I parsed that while Nen and Rayya shared looks.  Or strange fey telepathic pheromonic communication with the background symphony of the world’s rotation punctuated with highlights of the aetherial nexii, or, I don’t know, whatever it was they were doing.  I intended to consider this with serious intent, because if I was going to be accused of what I am pretty sure would be at most involuntary manslaughter (or feyslaughter, I suppose) and more likely some kind of negligent homicide, I thought it wise to take a few minutes to muster my arguments.

I threw out the “feyslaughter not being equal to manslaughter” argument pretty quickly. I mean, provided they were aligned with a Lord of some sort, they certainly weren’t estrays (as I understood it from legal arguments in comic books) and they weren’t recognized as human under the law, but I knew how I felt.  And even if they weren’t human, they had what Nen and I argued about as “life” and “soul,” I guessed.

So the real arguments.  The first one of course, was, “Where’s the body?” because I didn’t know who I was supposed to have had killed.  There were three immediate possibilities, well, four, okay, six… six at most.  I sat down at the table and rested my head against my arms as Nen moved up to Rayya and talked to her in low tones.  What was I doing that I could come up with six possibilities of people who I had killed?  It struck me as highly unlikely, if not entirely unnatural a thing for me to have done.  On the other hand, I knew better than to throw myself upon the mercy of any faerie court.  (Faerie court.  Get it?  Nevermind.  It should be an episodic TV series.)

Alright, alphabetically, Artur wasn’t my fault.  He was entirely motivated by his own revenge or whatever to seek out the Dragon.  Doloise, well, she was stolen by Naul, so I figure that one was also not my fault.  Ivan wasn’t a fey, so whatever happened with him shouldn’t count. Naul wasn’t actually killed, just banished from several sources of her power and injured enough that I figured she would crawl into some kind of hole and fester for a hundred years.  You know, like a Balrog.  Long enough that I’d grow old, get married, die a peaceful death, and warn my kids from playing with Dragons.  Um, not in that order.  The Stargazer (as Nen called it, which brings to mind Lovecraft and marine biology both) was presumably my fault but if so, it was entirely incidental, and I didn’t know if it was fey.  Sylvie’s death was suspect, and she would have been killed as a matter of war, which meant she was a casualty of the conflict, not me.

That was the six I could think of off the top of my head.  I picked up my head and watched as Nen took Rayya’s spot on the couch, picking up from where he’d left off in Testerman’s Hidden Things.  I hadn’t read it yet, but he chuckled a lot so I’d definitely pick it up.  His sister had disappeared as suddenly as she’d appeared, I guessed.  Trust them to forget convenient little things like barriers of reality, the impossibility of teleportation, and the politeness of knocking on doors.

The words were just about to spill out when I realized the error of asking, “Who was it?” That implied a kind of callous I didn’t want to be, that I hadn’t even noticed someone giving their life, the sum of their being, for me.  To me.  However the preposition worked.

I leaned back on the chair and thought for a minute if there was any way to hint around it.  What about starting with something related like, “I didn’t mean to,” even if that was suck as an apology?  It might bring me around to finding out, but it didn’t seem right.  Leaving it alone didn’t seem right, either, but they had, and maybe in their twisted mirror world it was just as polite.

I went back into my room with my notebook and pen.  I remembered belatedly I had meant to ask Nen a particular question.  I had another that I wanted to ask Rayya.  I wrote them both down and called Ed.

“Hey, E!” he answered, heartily.

“Hi,” I said.  It sounded weak next to how enthusiastic he was.

“What’s going on?  Need to take on a gryphon or something?” he asked.  His voice was all cheerful.

“Sorry, my armor’s at the dry-cleaners,” I said.  “And I don’t think they really exist.  Of course, I’ve said that a lot in the last hour or so.  At least to myself,” I amended.

“I repeat, what’s been going on?” He sounded a bit concerned.

“Sorry I haven’t been calling or getting together,” I said.  “I’m a real dunderhead.”

“Yeah, we know.”  He took a moment.  “You okay?”

“No.  I don’t think I am,” I decided.

“Huh.”  He didn’t say anything else.

“Stuff’s been happening and like I said, I realized I was a real jerk.  Yes, I’d love to do Thanksgiving with your mom and Zach.”

“I’ll let her know.”  He was quiet.  “Um.  You want me to come over?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to invite you to my pity party.  I’ve just been trying to put stuff together, and I needed to hear a friendly voice.”

“Anytime, man.  Need me to sing commercial jingles from the 1980’s?  I’m best at pop tunes.  Soda pop, that is.”

I laughed, and he chuckled with me.  “I don’t know if that meets the definition,” I admitted.

“Hey, they’re upbeat and insensitive in the way only television could be!  You know, they could totally do commercial karaoke.”

I considered it.  “Yeah, I think so.  Did that happen in a movie somewhere?”

“Demolition Man.  Um, 1993.  That’s what they had on the radio, so I supposed they had karaoke, but I don’t remember for sure.”

“And all restaurants… yeah, I remember that movie.”  I shrugged.

“We haven’t gone to the movies in a while.  You missed some good ones.  But they’re all available for download these days. Legally, even.”

“Yeah, but is it the same without the air conditioner jacked up, the sticky floor, and the horrifying sound of the urine-colored cholesterol being spread across the popped corn?”  I put my feet up on the nightstand, staring at the ceiling.

“You make it sound like so much fun,” he said. “I can’t imagine how more people aren’t flocking to the films when you put it that way.”

