by Harper, Dani
Her eyes still on the photograph, Morgan drew the medallion from its resting place against her skin. It’ll help you to have faith…and show you truth…
Faith in what? The truth of what, exactly?
Rhys’s words came unbidden. Have faith in me. Have faith in us.
She studied the medallion in her hand, its glittering silver chain draped over her fingers. The mysterious central stone gleamed in the soft light. “Nainie, what am I supposed to do? What on earth is the truth in all of this?” she asked aloud. “I’m so darn confused.” Morgan knew, when all was said and done, that what she felt for Rhys was far more than just physical attraction. Though that itself was powerful, it wasn’t why she thought about him constantly. Why she was both furious with him and lapsing into crying jags at the drop of a hat.
“I love him. I want to be with him, even if he is crazy. And—even if he isn’t.”
There. She’d finally said it out loud. Confessed it before her grandmother’s photo that looked down from the wall like a kindly icon. Spoken the words before the great dog that lay at her feet with his guileless soul in his eyes as he looked up at her. The medallion, naturally cool, felt warm in her hand as she considered what she’d just said.
For the first time, she allowed herself to freely examine the strange events that had unfolded ever since she first visited Wales, and all the evidence she’d insisted on dismissing and denying. The mysterious arrival of her beloved black dog, Rhyswr, and his equally strange disappearance. The dog’s unique collar, created from soft silver made impossibly strong by unknown methods. The timing of Rhys’s appearance in her laundry room—not to mention his lack of clothing. Rhys’s uncanny proficiency with both animals and ancient weapons. And of course Morgan recognized her own work on Rhys’s body. It was as unique as a signature. Her instructors at veterinary college had always been able to pinpoint her tiny careful sutures, teasing her that she could have a successful backup career as a tailor. That the incision was now on a man’s body rather than a dog’s didn’t negate the fact that it was her handiwork.
She murmured Jay’s favorite quote, one from Sherlock Holmes that normally would have irritated her: “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth…”
Must be.
Which meant she’d been a complete and total idiot.
“Rhys. I have to tell Rhys!” A chill ran through her as she remembered she’d ordered him to leave—what if he were already gone? No. He wouldn’t leave the horse. Not without making sure I knew. So was he still with Leo, or was he right over there in the barn, sound asleep?
Hell, with Leo in the hospital, Rhys probably wasn’t getting much more sleep than she was. And maybe, just maybe, he was thinking about Morgan too. She hoped so. Damned if she wanted to be the only person in this relationship who was totally miserable…
Damned if she wanted to be the only person in this relationship, period.
She got up and found Fred at the window. She hadn’t even heard him move, but his body language clearly spoke of high alert. His muzzle was pressed against the glass, but she couldn’t see much outside herself. The yard light was on the pitiful side, with barely enough wattage to cast a faint greenish glow on the buildings. “Whatcha looking at, bud?” she asked and rested her hand on his broad back, but Fred didn’t move. The faint rumble of thunder told her that a storm was moving in, and Morgan wondered if the dog was afraid of it. He didn’t look very fearful, however—beneath her hand, the fur along his spine bristled up into a thick ridge. A deep growl resonated from his throat, but he didn’t bark.
“Did you hear some coyotes out there?” Although she’d never seen one on her own land, bears wandered the area too. Only last month, she’d been called in to help examine an enormous black bear that had been tranked by wildlife officials in the middle of a Spokane Valley neighborhood. There was no hint of movement in the farmyard, though—at least not anywhere the light shone.
Maybe Fred had sensed Lucy moving around in the barn? Or perhaps even Rhys.
“Shall we go check it out?” she asked the dog. Truthfully, she wasn’t the least bit concerned if local wildlife was paying a visit to the farm. What she really wanted was to talk to Rhys, even if it was the middle of the night—or well into the wee hours, as her nainie would say. Morgan sighed as she got dressed. Didn’t feel like sleeping anyway. Thank heavens she had a couple more days off. Maybe she could grab a nap on the porch swing later…
Fred followed her readily to the kitchen and watched as she tied her shoes. He seemed keen to go yet wasn’t frantic to get out the door as many dogs would be. Morgan talked to him about the importance of staying with her as she snapped on his thick leather leash, yet all the while she had a mental picture of being dragged into the forest at high speed if the two hundred–plus pounds of dog decided to chase something.
She needn’t have worried. Fred didn’t launch himself out the door like a rocket, nor did he even tug at the leash in her hand. Instead, he walked beside her. He was still on high alert, and he swung his great head back and forth, watching, watching…It was like having a lion as an escort, decided Morgan. Fortified by Fred’s giant presence, she elected to do a quick sweep of the yard around the buildings, just in case. Behind the barn, she was stopped in her tracks—literally. Fred stood sideways, blocking her in the same way she’d seen seeing-eye dogs use their bodies to prevent their blind owners from making a dangerous misstep. He looked up at her, then looked away to growl at the storm approaching from the north. And gazed back at her again. Morgan frowned as she tried to make sense of the dog’s actions. Clearly he was trying to communicate something. Was it the storm that had been bothering him all along? If so, this was strange behavior. Most dogs bothered by thunder and lightning hid under the bed or in the basement—they didn’t venture outside to deliberately challenge it. But then she thought about the great black dog in Wales that had seemingly followed the tour bus wherever it went. Come to think of it, that dog—Rhyswr—had sat outside in a tremendous storm without so much as a tremble. Were all mastiffs a little on the odd side?
