Wicked Ties

"Is there anything we can do to help?" Ren called.

Brighton didn't pause for one second. "Just leave. Please leave."

Squeezing my eyes shut briefly, I bit back a curse as I heard the back door slam shut. "Oh God, that didn't end well."

Ren was quiet as I turned to him. He didn't look at me, his gaze fixed on the broken glass, the spilled tea . . . and the blood. I took a step toward him and spoke low. "Part of me wants to think that what Merle said at the end meant nothing, but I don't think that's the case, is it?"

Casting a sideways glance at me, he gave a curt shake of his head. Dread formed, taking root. "You haven't told me everything."

"No."

Several feelings rushed me at once, and I didn't know what to feel. Disappointment and anger were at the top of the heap. I trusted him, but there were also a lot of things I hadn't told him, so it was a pot meet kettle moment, and I struggled to rise above it and boy, that was hard, because I wanted to punch him in the arm. I wasn't the bigger, better kind of person on most days, so I was proud of myself when I held it together. "Is there really such a thing as a halfling? What are you really here for, Ren?"

Tipping his head back, he let out a weary sigh and then nodded to himself. "We should leave."

"I'm not leaving until you tell me what the hell is really going on."

He turned to me. "I will tell you everything, even if it gets me killed."

"Killed?"

"Yeah, it's that big of a deal, Ivy. So I'm not going to do it here. We need to go someplace to talk. You live nearby."

Part of me wanted to dig in my feet, but we did need to leave the courtyard so Brighton didn't have to worry about us setting off her mother even more, but I couldn't take him home. Not when there wasn't any time to warn Tink.

I really needed to get a house phone with voicemail so I could leave him messages. That was getting added to my to-do list.

"We can't go to my place," I said, ignoring the sharp look he gave me.

He studied me a moment. "Then we can go to my place."

Nervousness caused my belly to tumble. His place? "I don't know about that."

"Thought you trusted me?" A wry smile appeared on his face.

I lifted my chin. "That was before I apparently discovered that you haven't been a hundred percent honest with me."

"Nothing between us has changed, Ivy. There are—were—some things I just couldn't tell you—that you wouldn't just believe." Sighing, he thrust his hand through his hair. "I'm not going to have this conversation in public. It's my place or yours."

My place was out of the question because I had no idea what Tink was doing right now. "Whatever you say, Renald." I walked past him briskly, heading toward the porch so we could grab our helmets. "It's your place."

He shot me a mortified look. "I really wish you wouldn't call me that."

I snorted. "People in hell want ice water."

"People in hell are dead and thirst is probably the least of their concerns."

Climbing onto the porch, I shook my head as I glanced at the closed door. Guilt prickled under my skin, making me feel icky. Merle would've never injured herself if we hadn't come here today, but I couldn't go back and change history.

And I had a feeling after this conversation with Ren, I'd never be able to go back to the way things were before.

~

Ren lived in one of the old warehouses that had been recently remodeled into studio and one-bedroom apartments. With its own parking garage, wide industrial elevator, and hallways with exposed steel beams in the ceiling and brick walls, the place had an eccentric, modern feel to it. Definitely on the upscale side, and if the Order didn't pay so well, I doubted Ren could afford the kind of rent this place demanded.

His apartment was on the sixth floor, right outside the elevator, and when he opened the door, I was greeted to a rather sparse place with an open floor plan and the fresh clean scent that reminded me of the detergent Holly used to wash our clothes in.

There was a wide sectional in the living room, a black coffee table with a glass top situated near a large flat-screen TV hung on the gray and white brick wall. Other than a picture on the corner of the coffee table, that was it in terms of anything with a personal touch.

I glanced into the kitchen. All the appliances were stainless steel and new. It was a chef's kitchen, with a double oven and a shiny hood descending from the ceiling over a gas grill top, but there wasn't a table, just two barstools tucked under the kitchen island. On the other side of the living room were two doors. One door I assumed led to a bedroom, and I guessed the other was the bathroom.

It didn't appear as if anyone lived here.

Once inside, Ren shrugged off his backpack and placed it by the couch. Moving to the coffee table, he scooped up an empty bowl. The spoon rattled around as he bent again, grabbing a deep blue coffee cup.

He was cleaning up. That was kind of cute. And normal.

I stepped toward the coffee table, eyeing the picture. It was a family photo, had to be of him and his parents. He was younger, maybe sixteen, and with the wide smile and dimples, he looked adorable standing between a man and woman who he resembled greatly. A snowcapped mountain was in the background, but they were wearing t-shirts. The picture fascinated me—their smiling faces, happy eyes.

