"She's really human, huh?" Hank shakes his head, "Damn. And she's seen him do the thing?"
"Yeah," Nick pauses. "She lives with him."
Hank nearly swerves off the road for a moment.
"Like 'lives with' lives with?"
"Might only be a house-share, but they were having dinner when Trubel and I went over, and it looked kinda cosy." He's a bit wistful. He misses those sorts of evenings, when things were easy and happy.
Hank's frowning with a different concern.
"Nick, man, if she has just found out, she's maybe not doing too well, you sure she's okay where she is? Because that ain't a face I'd wanna be surprised with in my home."
"That's why we're both along for this evening, get an idea if we need to do anything."
Renard might be doing his Stern Protector act, but Nick will rescue the woman if he has to, Prince be damned.
"I dunno, how come we're being used for Show and Tell again?" Monroe fiddles with some jars. Rosalee arranges them back.
"The Captain wants this Isabelle to meet some friendly wesen."
"As opposed to the really nice cuddly one she lives with?" Monroe gives a shudder, "Yeah, I get that. I mean, I guess a Blutbad isn't such a big deal, y'know, comparatively."
"He could have asked Bud..." she trails off.
They contemplate the idea of the garrulous Eisbiber and Renard in close proximity, and wince.
"No, I think we're good."
They turn as the door opens, but it's just Hank, and Nick, looking tired.
"Hey."
"Juliette didn't come along?"
"She's still not feeling too good," Nick tries for a bright smile, doesn't feel he quite pulls it off from the sympathetic look Rosalee gives him.
(Juliette had pleaded a filthy headache, and that she didn't want to come along to lie to the woman about how lovely everything was in this strange new world, anyway. Given her past experiences, Nick hadn't really been able to argue.)
This time, the door goes, and Isabelle walks into the Spice Shop with a little more trepidation than her first time, but she still smiles at Rosalee. Renard strides in behind her, that air of owning the room. Whether that's a Royal thing or a zauberbiest thing, or both, Rosalee doesn't know. Even when he's not trying to be overbearing, he does tend to take up space.
The Spice Shop after hours is good neutral ground, for this reason. The male territorial growling is limited. Also, it's her territory, and they all have some manners. So the rather oddly assorted little group end up sitting around in the back of the shop, drinking tea like this is an everyday thing.
"What do you know about the wesen world?" Monroe asks, one wary eye on Renard.
"Parallel parahuman development, which has given rise to most myth and folklore, and I now have a sneaking suspicion that history could be a lot weirder than I think," Isabelle says, promptly, "I'm assuming a high degree of societal integration, but a lot of divergent subcultures, and presumably some differing forms of government that may or may not overlap. Plus a form of terror enforcement in the Grimms, who are either a law unto themselves, or are ordered by some kind of authority I haven't worked out yet."
"...that'll do as a starting point, yeah."
Nick wants to grin, because Renard is looking equal parts proud and slightly alarmed.
"I think the Grimms do their own thing now, but they used to work for the Seven Royal Houses," he says, a little cheerful malice in it.
"Wesen have royalty?"
"The Royal Houses aren't wesen. They just...run things, or try to. They're mostly based in Europe."
"And the Grimms are or were their attack dogs to control the wesen."
"Oh, they have actual attack dogs, now," Monroe says, "Hundjäger. The Verrat."
And now Renard is looking entirely alarmed. So he hasn't told her about that. Interesting.
"Wesen have the Wesen Council," Rosalee inadvertently saves him, "They basically make sure we keep hidden, and that wesen don't harm humans. Now, you've seen a woge?"
"One of the first things he did was the face-thing at me," peers around, "So you can all do that?"
"Well, not quite like him..." Monroe starts. Rosalee elbows him.
Isabelle is actually less scared of Monroe than anyone else has ever been. She rears back, doesn't quite grab Renard's arm, but then leans forward again.
"Sorry, I think it's the eyes," she says, "Sean still looks like himself, really."
Monroe retracts.
"Yeah, see, that's the thing we're having the difficulty with."
