by C. A. Storm
She wore one of those flowing peasant skirts patterned like a Medieval tapestry, with knights hunting, deer and animals leaping through the forest, in a riot of bright colors. Over this, she wore an oversized white cotton tunic, and an even more over-sized acid-washed—yes, acid-washed—jean jacket, straight out of the 80s. The battered combat boots, with fluorescent green laces, was just a step too damned far!
Harper clutched her chest. Not in fright, but in absolute horror. Her little shifter issue had to make way for an obviously much more important emergency!
"Oh, sweetie, bless your heart. No. Remember, always say no to acid-washed denim. Just no." Harper said, deciding someone needed to take care of this obviously misguided young woman!
The young woman in question laughed, a bright, open sound that drew a matching grin from Harper. With a rueful shake of her head, she admitted, "You're the second person to tell me that today."
Looking down at herself, she pouted and tugged at the jacket, "But I've had it for years, so I'm kind of attached to it."
Reaching out, Harper gently clasped the woman's shoulder and gave her a small, but firm shake, "Then get it dry cleaned and frame it. Make a shrine for it and let it rest in peace. It's time to move on, sweetie."
Laughing once more, the girl looked up and shook her head, "You know, you're probably right." Shrugging, she offered Harper her hand, "I'm Dierdre Tiarna, but most people just call me Drey."
Harper briefly noted that the young woman had an elegantly crafted cane, carved from a solid piece of striated rose-and-amber colored wood, that she shifted to her left hand before she reached out with her right.
"I'm Harper Llewellyn, and I'll answer to Harp, but only reluctantly," Harper replied, accepting the hand and giving it a warm squeeze. Ruefully, Harper continued, "And I'm sorry about going on about your jacket. I guess I had stronger feelings about acid-washed denim than I thought."
"It does seem to inspire quite a rather vivid reaction from most people," Drey laughed. "But going back to what I asked earlier," suddenly, the younger woman's face grew concerned, "You seemed to be hiding. Is there something wrong? Is someone bothering you?"
Harper took a step back. For a brief moment, there was something nearly feral about the smaller woman. Harper's witchy senses were tingling something fierce, trying to tell her something, but Harper didn't speak proper Uncanny to understand just what.
Blinking once again, Drey reared back, flapping her hands wildly in front of her. "Yikes! Tone it down, Harper...your magic is flaring like a redneck Fourth of July. You've got to get it under control, or the Sanctuary's glamour is going to crash in on you like..."
"I do hope I'm not interrupting," a smooth, dark voice interjected in a barely noticeable brogue but distinctly upper-crust British accent.
Later, Harper would take comfort in the fact that this time, she wasn't the only one that shrieked like a professional Screen Queen at the interruption. But that would be much later.
As both women spun to confront the voice, Harper instinctively drew the shorter woman behind her larger frame as she raised her right hand towards that rich, velvety voice, ready to once more unleash her magic, even if it was bucking against her grip like a bronco on crack.
Okay, first there are huge hunks everywhere, now I can't escape the brogues! Harper mentally groaned as she was once more forced to look up, way up, at another powerfully built, and extremely tall, man.
This one, however, was the epitome of dark elegance. He was darkly tanned, with a close-cropped, but thick, black beard, and thick, intensely black hair that was slicked back from his high forehead and ruthlessly secured in a thick pony tail that hung down his back—with not a single hair out of place. Unlike everyone else she had come across lately, he was dressed in a black suit that she easily pegged as not only being custom-tailored for his body, but exquisitely so. A crisp white shirt beneath the form-emphasizing jacket was left unbuttoned at the throat, revealing just a hint of the dark curls that must cover that incredible chest.
But it was the man's pale eyes that drew and caught attention. A silvery-gray so pale as to be nearly white, there was an eerie stillness to them, and Harper found herself staring back into her own turquoise gaze, unable to look away from him. More than all that, however, was man's sheer, overwhelming presence. It was a force of Nature, a heaviness that pressed in on all sides, keeping Harper immobile, like she stood in the eye of a tornado, and any wrong move would spell doom.