Glancing over his shoulder at me, he walked toward the kitchen. "Would you like something to drink?" he offered. "I suggest a refreshment that would be a bit stronger than tea for this."

Tearing my gaze away from the photo, I watched him place the bowl and cup near the sink. He strolled to the fridge, the muscles under the tattoo rippling as he opened the door. "I don't drink."

"Mind if I have a beer?"

I shook my head. "Not at all."

"Make yourself comfortable."

As Ren rustled around in the fridge, I headed toward the door I assumed was the bathroom, but when I opened it, I was staring at the neatly stacked sheets and towels. "You can fold fitted sheets?"

From the kitchen, Ren replied, "Yeah."

I scowled. "Are you even human? No mere mortal can fold a fitted sheet."

"I have mad skills."

That he did.

"May I ask why you're looking in my closet?" he asked, tone light and teasing.

I closed the door, cheeks hot. "I was actually looking for the bathroom."

"Through my bedroom. Not very convenient for guests or my privacy." He swaggered back into the living room, a bottle of beer in one hand and a can of soda in the other. Placing my can on the table, he walked over to the second door and opened it. "Just through here, to your left. The other door is the closet, and no, it's nowhere near as neat as the linen closet. I'll wait for you out here."

Entering Ren's bedroom made me feel weird. I hadn't been in a guy's bedroom since Shaun, and it was like walking through their inner sanctum. Like with the living room and kitchen though, there really were no personal artifacts. Just a huge king-sized bed with a thick, gray comforter left in a pile, a dark wood dresser, a nightstand, and a bookshelf—a fully loaded bookshelf. I wanted to check out what kind of titles he had, but I didn't think it would be cool of me to loiter in his bedroom. I quickly entered a neat master bathroom, did my thing, and then made my way back to the living room.

Ren sat on one side of the sectional, his legs kicked up onto the coffee table. His shoes were off, feet bare. As I picked up my soda, I couldn't help but notice he had sexy feet, and the moment that thought occurred, I decided I needed to get out more if I thought feet were sexy.

I sat against the arm of the sectional, kicking off my sandals and tucking my feet under me. He watched me out of the corner of his beautiful, thickly lashed eyes while he tipped the neck of the bottle to his lips. "I like seeing you in my place," he said. "Just thought I'd share that."

Stupidly flustered, I ignored that comment. "I think we need to start with this whole halfling thing," I decided.

"Good choice. Get the crazy out of the way first." Draping an arm over the back of the sectional, he looked at me. "You're not going to believe any of this, so before I go forward and talk just to take up oxygen, I need you to have an open mind. You get me?"

"We hunt fae, Ren. I have an open mind."

He lifted an eyebrow.

"And I've lived in New Orleans for almost four years. I've seen a lot of weird crap."

"True," he murmured, and flashed me a quick smile. "A halfling is a child of a human and a fae."

Part of me had suspected as much, but I found myself shaking my head despite the fact I just said I had an open mind. "That's not . . . I didn't think a fae and a human could make a baby."

"It's not easy. It's actually kind of rare when you compare it to the billions of people having children, but they can and it does happen. As far as we've learned, it can only happen when no compulsion is used, and for all we know, it could have something to do with fae magic. No one knows exactly why one pregnancy happens and another doesn't. Merle was correct when she said there used to be thousands of them but not anymore. There's probably a handful left—a couple dozen at most."

"Why are there so few now?" I asked, deciding to play along with this and hold off on deciding if he was veering into Crazytown until the end of the discussion.

"Our job—the Elite's—is not just to hunt down ancients." His attention drifted from me as tension formed around his mouth. "We are also given the duty of hunting down the halflings."

My lips parted on a soft inhale. "Hunting them down? As in killing them?"

He took another drink of his beer, and when his gaze slid back to mine, haunted shadows lingered in his stare. "There was a magical spell that shaped the doorways to the Otherworld, created by what we assume were the original king and queen of their world. When the doorways were created, they were done so with the ability to be closed and opened. However, there is a loophole in that creation—one act that could open all doorways, all across the world, and we would never be able to close them. Never, Ivy."

"Oh my God . . ." Horrified, that was all I was. The idea of the doorways being opened everywhere and there not being any way to close them was something I couldn't even wrap my head around. All the creatures of the Otherworld, not just the fae and the ancients, could pour out into our world. There'd be no stopping them from coming . . . or from dragging humans back.

"That loophole has to do with a halfling. If the prince or the princess is able to . . . how do I say this? If they are able to procreate with a halfling, the child resulting from such a union—an ancient making a baby with a human half fae—it would undo the original spells creating the doorways." He coughed out a dry laugh as I gaped at him. "You see, a prince or princess should never be in our world. A halfling should not exist. And a baby created between them? Also should not be. It's kind of like dogma—the ideology, the basic fundamentals of our world, the doorways, and the Otherworld, would be challenged, and therefore, the entire paradigm collapses."