"Let me guess, some wesen are scarier and more dangerous than others. And the scariest and most dangerous..." is presumably the one she has seen shuffling about in the kitchen with a slice of toast between his teeth, looking for his favourite mug.
Renard's half-scowl and careless shrug confirm it, though there's a tiny touch of smugness there. He knows that everyone here has seen him before, he's still a bit self-conscious as he moves his head. But Isabelle doesn't even flinch this time, even as he's aware that the others go a little tense.
He remembers with a vivid shame, Adalind demanding his 'real' self, her assertion that he couldn't, wouldn't ever show that to a human woman – (when she'd potioned him, used him as breeding stock and a tool of revenge in one) – but now he was sitting there with Isabelle's curious gaze roaming over him.
Yes, it's a horrible damaged mess to look at, but it's clearly him, the line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, the lift of the eyebrow over that one normal eye, the way he tilts his head a little to look down at her, the slight curve of the undamaged side of his mouth. She doesn't quite touch his cheekbone, her hand hesitating.
"I never asked before, you can see like that?"
"Yes. Probably slightly better night vision, in fact."
Zauberbiests are rightly feared, they are strong, dangerous, frequently vicious, top of the heap and they know it. One of them in woge is normally a sign that things are about to get nasty. One of them sitting there placidly whilst a small human woman pretty much pets them is freaking everybody out.
("You can see him, right?" Nick mutters to Hank.
"I'm seein' something, I'm not sure I believe it," Hank mutters back.)
Isabelle realises that she is sitting there and staring up into his eyes like a fool, blushes and sits back. Renard retracts, lifts his chin forbiddingly, just in case anyone feels like laughing.
"So..." Monroe's voice is just a little high, "That's a woge."
She likes Hank, with his easy smile, her fellow normal human in this weird journey.
"Nick gets this look on his face when he sees stuff, you know, I've learned to watch for it."
"It's those little head twitches for me, now."
"You're a lot cooler about it than I was," he says, "Damn near had a breakdown after my run-in with Monroe. It's been a trip."
"I'm going with 'hidden subculture' to deal with it all, generally. Apart from that initial moment, you'd never know, with Sean."
"I've worked with the man for years, and yeah, you wouldn't." He's still unsure as to why the Captain broke cover, the man is over controlled. Right up to the point where he isn't. "Hell, I found out one of my oldest friends, my goddaughter, even, are wesen, just this last year or so."
"I suppose cops are used to compartmentalising, so that's got to help you."
"You'd think. Knowing you aren't actually crazy helps." (They really should talk to Wu soon.)
"He did try the 'you hit your head' approach for a hot minute. But he's far too big to be a hallucination." Her smile is wry. "I get the trust issues, though, and the fact that Nick's lot are the things that scare the scary things."
"Doesn't look like it, but the man's a tank," Hank agrees, "I faced him when he got zombied, and it was bad. Threw us all about like trash."
"Zombied?"
"I think that might be a tale for another time," Renard breaks in, checking his watch.
Because the zombie episode brings up who did it and why, and he hasn't told her about his family. She knows that he is estranged from his father, son of a single mother. He really has to think about how to frame that whole situation. Isabelle eyes him, smoothly takes up the cue.
"Goodness, yes, I'm sorry, I'm taking up too much of your evenings. Thank you all for being so patient."
It's not quite instantly jumping to her feet, it's far more subtle, but she's gathering herself up, closing the conversation down in general pleasantries, even as Renard shrugs into his coat, holds her jacket for her as she slips it on.
"Yeeahh," Hank says, out of the side of his mouth, "Don't think she needs rescuing."
"She does seem surprisingly okay with it all."
"Oh, it's not her I'm watching," Hank shakes his head.
He reckons the Captain'd tear off an arm before he'd hurt her. Of course, being him, it might not be his own arm...
"You don't need to go, yet," Rosalee is protesting, gently polite.
"No, really, we need to be off, I'm not going to be responsible for these guys having a grumpy sleep-deprived Captain."
As opposed to the grumpy non sleep-deprived one they are used to.
"You can drive back if you want, and I'll nap?" He dangles the keys up out of her reach.
