Rime chuckles. “Somebody’s been doing her research.”
I shrug, unashamed.
“There’s some truth to the story, but mostly it’s humans’ way of explaining our existence.” He takes a tentative drink from his cup, his eyes widening. “This is good. Can you buy it in the stores?”
I look at the tag hanging from the tea bag. Earl Grey. “Yep.”
He winks. “Much better than coffee.”
“Have you tried beer?”
“We have beer in Nàdar. What you humans have is swamp water.”
Can’t say I disagree. “Coca Cola?”
“I don’t care for the bubbles.”
I can’t keep from giggling. Here’s a guy tough enough to take on The Rock, yet he’s as fussy as a little kid about his beverages.
For a long moment, he watches me through his lashes. “I can see why Leo’s so besotted with you.”
I choke on my laughter as my heart twists in my chest. Leo is besotted? I’m not convinced that’s true. Infatuated maybe, yes. He got carried away while he was playing his little let’s-wear-down-the-psychic game and his pumped-up faerie sex drive overtook his common sense. But he wouldn’t have gone so far with his lies if he truly cared about me.
Rime frowns. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve said that aloud. I won’t mention him again.” He turns his body perpendicular to the table and crosses an ankle over one knee.
I clear my throat and force my expression back to neutral.
When someone says clans, I think of Scotland, and weren’t the Scots always warring with one another? I ask, “Is there a lot of fighting between clans in Nàdar?”
Rime lifts his chin and squares his shoulders. “I can’t say there’s never any, but it’s rare. The clans are self-sufficient. There’s little need to compete or fight.”
Sheesh. As an American, I can hardly fathom a society that doesn’t thrive on competition. If we had clans here, they’d be like ourfootball teams—with t-shirts, flags, banners, and mascots. We’d badmouth our rivals, brag about our superstars, and tear down our cities’ monuments in the ecstasy of victory. Or in the agony of defeat.
“Then why a militia, if there isn’t competition or fighting?”
One of Rime’s golden brows shoots up. “Good question. Occasionally, there are tensions we need to mediate. But primarily, the militia’s role is that of protector. We serve when there’s a natural disaster or crisis, or when someone needs rescued.”
So, more fire department than police force. I suppose bad stuff happens no matter how peaceful a society is.
I ask, “Do the clans have names?”
“Yes.” Rime swallows a gulp of tea. “Leo, Topaz, and I are from the Stag clan.”
Stag? I lean across the table to look at his hands. “Do you have one of those rings?”
“This?” He holds up his right hand. On his ring finger is a silver band almost exactly like Leo’s.
“Yes.” I eye it so eagerly, he slips it off and hands it to me. Itfeelslike Leo’s ring, too.
Squinting in the lousy light, I make out the familiar middle symbol. “The antlers are for your clan, right?” Leo saidfamily,but a clan is a sort of family, isn’t it?
Rime nods.
“What are the other symbols?” I recognize the spear, but I want to hear him explain it.
He pushes aside his tea so he can lean close enough to study the ring with me. “This is a spear, and this is a hawk.”
“And what do those mean?”
