“Worse than thousands of years stuck with the imbeciles in your family?” Solanum laughed. “I may take the alternative. Now, let’s get this over with. I’ve skipped more meals since you returned from the dungeons than I missed in the fifteen years you were gone. I might not want you dead, but the dungeons are beginning to seem like a good alternative.”
Logan mounted and they rode up the hill into the stone ring, triggering the Gate. They exited in an old, established area of Underhill. Down the curving lanes, hidden in the lush green hills, were the country estates of the fae who attended Oberon at his lavish court.
Logan’s nostrils flared and his heartbeat increased as his Gift pulled him through the early morning fog to a low stone wall surrounding a charming French chalet. The wrought-iron gate was wide open. His neck itched, all his instincts warning of a trap.
Gates like that one should be closed and locked, the iron keeping trouble out and peace in. He was expected.
“Well, isn’t this a pretty picture,” Solanum said, the skin on his flanks tightening and flinching as they passed through the iron gates. The extensive gardens beyond the wall were the image of a French country estate, complete with statues and bizarre topiaries lining the long drive that led into the courtyard in front of the house. Flower faeries, from unimaginably tiny to the size of small children, zipped to and fro, playing and feasting on their favorite flowers.
A short Rubinesque fae laughed. “Hey, big boy. Come play.” She winked and rolled her eyes at Logan as he dismounted next to the large, central fountain.
Solanum took a big bite of the nearest of the fawn-shaped topiaries. “Yeah, why don’t you go play, big boy?” He snorted at Logan, dark green leaves dangling from his lips. “Just because their brains are the size of a walnut doesn’t mean they aren’t fun.” He swatted his tail at the buzzing fae fluttering around his flanks, and they fled back to the safety of the fountain.
“Behave, or I’ll make sure you can’t destroy the foliage.” Logan said, shooing the amorous fae away and heading for the imposing double-door entrance. At his knock, they swung open.
His Gift surged. This was it. The end of the hunt.
He fought the giddy surge that came with success, he wasn’t there yet, and he needed to keep his head on straight. There was no way he would waltz in here without any challenges. He extended his senses to feel for traps and snares. Just because he didn’t sense a trap, didn’t mean he wasn’t walking into one. It was more likely that he would be caught in something he couldn’t see or detect. The wide open gate and the easy access were definite reasons to stay sharp.
A melodious voice called out, “Come in, Logan Ni Brennen.”
He peered into the wide entry hall. Once again, someone called his name. His adrenaline surge as the near success of his hunt turned into the overwhelming instinct to run.
Logan gritted his teeth.
Solanum was right. Women were better left alone. But now he was committed to Trina’s hunt. No matter what happened, he wasn’t turning back. Cursing women, he pulled Singer out and stepped all the way into the house, not even turning when the doors swung quietly shut behind him.
Following the invitation to the back of the house, he entered a modern, spacious living room. There, he found Aoife seated on a low, white couch and dressed in a casual track suit. Her stylish bob of white hair and tiny lines around her deep blue eyes were a surprise. He had a vague memory of her as a slender, tall fae with long blonde hair. She’d cast a glamour to look older. Why?
“Welcome Huntsman, I’ve been expecting you.” She gestured to the low couch opposite. “Put that silly sword away and sit down.” A teapot with service for two was on the table between the couches.
“How did you know I’d find you?” He slid Singer into its sheathe.
She smiled, the confident smile of an older woman in the company of an awkward, younger man, and he felt suddenly like a gawky adolescent.
“Did you think you could ask for me and not have it come to my ears well before you arrived? You may be the Black Queen’s huntsman, but I have connections that are far older than either you or the queen. Don’t discount befriending the smallest of our kind.”
Logan took a cautious seat opposite her with a good view of the room and exits. Aoife poured tea and offered him his choice of cups. He cast a small hidden spell to check for poison. She might look like a hip grandma, but this was a being far older and far cannier than he, and he still smelled a trap.