"I'm not driving that monster truck of yours, I'd need a booster seat." Her smiling face turned up to his, "I practically have to take a running jump to get in it, it's ridiculous."
The way he opens the door for her, the curve of his arm as he ushers her out, his wry expression.
"It's better than that shoebox you drive, I nearly had my knees up my nose..."
The door closes behind them, and everyone is carefully quiet for a moment.
"Oh, that was so weird," Rosalee blurts.
"So weird," Monroe agrees, "Hey, on the bright side, this one's human, and probably less likely to poison everyone for kicks..." His eyes go very round, "Oh, man, do you think he's even told her about the whole...Adalind thing? The baby?"
They stare at each other.
"We are not getting involved in explaining any of that."
She relaxes into the passenger seat of his car with a little sigh, and he looks over, worried that this might be too much.
"How are you doing?"
"Oof, fine, just tired," she opens an eye and looks back at him, "They're really nice, your friends, though."
Friends? He doesn't quite know how to process that. Subordinates and colleagues, yes, but he's not really had the luxury of friends. She continues on, unaware of his rather blank astonishment,
"It's interesting, you could still see Rosalee's features, even with fur, but Monroe looks quite different...I wasn't too weird about it, asked anything inappropriate? I didn't want to embarrass you."
That slight tension in her hadn't been fear, then.
"You were fine, you've picked up a lot really quickly."
"Weird to think how much of history might be quite different to what I was taught. Tell me some real history."
He manages a rather generic outline – the Ancient World, how Rome opened the way for a spread and mingling of wesen, the rise and fall and rise again of kingdoms and Empires. One thing he hadn't anticipated was that Isabelle, being British, has paid rather more attention to European politics. They are nearly home when she utterly blindsides him.
"The Seven Houses that were mentioned, I'm guessing they're more like the Habsburgs than any of the existing ruling families - still got their titles, without the kingdoms, but a fair amount of cash and behind the scenes power, and a hankering for the good old days of serfdom?"
He's beginning to wonder if his mother sent the woman to Portland because she's entirely too clever for her own good.
"That would sum it up fairly well."
"And a lot of wesen don't want to go back under Royal rule. There's enough separatist, independence or simply anarchist movements in Europe, that I imagine they are well involved with, as citizens of their own countries, if nothing else."
This woman is terrifying. And so, so dangerous, to herself and to him.
"It's a shadow war, with the potential to spill over into a real one," he admits. "It's happened before, throughout history."
"I can see why a lot of wesen make it over to the New World, then. Get beyond the reach of the old order, build something new on their own account."
He hopes she was too busy getting out of the car to notice his jaw clench and the flex of his hands he can't quite control.
Isabelle does notice, and she's thinking furiously, even as she keys in the code and opens the front door. This house up in the hills has become 'home' remarkably fast. Nobody back in London would believe that sensible Ms Morgan would act so impulsively. She's still not sure she entirely believes it. A couple of months ago, she was in a small office looking out at a rather grey skyline, and feeling equally grey and bleak. Now she has a new and interesting job, and a new and interesting world, mostly due to the big, handsome man she shares that home with.
The big, handsome, multilingual, cosmopolitan, patrician man, with his expensive tastes and his house full of European art and antiquities. Ah. Oh dear.
He has to tell her something, before someone else does.
"Isabelle, there's one more thing about the Royal families...my family, my father..."
She casts an eloquent glance around the living room, at the decor, and the man in a suit that a police salary wouldn't buy, with the gold seal ring on one hand and the crystal tumbler of expensive whiskey in the other.
"You being some kind of European royalty is way less surprising than it should be...Oh god, don't tell me you are a Habsburg?"
"Kronenberg, actually. A bit less inbred."
"Hard to be more," she mutters,"Wait, Kronenberg as in that barking lot that keep claiming to be the rightful heirs to some sort of reunited Holy Roman Empire? I always thought they were just mad as a box of frogs."
"That, too. But yes. Frederick is my father."
"And that Prince Eric...oh, shit, he'd have been your brother, wouldn't he? I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I was sorry that he was my half-brother quite frequently."