This was not a man to cross. This man was dangerous. He was intensely masculine, almost aggressively so, yet Harper felt not a twinge of attraction. Instead, for the briefest of moments, her mind flashed back to the ash blond bodybuilder that had stood next to Old Man Meanwolf, the man who had stared at her with glowing blue eyes that had caused her heart to stutter.
Suddenly, the man smiled, interrupting Harper's brief mental foray. The relentless pressure that had pressed in on her dissipated, the sun emerging from behind the mountains to shine brilliantly. Harper fiercely resisted the urge she felt to tilt her head up to meet that warmth, suddenly and completely unwilling to expose her neck in submission.
"I do apologize for my intrusion, ladies, but the Traveler is correct. Your magic is drawing the Sanctuary's glamour, and you should probably get it under control, and quickly," he said, narrowing those inhuman eyes, and despite the smile on his face, they remained flat and cold. "Before it is too late."
The man turned his attention over Harper's shoulder. "Traveler, I suggest you take her to your camp for a bit, post haste." His tone that of one used to being obeyed, his gaze turned quickly back to considering Harper as one would a strange bug.
Harper felt the tension radiating from Drey, and only years of experience in dealing with Sam's notorious temper had her speaking up before the smaller woman started thrashing someone.
Summoning forth the same fortitude that made her one of Atlanta's most vicious contract lawyers, Harper let her face slip into a warm, professional smile and adopted a non-threatening but proud stance, one she had perfected from spending time balancing books upon her head as a child.
"You're absolutely right, Mister...?" She let the question trail off, her voice honeyed without being flirtatious.
"Sinclair, Killian Sinclair," Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deadly answered automatically. Staring into her eyes, he tilted his head slightly, studying her.
"Mister Sinclair. I apologize for my rudeness, it's been a truly trying morning, but I promise I'll get everything back under control." She paused, letting her smile widen, "Post haste, as you demanded."
"How do you do that?" Sinclair asked bluntly.
"Do what?" Okay, Harper was confused now. Well, even more than she had been all morning. It was so turning out to be one of those days, and it wasn't even 8 AM yet!
Sinclair waved his hand towards her face, "That. How do you smile with your eyes, but," his hand lowered just a bit, "Not with your heart? Most cannae hide their true emotions from their eyes, but yours are...deceptive. Most intriguing."
Blinking rapidly, Harper decided to ignore the implied insult. She was a Southern girl. Back-handed compliments were just something you learned to live with. A small chuckle escaped her, a hand lifting to press over her heart as she replied, "Honestly? I'm a lawyer and a Southerner, it's almost second nature by now. But I do thank Miss Tyra Banks and Matlock for helping me perfect the ability."
Sinclair dipped his head in brief acknowledgement. "Indeed. It appears to be quite a useful skill to possess, and one I may need to acquire."
Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out a pair of Cartier sunglasses, the reflective lenses somehow less intimidating than his natural eyes as he slid them on. With a polite nod of his head, and a formal, "Have a good day, ladies," he turned and walked away, leaving the two equally flustered women in his wake.
"Damn," Drey muttered in a low, awed tone as she peeked around Harper. She started to say something, paused, gave a low, nearly silent wolf-whistle, then whi
spered in a hushed voice, "What that man does to a suit should be outlawed. I mean, who makes a suit look that good?"
Now that she was no longer under such intense scrutiny, Harper finally found herself truly relaxing. "Okay, I think I've had way too much excitement already for the day. We should probably head to your camp and get my magic under control so I can go shopping."
"Um," Drey said hesitantly, "You do know it's Easter Sunday, yeah? I mean, not many Uncannies celebrate it, but most stores are going to be closed today, except maybe some of the supercenters in Denver. I can tell you from experience, Grand Lake and Shadow Lake both shut down on Sundays, especially if it’s a holiday."
"Well, hellfire and damnation," Harper uttered, then admitted ruefully, "I completely forgot."
Pulling out her cell phone, she quickly pulled up Google and did some research. Verifying that the closest Walmart or Target were indeed in Denver, Harper huffed in frustration. "There goes that bright idea."