A small, knowing smile played on her lips and she regarded him evenly over the rim of her teacup. She knew he’d checked her hospitality.
His ears flushed hot.
“What does the queen wish of me? I have been away from her court for some time now,” she asked and sipped her tea.
“I’m here for information about the MacElvy tribe,” he said, and put his cup down on the table’s glossy surface.
“And why would her majesty think that I would provide her with any information now? I certainly didn’t before.”
“Actually, I’m here to get some background on the situation. I found it prudent to ask elsewhere than the court.”
“I’m intrigued.” She took a sip of tea. “What sort of background?”
“There’s a rumor that you know of a prophecy associated with the MacElvys. I would appreciate it if you could tell me what it contains.”
“The queen didn’t send you?” She frowned.
“I never said the queen sent me.”
“But you are her man.”
“I am my own man.”
Aoife’s eyes gleamed. She sipped her tea and waited for him to slip and say more.
Irritated by her assumption that he was at the queen’s beck and call, he shifted uneasily on the sofa. He was out of his depth. Out in the woods, he was in control, but this was too much like the quicksand of the court for his comfort. She looked like some human’s grandma, but he had a sudden suspicion she was a spider in disguise.
“I have heard,” he began again, when it became apparent that she would wait until he spoke, “that you are a friend of the MacElvy’s. Or were a few years ago.”
She regarded him over her teacup. “Is that the best you can do? Come, come, Huntsman, I will tell you nothing for that sort of disclosure. You’ll have to show me your full hand.
He had no choice. He, Trina, and the prince, were running out of time.
Cracking his neck he said carefully, “All I would like is the wording of the prophecy.”
“And why do you need this? Has not the queen this information?”
“I would prefer not to answer that.” He knew she wanted more, but he refused to tell her anything that would put his prize waiting for him at Stephan’s in any more danger.
She took one more excruciating sip. Then another. He schooled himself to sit and listen to the small noises in the quiet room; an old grandfather clock ticking away, birdsong, the distant sounds of the fairies in the fountain shrieking outside as Solanum misbehaved.
He’d out-waited prey before. He could wait a long time.
Aoife put her cup down and broke the silence. “If I give you this information, I will require something of you in the future. It will not be something you cannot give, but it will be perhaps more than you will be willing to give.” She leaned back, millenniums and more of patience in her eyes.
Here at last was the trap. Logan let himself relax a small amount.
He evaluated his opponent as she waited for his response. He knew she’d stood up to the queen for the MacElvys. He knew she’d opted for a quiet life, outside the machinations of the queen’s court, and possibly the king’s. He weighed the risk of taking her bargain against going back to Trina and confessing failure.
Telling Trina that she might never know why her family had been persecuted. Telling her that she needed to give up on the last few members of her family and consider them dead. Telling her she’d lost any chance at a normal life and must remain imprisoned with him.
> And he knew that’s what it would be, imprisonment.
He would never know if Trina loved him, or if she had no choice but to stay with him or risk death. She would hate him for the loss of her family, and if he didn’t solve the problem, he might have to bow down to the queen and kill the rest of the tribe. And if he killed her family, she would never forgive him.
Whatever price Aoife would exact from him, it would be better than watching the woman he loved grow old and die, hating him for a life trapped with him.
A dizzy spiraling rose up in his brain. He struggled to remain upright and hide from Aoife that inside, he’d begun to fall into a thousand pieces as he discovered what he truly knew.
He loved Trina.
Solanum would be laughing his head off, telling him it was foolish to love a woman who would die thousands of years or more before you. Foolish to love someone whom he was responsible for killing. Foolish to love at all.
“Are you all right, Huntsman? You’re looking a bit pale.”
He stared at Aoife, but all he could picture were Trina’s green eyes imploring him to save her family. He made his decision.
“You’ll have your forfeit when you call for it,” he said. “Now give me the prophecy.”
She smiled and took another sip of tea.