She considers him carefully, and he can see her mind working.
"You said the Royals weren't wesen?"
He's got this far, he can go on.
"I'm a bastard," he says, frankly, "And I live in the States because otherwise, my loving family would certainly kill me." His hand touches his chest unconsciously, and her eyes follow.
"Fuck," she says, with feeling.
"The Queen was content for my father to have his little amusements, she was far less happy with having one produce a rival to her son. Growing up was - awkward, I was sent off to boarding school very early. And then I woged for the first time, and that was it. I was thirteen, and I knew it was my fault we had to run, and live in hiding, because I was, well."
Enough wesen to be a horror to humans, too Royal to be trusted by wesen, not strong enough for a true zauberbiest, the bastard half-breed embarrassment.
Fear and self-reliance and layers of secrets had forged him. Even this simple little explanation leaves him feeling hypervigilant and tense.
He's six foot five and hard as nails, a dangerous political operator. She'd still like to wrap her arms around him, for the angry, scared boy he'd been. But he's raw with emotion right now, has exposed a small part of his past and doing so has left him taut. So she carefully turns her gaze away, and straightens, gives him space. He's thankful. If she had touched him, he's not sure if he would have snarled at her, or thrown her down onto the couch.
...Oh.
That revelation keeps him silent and startled, as she murmurs a quiet goodnight and leaves him. He watches her reflection in the window as she does. His usual taste in women is glamorous blonde. But somehow, he finds himself looking after the brunette with a certain attention to the curves of her in those jeans.
"Goodnight," he calls, half-turns to catch her tremulous smile warm at his own small attempt, "I'm sorry, I find talking about my past difficult."
"Don't ever share anything you don't want to, Sean. See you in the morning."
She leaves him, and he simply breathes for a few moments. Woges, and stares at his own reflection in the shadowed glass. There are so many dark parts of himself that he's hiding away, and this is the least part of it.
He's a man of passions, and he keeps them all very well controlled. Under no illusions about his sins. He has used and abused people who have trusted him, sacrificed them for his own ends. Bullied or seduced or outright terrorised others in pursuit of his goals. Ordered death, and killed with his own hands. Given away his own flesh and blood. He tries to be a good and decent ruler of his territory. As a man, though -
(His fingers stray to touch the scar near his heart again. Mostly a man, perhaps -)
A good and decent man would not be imagining how she would say his name if he put his lips to that pulse point on the delicate sweep of her neck.
Some kind of exiled royalty makes so much more sense of him, Isabelle thinks. She is not an ardent monarchist, by any measure, nor a follower of 'Society' doings, European or domestic, but she does keep up in a general way with politics. Eric Renard, with his plummy accent and dead eyes, had been one of the nastier examples of overbred, overprivileged neofascist she'd come across. And she'd started her working life in an office in the City, London was full of them. The type who did not understand the word "no", and who became extremely offended if it was said to them, especially from anyone they didn't consider to be an actual person. He'd appeared on far too many tv programmes, banging on about 'natural pan-Germanic affinity' and immigration, and being fawned on by right-wing think tanks. She could easily imagine that his definition of an 'actual person' did not extend to a part-wesen half-brother.
...he's a prince. She is sharing a house with an actual prince. Generations of her extremely common and somewhat bolshie ancestors are probably yelling at her.
A policeman in Portland is a strange occupation in one way, but – Sean has authority and control, and access to every level of society. She could see him practicing law, perhaps, but only as a stepping stone. He's a political animal, she'll be surprised if he doesn't have ambitions that way. He's less protect and serve, more protect and rule.
She's rather ashamed to admit that she finds that arrogance of his a bit sexy. She shouldn't, because he would presumably be a bad-tempered bossy nightmare and terrible in bed (nobody with those hands and a mouth like that is going to be terrible in bed, Isabelle, do not lie to yourself) - and whatever else he is, he is her housemate, her boss' son, and she should not think about his hands or his mouth or any part of his body at all, because she has to face him at breakfast.
(Tries not to think about the fact that someone shot him. Rubs a tightness in her chest, and deliberately calms her breathing. He's alive.)