"What were you going to go shopping for?" Drey asked, tapping her cane thoughtfully against the cobblestones in a monotonous rapping.
Plucking at her slacks, Harper's face twisted into a pouty moue. "I need proper clothes. My closet is woefully ill-equipped to deal with reality, I'm afraid. It's hard to get work done when all I have are court clothes. I have some things, but it's all sweats and not exactly..." She waved to indicate the towering Rocky Mountains surrounding them, "...winter ready."
Snorting, Drey pointed out in amusement, "It is Spring here, and quite a balmy one at that!"
"Not for a Georgia girl, believe me!" Harper wrinkled her nose.
Reaching out and grasping Harper's hand, Drey gave her a small tug. "Come on, let's get to the camp. Trust me, I'm sure we can at least come up with something for you while we work on that little problem of yours."
As they headed off, Harper couldn't resist a last glance over her shoulder, down the path Mister Killian Sinclair had disappeared down. Keeping her voice low, she asked, “Who was that?”
“That, my dear, was Killian Sinclair, the new ‘Lord of the Grey,’ he who has claimed dominion over all unaffiliated Sidhe and Fae in North America." Drey laughed, but it was a shaky, nervous sound. "I’d heard he’d been seen around here, but wasn’t expecting him to just be walking around like that.”
“Lord of the Grey? I thought I heard the Sidhe Courts in the States were pretty loosely organized. More like companies than traditional courts.” Harper was intrigued. She had only heard about the other supernatural races in passing. The Llewellyns did not tend to concern themselves with non-witches, unless they had a direct impact on the Llewellyn family themselves.
“They are and they aren’t,” Drey’s expression was both amused and exasperated. “Technically, except for the Travelers, all Sidhe still claim fealty to either the Seelie or Unseelie Courts, however they’re organized. The rest of the Fae tend to fall into line, at least in other parts of the world. Here in the New World, though, there’s a lot of independents, and they all decided to loosely band together underneath the Black Dragon, Audrick Gunvald, when he formed the Supernatural Council a century or so ago. Audrick’s not of Tuatha descent, however, so there's been grumblings, particularly as both the Seelie and Unseelie began flexing their muscles again these last few years. Rumors say Audrick reached out to Sinclair, who he believed would be powerful enough to serve as Lord of the Grey, and Sinclair accepted. So now, Sinclair’s making the rounds and establishing his power base here in the States.”
Mulling over that information, Harper changed the subject. As the two women continued towards the Traveler camp, they discussed more mundane matters, both trying to ignore the strange sensation they were being watched.
♥ ♥ ♥
"Is she a concern, m'laird?"
Sinclair tilted his head in acknowledgement when Reggie fell into step beside him. With a shrug, Sinclair returned his attention towards the Château in the distance.
"No, I do not believe so." Sinclair's tone was neutral, conversational, as he continued walking. "She has power, but I do not believe she has any connection to what happened with Leon and his anam cara. Her power feels similar, but it is not the same. I'm afraid we will have to continue looking."
"Is that why you called us here, Laird Sinclair," Reggie said evenly, his own gaze watchful, casual, although Sinclair knew that little slipped by the old gargoyle. One of the many reasons Sinclair trusted the man.
"Partially," he admitted aloud. With less effort than it took most people to breathe, Sinclair wrapped them within the shadowy, dusky, indigo energy that painted his personal glamour.
Reggie didn't flinch as Sinclair's power wrapped around them both, well used to his laird's magic and ways. He merely continued following alongside the slightly smaller man. To look at them, they were polar opposites, Reggie big and brawny, a longhaired, bearded biker who had a few inches and at least fifty pounds of muscle on the elegant businessman. Both could be equally terrifying, but Reggie had served only one man for the last few centuries, one who gave even the gargoyle the chills.
"What about Bárðr? Is he with us?"
With a shake of his head, Reggie said, "Nay, m'laird. Not officially, any ways. He says he's retired, but I have a feeling that he'll get involved if he needs to."
