[Merry Gentry 04] - A Stroke of Midnight by Laurell K. Hamilton Page A

technologically savvy people in either court.
    She suggested that we call the Bureau of Human and Fey Affairs. Logical, I suppose, but they were more useful for social difficulties or diplomatic problems. If you want something done, don’t call a politician or a bureaucrat. Call a cop.
    I took a deep breath, said a little prayer to the Goddess, and dialed the number the secretary had given me.
    He answered on the second ring. “Your Highness,” he said.
    He must have had caller I.D. “Not exactly,” I said. “Princess Meredith, actually.”
    His first words had been professional, his next held the hint of suspicion. “Princess, to what do I owe this honor.” In fact, he sounded positively hostile.
    â€œYou sound angry at me, Major Walters.”
    â€œThe newspapers say you don’t trust my men to keep you safe. That human cops aren’t good enough for your guard detail.”
    I hadn’t expected him to be so blunt. He was more cop than politician. “I can only say that I never even hinted to the media that I doubted your men.”
    â€œThen why were we barred from the second press conference?”
    Hmm, that was a sticky wicket. “You and I both know that it was a spell that made your officer shoot at me, correct?”
    â€œYeah, our unit psychic found the magical remnants on him.”
    â€œI’m safer here in the sithen, but your officers won’t be. Someone did a spell in a building of metal girders and beams, with technology all over the place. Put that same spell caster inside the sithen, inside faerie, with no damper of metal and technology on them, and your officers would be in even greater danger of being bespelled.”
    â€œWhat about the human reporters; aren’t they in danger of being bespelled?”
    â€œThey aren’t armed,” I said. “They can’t do that much damage.”
    â€œSo we just aren’t up to your standards, is that it?” He was angry, and I wasn’t sure why.
    The queen’s secretary must have caught enough of the conversation to give me a hint. She flashed the headline of the
St. Louis Post Dispatch:
POLICE FAIL TO PROTECT THE PRINCESS. Oh.
    â€œMajor Walters, I’ve just been shown a newspaper. My apologies for not understanding the effect this situation was having on your life. I was a little too preoccupied with my own being in danger.”
    â€œI don’t need your apologies, Princess. I need my men to be good enough to protect you at public events.”
    â€œHow much crap are you getting about what happened? Are they trying to scapegoat you?”
    â€œThat’s not your business,” he said, which was almost as good as a yes.
    â€œI think we can help each other, Major.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œYou sitting down?”
    â€œYeah,” and that one word was not happy.
    I told him the briefest version I knew about the reporter and Beatrice, and that the queen had given it to me to clean up.
    There was utter silence on the other end of the phone for so long that I finally said, “Major, you still there?”
    â€œI’m here,” he said, in a hoarse voice.
    â€œI’m sorry that being on faerie duty has just gotten so horribly complicated. I’m sorry that it is screwing with your plans.”
    â€œWhat do you know about my plans?”
    â€œI know you want to be chief of security at a certain place of business when you retire early next year. I know you took the job as liaison to us for your résumé. I know that letting me get shot at probably didn’t win you any points at your soon-to-be new job.”
    â€œYou know a damn lot for a princess.”
    I let that go, not sure if it was compliment or insult. “But what if I show, plainly, that I have utter confidence in you, Major Walters?”
    â€œWhat do you want from me?” The suspicion was thick enough to walk on.
    â€œI want a Crime Scene Unit down here.