"Holy shit."

He chortled. "Yeah. That."

My gaze flickered around the room wildly. "It's like the apocalypse baby."

A choking sound came from him, and I blinked rapidly. "It really is. It's so bizarre that it has to be true. God, I . . . I wish I drank."

Ren laughed then, the sound lighter. "Told you that you needed something harder."

Shaking my head, I tried to put all that together in my mind. "So the Elite hunt down the halflings just in case the prince or the princess ever makes it through the gateways. Basically, stopping the problem before it starts?"

"Exactly."

I took a huge gulp of my soda. "And you're here because . . ."

"I'm here because of what I told you before." His eyes found mine again. "All that was true. The Elite fear they will open the gate this time."

My heart skipped a beat. "But that's not all."

"No," he said quietly. "I'm also here because we have evidence there is a halfling in New Orleans."

Swallowing hard, I leaned over and placed my drink on the coffee table before I ended up spilling it on the couch and making a general mess.

"The person probably has no idea what they are. They usually don't." A faraway look pinched his features. "What makes them stand out isn't something that necessarily screams your mama or papa wasn't from this world. Some have never had broken bones because they haven't been in a situation where that's happened, but a halfling is harder to injure. They don't typically get sick as easily. That's about the only thing the fae blood or DNA does for them . . . unless they start feeding on humans, but they don't know how to do that. Another fae would have to show them, and even the fae can't sniff out halflings, not unless they get near their blood, and then they can tell." Pausing, he took another swig of the beer. "As far as we know, the fae have never successfully gotten their hands on a halfling because we've . . . we've gotten to them first."

I shuddered. "How do you even find them?"

A cynical grin twisted his lips. "Because most of them are in the Order."

"What?"

Smoothing his finger along the label of his beer, he nodded. "Remember when I told you that no compulsion could be used for a baby to happen? Order members aren't susceptible to glamour, and every halfling—and I mean every halfling we've found—has been the product of a consensual union."

I recoiled. "You mean that they wanted—agreed to have sex with a fae, knowing what they were?"

"Yep."

"Gross," I muttered.

"So the halfling is usually brought up in the Order somehow. We keep a lot of ears to the ground, but another thing constant among halflings is that all of them have been adopted. So we check out everyone who is."

A cold chill worked its way down my spine. "I was adopted."

"I know." He smiled then, a real one—small but real. "You're not one of them, Ivy."

"How do you know?" I challenged, sickened by the idea—the mere thought that I could be one of them without even knowing. "I was adopted. I've never broken a bone, and as far as I remember, I've never—"

"You haven't broken a bone or gotten sick because you're lucky. And your real mom and dad were happily married before they were killed," he cut in, lowering his gaze while I jerked back from his words. "Their names were Kurt and Constance Brenner, and all those who knew them said there was no marital discord between them. They were in love, Ivy. Neither of them would've gone outside their marriage."

I knew their names, but it had been years since I'd heard anyone speak of them. I'd been too young to know them, to form any bond with them, but they were still my flesh and blood, and it had shaken me to the core.

"Plus, when you were shot, that ancient most likely would've sensed if you were a halfling. You bled. He would've known."

A little bit of relief eased my tensed muscles. I was happy to hear that neither of my parents willingly knocked boots with a fae and produced baby Ivy, future incubator of mass destruction, but still, learning this was . . . fascinatingly horrifying.

"But how would you all know who the halfling is? You just go around . . . taking out people—Order members—that you suspect are halflings?" I toyed with the hem of my sweats. "That can't be all of it."

"It's not." Switching the bottle to the hand furthest from me, he brushed wisps of deep brown waves off his forehead. "The same stakes that can kill an ancient—one fashioned from thorn trees that grow in the Otherworld? If a halfling is cut with one, we'll know they're a halfling."

"How?"

His gaze flicked up to mine. "Their blood will bubble."

I whistled low under my breath. "Well, yeah, that's not normal."

"But I also can't go around cutting people with a stake, now can I?" Something crossed his face, and he looked away. "We know of a couple in the Order who were adopted. One of them is dead. I think her name was Cora."

"Cora Howard." My brows knitted as her freckled face appeared in my thoughts. "She was killed a couple of months ago. Who else?"

"Jackie Jordan. But she's not one. I did manage to accidentally nick her with the edge of my stake during my first meeting. I thought she might punch me. But her blood didn't boil."

A surprised laugh burst out of me, and I remembered the way Jackie had looked at him the night we learned Trent had been killed, like she didn't want to be anywhere near him.