Fair Game

that was somewhat affected by the unshed tears in hisvoice. Another song might have suited Beauclaire’s range better, and this particular song wasn’t among Charles’s favorites. He preferred those that had a story, powerful imagery, or at least better poetry.
    Charles took a step forward and, though Beauclaire didn’t look up or quit singing, Charles felt the fae’s attention center on him. It felt like the attention of a rattlesnake just before it strikes.
    “‘Beside the Sea,’ indeed,” Charles said softly, watching Beauclaire’s body language.
    The fae lord quit singing and looked up. Charles saw that he’d read him aright. Beauclaire was ready to defend his daughter against anyone who got too close. Like Isaac, he’d taken quite a beating on the unforgiving stone, and he looked a little dazed—something Charles hadn’t noticed in his first assessment. Being wounded made the fae all the more dangerous. The long knife had reappeared in his good hand and it looked very sharp.
    “Ar lan y mor,”
sang Charles, and watched Beauclaire stand down just a little, so he sang a few more lines for him. “All right. Allies, remember? We need to get everyone on the boat. Maybe have Isaac’s witch do something for your daughter so the black magic doesn’t eat her—I don’t know if you can see it, but I can. We need to fix your wrist.”
    Beauclaire shut his eyes and banished his knife. Magic, Charles thought, or quick hands. The fae nodded, then winced and grimaced. “Right.” His speaking voice was less steady than his singing voice had been. “We need to get her to safety in case the horned lord comes back. I can’t carry her.”
    “I can, if you let me,” offered Charles. If necessary, he’d pull the same sort of dominance on Beauclaire that he had on Isaac. But Beauclaire wasn’t a wolf. It might work for a second, but it might also get Charles knifed in the back when he wasn’t paying attention to Beauclaire. Better to get real cooperation.
    “Her knee,” Beauclaire said.
    “I know. I see it. It’sgoing to hurt no matter how we do this. But this island isn’t that big. It shouldn’t take us long.”
    Beauclaire looked up and gave him a half smile. “First we have to stand up and go up the stairs.”
    “Yes,” agreed Charles.
    “It could be waiting for us up there.”
    Charles started to agree, but Brother Wolf spoke up. The old wolf might not know horned lords, but he knew prey, and Charles trusted his judgment. “The white stag is long gone.”
    Beauclaire froze. “You saw it? As a white stag?”
    Charles nodded. “When we fought it, it wasn’t in that form.” He’d had time to think about it. Charles knew what he’d touched and it had been vaguely human shaped with legs like the hind legs of a moose. “But it ran up the stairs and turned into a stag—just as its invisibility ran out.”
    “It didn’t run out,” Beauclaire said. “He dropped the glamour on purpose. Why didn’t you follow it?”
    “I wasn’t in any shape to take it on by myself,” said Charles, gesturing around to the fallen. “Even with allies, we might not have been able to defeat it had it not decided to run. And I wasn’t going to leave you injured and vulnerable.”
    Anna snorted. She knew him, knew who he wouldn’t leave vulnerable.
    Beauclaire bowed his head and smiled. “I should have known that Bran’s son would be too hardheaded to be led by his nose by any magic—even by the white stag. Had you chased it, you would have continued, never stopping, never catching up until your legs were but bloody stumps or you died.”
    Charles looked at him. “Thanks for the warning.”
    Beauclaire laughed. “Bran’s son, no one can guard against the white stag—and knowing what he is and hunting him anyway is very dangerous.Even more dangerous than hunting in ignorance. If the white stag walked past me two weeks ago, I would not have been compelled to go after him. But if I had seen him tonight, after hunting him since he stole my daughter away—I would have followed him, power that I am, until one of us was dead.”
    “I thought fae were immortal,” said Charles. “At least those who can refer to themselves as ‘power that I am.’”
    Beauclaire started to say something, but broke off as Charles held up a hand.
    There was a scuffing sound above them. Someone was upstairs.
    “Isaac?” It was Malcolm.
    “We’re down here,” called Charles, relaxing, though Brother Wolf was upset with