Sinclair turned to look at Reggie, and the larger man felt the shiver of those cold eyes, even through the reflective surface of his designer sunglasses. "Do you think we need to make sure he is involved? His abilities would be...useful...in an emergency." A brief flicker of disdain crossed his face, "Even if it would end up involving the rest of his family."
With a considering glance, Reggie glanced to his right, where he saw Bard speaking with a short, slight figure. He flinched back instinctively when it appeared the young man was staring coolly at both he and Sinclair, tracking their movement as they crossed paths. Realizing he had taken a little too long to respond, Reggie shook his head and turned back to Sinclair. "I believe Bard has other concerns at the moment, m'laird, but if I think we need him, I'll bring him in."
"Very well."
And Reggie knew that as far as Sinclair was concerned, that was that. For now, anyways. As they continued walking towards the Château, Reggie once more looked back towards his friend and the strange young man beside him, but they too had walked away and disappeared into the Village.
One could always count on the weird getting weirder when it involved the Leanaí.
Chapter 12
"So," Ace drew the word out in amusement, taking perverse glee in watching one of his best friends—outside of his fellow Travelers—squirming uncomfortably. Bard was usually the cool, unflappable one of the brothers, taking life just as it came. It was rather unusual to see him visibly stressing. "What's the plan, man?"
Bard huffed, casting a quick glance over towards the still empty shoppe across the path from his smithy. "Well, going Viking would obviously be the wrong tact to take, especially after pappa Hulked out, so I should probably avoid throwing her over my shoulder and storming off."
"Yeah, probably not a great idea," Ace concurred. "And wolfing out, gnawing on her shoulder to mark your claim, would probably be just as bad."
"You could always try asking her out on a date," another voice offered in a slow, lazy tone. "You know? Flowers, wine, dinner, charming conversation..."
Bard turned his attention towards the big, beefy fellow currently lugging a heavy load of quilted gambesons. Though not quite as tall as Bard, the guy was a bit thicker throughout, with a wild mop of wavy, dark brown hair at odds with his rather elegantly groomed full goatee. Like a lot of others, he was dressed simply, if a little inappropriately for the weather, in just jeans and a t-shirt. At odds with his deceptively casual, rumpled appearance, however, were the sharp golden eyes that flicked between Bard and Ace.
"Heya Hank," Bard greeted the newcomer with a broad grin. Henry "Hank" Zanna was another blacksmith, but where Bard focused on weaponry, Hank tended to focus on armors. Durin
g the Faire, the two shared the smithy and attached shoppe, swapping out to give live demonstrations, while Bard's sisters worked the crowds and did the actual sales. Their relationship hadn't always been so buddy-buddy, though. Originally, they had been competitors, but after a certain incident best left unspoken of, they had come to an accord.
Hank also had the bloody enhanced hearing shared by many shifter breeds, and just as much of an opinion as anyone else.
"Oh shit," Bard's eyes widened in horror. "The sisters! Where are my sisters?"
Both caught off guard by the rather rapid change in topic, Ace and Hank stared at Bard for a few moments. Then they looked at each other while Bard frantically dug out his mobile phone.
"Um, I think they're both over at the Camp," Ace offered. Something in the tone of his voice, however, must have given him away.
"And why are they at your Camp?" Bard stared pointedly at the deceptively innocent-looking smaller man. "I thought they were going to be helping around here today. Pappa said... wait, where's my father? Fuck!"
"Do I want to know?" Hank asked Ace in a quiet aside, both men watching a frantically pacing Bard who was attempting desperately to reach someone on his phone.
"Well, let's see, it all began..." Ace muttered, trying to keep from laughing, as he quickly brought Hank up to speed on the morning's events.
Finally, seeing Bard's complete frustration at being unable to get anyone on the phone, Ace tossed the poor wolf a bone.
"Bard...your sisters are flirting with some of the young pups," Ace offered, but quickly hurried on at seeing the panic of Bard's face, "But they're safe, I promise! The pups are all part of a small pack, and all of them are one-hundred percent gaybies. I swear! The Traveler's adopted them a couple of weeks back, but they're all good kids, just from bad packs."
