d take me out for fun if the mood struck him. That thought put a knot of tension in my gut.
But beneath the fear was a core of molten fury.
Fury that Ethan had been taken from me because of Tate’s need to play out some childish game. Fury that Ethan was gone and Tate was still alive, if stuck in his anachronistic prison. Fury that I hadn’t been able to stop Tate’s game before he’d played the final piece, and that even now he was trying to undermine my position in the House.
But I wasn’t a child, and I wasn’t Celina. I wasn’t going to kill him for revenge, or to avenge Ethan’s death, or because I was pissed that he’d taken something from me. What good would violence do other than putting me and mine in hot water?
No. Tate had caused enough drama, and I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of baiting me to violence. Tonight, we were talking about the GP, and the grift he was currently running. God willing, when I walked through the door and looked into his eyes again—the first time I’d seen him since the night of Ethan’s death—I’d keep that nice, tidy, logical conclusion in mind.
“Yes, I need to do this,” I told my grandfather. “Tate wouldn’t lie to the GP without a plan, and I want to know what it is. The last time we were too late. I won’t be fooled by him again. I’ll be fine,” I added, crossing my fingers that I wasn’t lying to him—or myself.
With an apologetic smile, he pulled a packet of indigo-blue silk from his vest pocket. “This might help a bit,” he said, holding it in the palm of one hand and unwrapping the silk with the other.
With that much buildup—careful disrobing, silk lining—I’d imagined a much fancier trinket than the one he showed me. Upon the cushion of silk sat a three-inch-long rectangle of heavily grained wood, the finish so smooth it gleamed. Half the wood was a darker shade than the other, as if two pieces had been fused together and the edges carefully rounded into a fluid, organic form.
“What is it?” I asked.
“We call it ‘worry wood,’ ” my grandfather said. “It’s a kind of magic blocker. We aren’t entirely sure what magic Tate might be working. But added to your immunity to glamour, this should keep you safe from whatever tricks he might try to pull.”
“The fairies carry them, as well,” Catcher said.
My grandfather extended his hand, and I plucked the worry wood from the silk. It was warmer than I expected it to be, and softer to the touch. The wood had been carefully sanded, leaving the grain only just rough enough that it still felt like wood—not plastic. It fit perfectly in the palm of my hand, the curves situated so they left a soothing depression for my thumb.
In a strange way, it was reassuring, tangibly comforting in the same way prayer beads might be. I slid the wood into my pocket, thinking it might behoove me to keep Tate unaware of it for as long as possible.
My grandfather nodded at the gesture, then refolded and rep-ocketed the square of silk. With a hand at my back, he escorted me to the door, where the fairy looked me over.
“We’ll be right outside if you need us,” my grandfather reminded me.
“Okay,” I said, blowing out a