Chapter Nineteen
Haddon always found the queen to be the most beautiful when she was happy and engaged in her favorite activity. Her cherry purple hair swayed lightly, her eyes glowed, and her teeth clenched in excitement as she hummed a happy little tune and used her favorite golden pair of tweezers to extract the prisoners’ toenails, one-by-one. Each scream echoed away into the corners of the dungeons before she extended her tweezers to pull out the next bleeding scrap.
When he saw her relaxed and busy like this, he almost wished he could keep her after he was king. Having the leader of the gypsies offer to take care of the MacElvy witch had been like having a ripe apricot drop into her lap. She’d savored the delicious flavor and taste of knowing this was the end of the MacElvys and had been easily diverted to the dungeon, leaving the intricacies of the court to him and him alone.
Unfortunately, he knew life would not stay like this. This was the calm between storms. Now he had to give her news that was not going to be well received. He would delay a little longer, until the prisoner had no toenails left. It was only fair.
The decrepit Owen had been under the weather since losing his quarters and being relocated. Really, they must find a replacement soon. It had taken him too long to report on the gypsy leader’s attempt at assassination. The queen would not be pleased when she found out that the old woman had failed to kill the girl.
He watched the queen play with her victim for a few minutes longer, then took a deep breath. Maybe he would tell her while he was still outside the cell. That way, she would have the prisoner to take her anger out on. Yes, that would be the best. And then he could tell her of the alternative plan that was already underway.
At first, Trina thought the knocking sound was the rain hitting the tin roof, but something about the regular pounding struck her as odd. She put the biscuits in the oven, set the timer, and tried to see out into the dark, stormy farmyard, but the person knocking had their head covered in a black slicker. It wasn’t Logan or Stephan. There was no way she was opening the door to a stranger. Not after her experience at the cottage.
The person kept knocking.
Trina blew out a frustrated breath and looked for a weapon, any weapon, as she ran through her repertoire of spells. Stephan was right. She could defend herself. But spells took time and she didn’t have any prepared. No candles, no way to set a trap. She picked up a heavy cast-iron skillet she had been surprised to find in a half-fae’s kitchen.
“Go away,” she called through the door, holding the skillet up. “I’m not interested.” But the person kept knocking.
Maybe Logan had sent someone with a message, or maybe it was one of Stephan’s neighbors needing help in the storm.
Her heart sped up.
She looked out the window. Heavy storm clouds had blocked all the sun. Even though it was nearly noon, it was as dark as night outside. Trina flipped on the porch light and peered through the pouring rain. The person was a black shadow under a dark raincoat. All she could make out was a blurry hand knocking as if they would never stop.
Trina squeezed her hands over her ears, but now the knocking came through clearly under the sounds of the storm. She gritted her teeth.
She wouldn’t open the door. But…maybe she could open the window, just an eensy bit, and talk to the person. Get them to stop the irritating knocking and go away. She pushed up the heavy wooden sill a few inches and called out through the gap. “Hello?”
The figure stopped knocking and gestured, seeming to push the air in Trina’s direction.
Trina’s heart pounded and the pressure changed in her ears. Something wasn’t right. She reached for the window frame and caught a whiff of the fresh scent of apples creeping through the gap in the window. Trina bent her arms to push the heavy wooden frame down and inhaled deeply of the tart, delicious smell. Her eyes closed in anticipatory bliss of the fresh crisp taste of a juicy ripe apple.
Her mouth watered.
Instead of pushing the sill down, her arms pushed the window wide and the smell of apples poured in with the icy cold rain.
Trina blinked water out of her lashes and tried to see through the torrent. The figure came over to the window and held up a basket of brilliant red apples, shining in the dark of the storm.
“Look at these lovely apples, my dear,” said the woman in a horrifyingly, familiar rich contralto.
Trina’s mind fogged over. The skillet dropped from her hand and clanged onto the floor. Trina leaned against the screen, trying to get more of the irresistible scent of fresh apple. Somewhere inside her head, she heard herself screaming, and she struggled to get control of her own body. She would not let this happen again. Not again.
