The Earl's Childe by T. J. Wooldridge

because I was dumb and didn’t think to be specific when I asked him for a ride.
    â€œWell…” Mum dropped a semi-potent cuss out loud, making my eyes snap wide. Even as she said it, she held up one finger in the direction of my dad and continued, “And don’t you dare chide me. We’ve got two assistant coaches and almost two dozen kids descending upon us before tomorrow’s out, and the only defense we have is the killer fey horse, immune to fey magick, that has to obey our daughter. Our daughter, mind you, a trusting soul who, despite all the crap she’s been through in school, still seems to think the best of just about everyone she meets.”
    My dad sat up more in his chair, now leveling his eyes at Mum. “I did say it was a bad idea to still hold horse camp…”
    â€œYou also said that there wasn’t any way I could re-un-invite the Countess of Perthshire’s son without making us look bad in front of peerage, nobility…whatever.”
    â€œIt’s better than…well…” My dad frowned, this time not flinching when Mum sent him another glare. Granted, this was more her normal-level glare, not the super-kill-you-with-my-fury glare from before.
    â€œI can only think of one thing to do now.” Mum frowned, looking at Dad.
    â€œWhat?” His voice let on that he knew it wasn’t something he would like.
    â€œYou need to make amends with the fey cat. And you need to mean it.”
    â€œWhat? No! I want him—I want all of them —away from this family. Don’t you see that they’re just going to keep putting us—our children —in the middle of harm?”
    â€œSo, what do you want to do? Stand up to them on our own?”
    Dad clenched his teeth, but his pause was short. “Yes. Yes, that’s exactly what I want us to do. I want us to stand up to them and tell them they have no right to entangle us in their schemes.”
    Mum’s face grew grave. “I don’t think you understand—”
    â€œThey’re bullies, Aimee! Don’t you see? They will keep using us and putting us—putting Heather —into danger unless we stand up to them.”
    â€œMichael, we’re talking about a” (several descriptive words I should never repeat) “—Unseelie faerie here. One slip-up where you look into their eyes or fall for some trap, and they kill you.” Mum added more colorful language to describe “slipup” and “kill,” but she wasn’t done. “If they’re feeling benevolent and merciful, they just kill you. Do you get that?”
    Dad was silent for a moment. “It seems like one slip-up and the lord and lady faerie who share our property might just be ‘merciful’ and kill us. If we don’t make a deal and let them own us, that is.”
    â€œNo. Michael.” Mum cast me an uncomfortable look. “You don’t get it. You don’t want to know what an Unseelie will do to us, to our children, to anyone we love , if they’re feeling even a fraction less than benevolent and merciful. And mind you, to even get an Unseelie to feel benevolent and merciful means they say ‘jump’ and you say ‘how high will please you the most, O Great Master?’ Is that any clearer? It means, the Unseelie comes in and says, ‘Give me your children as slaves, and I won’t amuse myself by torturing them in front of you…or make you watch their faces while I torture you in front of them.’ Are you getting a better idea now?”
    Dad scowled at her. “So, are you suggesting we give up?”
    â€œI’m not suggesting anything. I’m telling you to find it in your heart, for the sake of this family, to swallow your damned pride and make amends to the fey cat, so we can figure out exactly how much danger we all are in and do something about it.”
    Dad didn’t respond with more than a sour glare