“Exactly. I cut them up nearly four centuries ago. But they’ve still been responsible for most of the greatest atrocities in human and supernatural history. One or the other has a body part that’s found, and it starts whispering, and next thing you know some human or supernatural has gone batshit and started a war.”

“Does that explain Hitler?” I asked, wondering at the historical implications of Blondie’s words.

“No, unfortunately. That was pure human crazy.”

“So whom did the creature send you to?” Anyan asked, interrupting me before I could start listing historical maniacs to see if they were evil supernaturally or au naturel.

“The contact I was sent to by the creature was a museum curator. A mortal. His specialty is relics.”

“I’m assuming you mean the body parts of purported saints, and not supernatural relics?” Anyan asked.

“Yes, human saints,” Blondie replied. “He told me how he’d been interested in them for years, but it wasn’t until he found a certain relic—a hand that was supposed to be some woman martyred in the fourth century—that relics became an obsession. And not just any relics.”

“Let me guess,” Anyan said. “He suddenly discovered he had a burning desire to collect everything he could find of that particular saint.”

“Bingo,” said the Original. “Even though it wasn’t a particularly important saint, nor was there any reason to put it together, he just suddenly really wanted to do so.”

“It’s funny how such whims ripen, when the Red and the White are involved,” Hiral squeaked. I noticed with irritation that he’d eaten the entire plate of cookies.

“So where are all the relics he found?” Gog asked. A question to which I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

“One day a few months back, a beautiful blonde woman arrived at his door. He described her as a shorter version of ‘that pretty elf queen from the Lord of the Rings.’ ”

I groaned. That was almost definitely Morrigan: she of the beauty and the evil.

Blondie’s eyes flicked to mine, acknowledging my guess as to this mysterious stranger, before she continued: “She expressed a desire to own his relics, and suddenly he realized he no longer wanted them. After years of tracking them down obsessively—even mortgaging his home to pay for some—he suddenly couldn’t care less about them.”

“He sold them to her?” Anyan asked, with a distinct growl backing his words.

“Yes. For quite a nice sum, actually. He was no longer in the hole,” said Blondie.

“So we assume the bad guys have at least most of one of the sets of relics?” I said.

“At least,” replied Blondie. “But I’m afraid he had the complete set, or near it. Otherwise why would he feel he could give it up? I don’t think the relics would let go of a human who’d done such a good job finding them to start with. Not unless they had reason to.”

“Why are Morrigan and Jarl doing this?” Anyan asked. “They already have power, and could get more if they wanted it. They can’t think they’ll be able to control the Red and the White if they’re awakened.”

Blondie shrugged. “Who knows what they think. Remember, the Red and the White are masters of seduction. We don’t even know how they do it—do they promise things, or just plant a seed in the mind? And we know so little about Morrigan, especially. She was just a typical Alfar monarch, until the day she killed Orin.

“The fact is that throughout history people have been willing to fight and die for the Red and the White, including people who should have known better. My guess would be they don’t plan on actually resurrecting the Red and the White. Maybe they think they can just use the relics to amplify their power. But we can assume that no matter what Morrigan and Jarl think they’re planning, the Red and the White are planning something completely different, and using the Alfar to get it.”

“So where does this leave us?” I asked.

“Well, we know what they’re looking for. We know we’re behind. That said, I think I have a place to start—a source at the British Museum. But that can wait until tomorrow,” said Blondie.

“We know our mission, then,” Anyan said. “We have to stop Morrigan and Jarl from getting any more relics. And we’ve got to try to get back what they do have.”

Blondie nodded, but Gog looked pensive.

“How do we even know the relics can be used?” asked the coblynau. “You said parts was destroyed. How can they be put back together with parts missing?”

Blondie frowned. “People do it all the time,” she said, gesturing towards the Ikea furniture. “And besides, even if the Red and the White can’t be resurrected in their entirety, that doesn’t mean some of that power can’t be channeled. Even a little bit of their strength would make a formidable enemy nearly impossible to beat.”

“So what exactly can the Red and the White do?” I asked. “And what of their powers do you think Morrigan and Jarl might be able to control if they put enough of them together?”

“They could shapeshift,” Blondie said. “But they nearly always chose the form of a dragon. They have huge Elemental control over Air and Fire, obviously. They are Air and Fire. They’re also really seductive. There’s something about them that gets under the skin. It’s like a form of hypnosis.

“As for what Morrigan and Jarl will be able to do with those parts, who knows. But obviously those parts have power, still, if they’re working their magic on people like that curator. I’m thinking Morrigan and Jarl will be able to glean quite a bit of power from those pieces, even if they’re not able to resurrect the Red and the White entirely.”

“Great,” I said, before looking around at everyone. “So to summarize, the Red and the White, forces of ultimate evil we thought were destroyed, might manage to resurrect themselves. Even if they don’t manage that, their bones might still be used for unspeakable violence. And we have to stop that from happening.”

“But even if we’re too late, you can stop them, Jane. As the champion.” Gog looked pleased at having put two and two together. I glared at him.

Despite the fact he seemed to be a nice coblynau, I suddenly wanted to punch him in the face.

When Anyan practically tossed me onto the sheets the second we’d made up the Hide-A-Bed, I thought he’d changed his mind about the whole talking thing.

The libido was all for buttering the barghest’s bread, but my brain was siding with my virtue on this one. I was ready to take charge by being very good and not attacking Anyan back, when he had the audacity not to attack me in the first place. Instead, he cuddled me close and started talking.

“I was so scared when you were in that coma,” Anyan murmured, his breath feathering my lips as he kissed me gently before finishing his thought. “When you woke up, I thought I had to grab you, gobble you up, then and there. But here you are. Still with me.”

His iron-grey gaze rested on me while his fingers trailed over my cheek, down my jaw and neck, finally sliding over my arm. Meanwhile, he’d also managed to touch on about six of my current issues.

“Is that what we were doing in Rockabill?” I asked, seizing the opportunity to try to understand how he felt about me despite how good his hands felt on my flesh. “Grabbing each other?”

“I think that’s certainly one way to describe it,” he said, chuckling, but I didn’t laugh with him.

“Was that all it was?” I asked instead, my voice betraying my nervousness.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, was the way we were, or, um, the way you were with me, just because of the attack?”

“I’m sorry, Jane, I don’t understand what you’re asking,” he said. His eyes betrayed only curiosity and his fingers never stopped their comforting caresses.

I took a deep breath, realizing belatedly that we were, indeed, plunging headfirst into a Real Talk. “What I’m asking, I think, is if whether the attack, or what happened after, is why you… liked me so much when I woke up.”

Anyan’s expression changed from curiosity to confusion. For a split second his fingers stopped tracing patterns on my skin, but then just as suddenly his expression cleared and he was shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what I’d just asked.

“Oh, Jane,” he said, shifting me around so he could see my face better. “You really can be an idiot.”

The “idiot” gave him a hard pinch in the soft flesh of his side. He yelped, grabbing my hands in a gentle wristlock. He used the leverage his grip gave him to pull me close enough our noses were brushing against each other.

“Do you really think I care about you just because you were knocked out for a month?” he asked me, softly.

“I was in a coma,” I said defensively, rolling as far away from him as I could with my wrists still in his grip, which was only on to my back. I couldn’t really care less about the terminology, but I was miffed he’d called me an idiot.