The woman under the black raincoat held out her basket. “Apples would be good in a pie, my dear.”
Just like at the cottage, Trina knew that this was wrong, so wrong. But her hand stretched out, her fingers catching on the screen as she reached and stretched for the beacon of a bright, shiny apple.
She centered, to marshal her defenses for a spell that would get her out of the sticky slowness her thoughts had become and gain her control of her own body. But the fog in her head and the lure of the apples grew too strong. She pushed the screen out. It dropped into a puddle on the deck and she leaned out over the window sill for a better whiff.
Apples. Red, ripe apples.
Trina’s hand latched onto the handle of the woman’s outstretched basket. Somewhere, someone screamed, but she didn’t care anymore. She reached for the first gleaming apple.
The skin was slick, hard, and a perfect, ruby red. Her teeth ached to bite into the crisp red skin, break it open, and sink down into the cool, white flesh.
Saliva pooled in her mouth.
Trina watched her hand bring the apple up, knowing without a doubt that if she took a bite, she would be dead. Her hand shook as she tried to hold the apple away from its inexorable path to her mouth. A small part of her held on to the thought of life, family, and Logan. She dug deep, struggling to access her Gift.
There, glimmering deep within, her magic strained to rise to her call. Something that had always been easy became a massive struggle. Her Gift called up power from the earth and it coiled up from the dirt under the house, through the boards, and penetrated the soles of her feet, despite the distance and the apple’s draw.
Her muscles contracted with the simultaneous effort of bringing the ripe fruit closer and keeping it as far away as possible.
The apple hovered before her lips.
Anticipation pooled in her mouth.
“Yes, my dear, yes.” The voice from under the black raincoat shook. “You want to bite the apple. Swallow it. Taste its delicious poison.
”
Trina pushed her Gift, struggling to force her fingers to drop the fruit, but her magic was drowned out by a surge of apple scent and a fierce compulsion to bite into the shiny red surface. She brought it to her mouth. Her jaw flexed, her teeth opened and she bit down, breaking the skin and sinking into the crisp white flesh.
It was as crunchy and delicious as she’d thought it would be. Sweet juice dripped down her lips and onto her chin. Thunder boomed, startling her, and she gasped, sucking the large chunk of apple into her throat. She began to choke.
Precious seconds passed. Her air dwindled. She had nothing left.
She fell back into the house and hit the floor, the apple rolling from her hand across the floor. The black-coated figure appeared in the open window. Trina stretched out her hand in appeal and the woman dumped her basket of bright red apples into the house, maniacal laughter echoing through the pings of rain on the tin roof.
Trina’s eyes closed and her hand relaxed. But her magic was there, still flickering inside her. It wasn’t strong. She couldn’t say a spell, couldn’t focus it with candles or an athame. But she still had her will.
She lay unable to move, the icy rain pouring in the wide-open window, soaking her clothes. Her ears buzzed as she became smaller and smaller inside her own body. Using the last scrap of her will, Trina seized the tiny cord of magic that she could reach, the cord tied deep in her soul, and wrapped it around the metaphysical spark of her life force to form a shield.
The last sound she heard as she passed out was the fading sound of laughter and the pounding rain on the tin roof.
Logan opened the door to the kitchen and nearly choked on the smell of burning biscuits. He stepped inside, kicking something across the floor that rolled and bounced stopping only when it hit a body. The strength drained from his legs, and they buckled.
Trina lay on the floor in a puddle of water, surrounded by lurid, red apples.
He sagged on the doorframe, letting the wind and rain blow into the room. Thunder cracked and he moved, shouting for Stephan, kicking the shiny, ruby globes away from her prone body. He dropped to his knees and felt for her pulse.
The Dark Huntsman: A Fantasy Romance of The Black Court (Tales of The Black Court Book 1) Page 24