“I’ve never worked in advertising,” I admitted.  I glanced outside, and made a guess at the time.  “Let’s go get a drink.”

“That’s a bit of a drive,” he hedged.

“I’ll stop at a liquor store on the way and crash at your place, like we did ten years ago,” I offered.

He chuckled.  “You haven’t done that since Haley, remember her?”

I thought back.  “Wow, that was… yeah, I remember Haley.”

“She wasn’t as crazy as Mags, but man, she was pretty out there.  On the other hand, given the way she looked, I figured there was some kind of compensation.  I mean, yeah, I like what I like, but Haley even gave me some thoughts.”

“Her hair was the color of apricots,” I said, remembering.

“And her eyes the green of brussel sprouts,” he added.

“That’s not very poetic,” I groused.

“She dumped my best friend. I don’t have to have fond memories.”

“They were more romaine lettuce green.  Lighter than kale.  Brussel sprouts are just too gassy.”

“Let’s compromise.  Broccoli.”

“Her eyes were as green as the stalks of steamed broccoli.  I’m no poet, but it’s better.”

“And instead of apricots, think melted cheese.”

“Did you skip dinner?”

“Nah, just completing a metaphor.”

“I won’t get in the way of you and Zach, right?”

“He’s got choir practice, and I’ll text him.  Don’t stint – the cheap stuff gets you drunk, but the good stuff makes you less likely to want to die the next morning.”

I glanced at the open door.  “I’ll probably have some kind of invisible bodyguard, too.”

“That must make it hard to meet girls,” he joked.

“Haley liked it when people were watching.  That’s one of the reasons we broke up.”

“She dumped you.  Get it right, man.”

“Well, even if the bodyguard wasn’t invisible, it certainly won’t be human.”

“Won’t be the first, or even last time that mom has something like that in the house, and I’m not counting the crow she rescued last month, or the various dogs and cats of my childhood years.”  He sighed.  “I’d trust you’d tell me if it was dangerous.”

I laughed, but it sounded insincere.  “If it was a bodyguard, I’d hope it was dangerous.  To things that weren’t me and mine.”

“Yeah, point.”

“Anyway, that’s one of the things I want to get drunk over.  Give me about 90 minutes and I’ll call you when you’re in the neighborhood.  You still drink that nasty coffee stuff?”

“Less a Mudder’s Milk kind of night than a Samarian Sunset.”

“I happen to recognize both of the references, and I know absinthe is nasty and tastes like licorice.”

“Black Anise was a witch, wasn’t she? What about Green Anise?”

“A Baby-stealing Bourbon?”

“Hmmmm.  Bog-goblin beer?”

“Will o’wisp whiskey?”

“Leannan sidhe liqueur?”

“Kelpie Kahlua?”

“That’s a trademark.  But do leprechauns drink irish coffees?”

“I want a genie gin.”

“I’ll have to recommend a dwarf tonker tonic.”

“Not to me you don’t.” I thought quickly.  “Old Man Willow Wine?”

“Stretching.”

“Yeah.  Okay.  I’ll try not to make a hobbit out of it.  Vodyanoi vodka.”

“What’s a Vodyanoi?  Sounds like an empathic Star Trek race.”

“They live in crystal palaces under water.  Or, heck, maybe under-vodka?”

“Ninety minutes, you said?”

“One hundred, because I want to make a mixer for a kraken juice drink.”

“Rum, not carrot juice.  Pick up the umbrellas.  You know, to fight off all the tentacles.”

“It makes me amused to let you know that every drink umbrella I’ve seen has been peace-bonded for our protection.”

“You know how people with fruity drinks like to start bar fights.”

I grinned.  “See you in a few,” I said.

I picked my feet up and went to the bathroom to wash my face.  I noticed that my  usual hand soap had been replaced with something labelled “organic” and made a face.  I didn’t remember buying it.  It smelled alright, but I wanted something with a whiff of engine oil and manly sweat.  Next I’ll be complaining that it doesn’t have “new keyboard smell.”

“I’m off to do foolish things,” I called out to the front room as I dried my hands.

“Far be it from me to prevent it,” Nen replied.  He leaned against the doorframe. “Must I suggest that future bacchanals be planned with better spirits?”

“Don’t knock my scotch, man.”

“I’m more likely to butter it.  Nevertheless, I am not your chaperone or your conscience.  I am merely here to make certain nothing ends you before your allotted time, given a certain elevated danger bought from your patron’s hospitality.”

“Bought from his or her hospitality?  What can I say? It was on sale.”

Nen looked annoyed, and I sighed.  The annoyance probably isn’t an act. I bet it’s how faerie faces look all the time, unless they’re pinching someone.

“How does this hospitality work, anyway?  Does it mean I should or shouldn’t invite you?  I mean, you’re going to have to come along or send one of your buddies anyway, but should I presume or should I grease the way with social lubricant?”

Nen gave me a wry smile.  “An invitation is always nice.”

“Uh-oh,” I said.  “I can tell from your look that an invitation is kind of like a free pass of some sort.  I told him I’d be bringing someone, and I’d rather it be you.  As much as a pain in the butt you are, I’d rather have you than the weird angry wind.”

“An excellent endorsement. I shall be sure not to let you pen my epitaph.”

“We’re agreed, then,” I said.  “It’s BYOB,” I teased.

“I’ll find something,” he threatened.  Or promised.  I wasn’t sure quite which.