His reaction had been instinctual, and utterly moronic. 24 hours in, and the Georgian was quickly recognizing that he was well out of his depth. Demons existed. Fae did not resemble Tinkerbell. Beehive women were a thing that existed in the real world, not children’s nightmares. He half expected to spy a pucka jaunting about in his shadow, teasing him for his confusion.
He recognized the second woman by her profile, once turned. Rose reprimanded him with a tone. Vaughn swallowed, following the stern greeting with a sharp nod. “Rose.” His eyes flicked to the Queen’s nearly lifeless marionette; his eyebrows drew together when she mentioned how she’d used one of his ilk for food in that goosepimpling sing song.
Without willing it, the temperature around him plummeted. His fingertips turned pale with chill. Irritated by the inhospitable shift in temperature, lingering drones darted away from him in a frenzy. Forcing the involuntary change to abate so as not to offend or worse, kill any of her workers, he tightened his fingertips against his palms. “Sorry.” The word was curt and not perfectly sincere, but courteous. “Ma’am,” he added, his deep southern drawl uncomfortable on such uncertain ground. He took a slow, steady step back to further distance any discomfort the sudden cold snap might have caused the Queen, or Marisol.
“I came to apologize to Marisol, if I’d offended her earlier. If you would let her know, I’d be obliged,” he said after Rose had made her offer of assistance. That, at least, seemed genuine. “I’ll leave you be,” the corner of his mouth twitched. His stomach made a plaintiff growl, reminding him of his mission.