“Okay, storm bad, I get it.” And the dog might be right. The night was already dark due to the hidden moon, but the rapidly approaching clouds seemed blacker than black. Near-continuous lightning illumed the roiling mass with strange colors. She wasn’t usually afraid of storms, but something in the pit of her stomach was repelled by this one. Quickly, Morgan headed for the back door of the barn with Fred in tow. Thankfully the big dog didn’t try to go through the small entrance at the same time, but followed close behind her. She closed the door after him and stood for a few minutes until her eyes adjusted. The yard light’s pale, greenish rays barely penetrated the windows. Beside her, Fred was alert, but calm and quiet. Morgan was relieved by that—she hadn’t even thought of what might happen if he barked and startled Lucy. Finally she could see well enough to make her way to the mare’s box stall. It was empty.
Morgan went from stall to stall, expecting that Rhys had simply moved the horse to another spot. Dim as it was, it wouldn’t be possible to hide the pale-coated mare. The horse simply wasn’t in the stable anywhere.
“Rhys!” she yelled. “Rhys, where are you?” She ran to the stacked bales where the man had made his bed. A part of her reacted viscerally to the spot where passion had once rocked them both and bonded them. The rest of her was all too furious that he was sleeping peacefully under the quilts while her patient was MIA. She lunged forward to shake him awake—
Powerful arms grabbed her from behind. A hand the size of her whole face covered her mouth before she could yell for Fred, and she was yanked back against a hard, muscled body. She did her best to fight and managed to get in a couple of solid elbow jabs before his arms clamped down so hard her upper body could no longer move. She settled for kicking backward at her assailant’s shins and trying to get a leg between his and trip him as she was dragged inside the small dark tack room. Where was her dog? W
hy wasn’t he chewing this guy’s ass off?
“Be calm,” ordered a familiar voice in her ear. “You’ve no reason to fear, anwylyd. But you must be quiet. Gods alive, why are you here at this time?”
He released her and she whirled, slapping for the light switch on the wall. The forty-watt bulb was like high noon in the tiny windowless room, and she had to squint to focus. She didn’t need to see Rhys to yell at him, however. “Where is Lucy? And what have you done to my dog? And who the hell is that in your bed?”
In a heartbeat, he had his hand over her mouth again, and she was backed against the wall. “Your dog is unharmed, and there’s naught but straw and clothes in my bed made to look like me.” He paused and seemed to take a deep breath. “You must keep your voice low. The Fair Ones are coming, and there may be advance guards. You would be in danger if they learn of your presence here with me.”
She stilled and he removed his hand. “The Tylwyth Teg are coming here?” she whispered.
“Aye. They’ve taken the horse, and fae law says they must return her by dawn.” He looked expectant, and his palm was open and at the ready, no doubt anticipating that he would have to muffle a flurry of angry protests.
Instead she was quiet for a long moment. “What can we do?” she asked finally.
The simple question caught him off guard. Wonder and hope crossed his features even as the harsh light made his face look just as battle hardened as he claimed to be. Morgan looked down and saw the sheathed sword and the dagger in his belt. “You’re going to fight them, aren’t you?”
He recovered himself. “Aye, I am. But not with you here. Go back to the house and stay there. The fae cannot cross the threshold of a dwelling without an invitation. You’ll be safe.”
“And you’ll be out here, one against how many?” She gestured at his sword. “Is this all you have to defend yourself with?”
“Iron is the only thing that harms them.”
She nodded, remembering Nainie’s stories. Iron was like kryptonite to the Fair Ones. But you had to get close enough to use it. “I know you’re amazing with those weapons, but even you can’t do this by yourself.”
“He’s not alone, good lady,” said a voice behind her. Morgan jumped sideways and was caught by Rhys’s muscled arm as she looked down in amazement. “And we’ve more than a few tricks up our sleeves.”
A small character barely taller than her knees waved at her. Bright-blue eyes looked out from under a brighter-blue baseball cap. Wild brown braids of hair escaped from the hat, tangled with oak leaves. A thick layer of leaves sheathed the stocky little body, and with skin that looked like tree bark, the thin arms and legs bore a strange resemblance to the branches of saplings. Beside him, Fred lay on the floor snoring. The little man winked at her. “Yer fine great dog is not harmed.”
She knelt in wonder, some unknown instinct leading her to make herself of equal height. It was more than simply trying not to frighten the amazing creature. Her brain whirled with numberless thoughts and images, all unintelligible save for Nainie’s long-ago words: There are many things all around us that are old and powerful…They’re not to be feared but to be respected, and it’s long been a gift in our family to know them.
“Are you—are you of the Tylwyth Teg?” she asked. Her voice sounded faint, even to her, and she drew back against Rhys’s legs as the little creature frowned.
Rhys knelt at once and put a reassuring arm around her. “No, anwylyd, Ranyon is fae but he’s an ellyll. The Fair Ones are his enemies too, and he is my friend.”
“Aye. And I’ve thrown my lot in with his,” Ranyon said, extending a hand to her.
She grasped the long twiggy fingers gently, surprised to find they were warm. “I’m Morgan. Leo spoke of you. And I’m throwing my lot in here too,” she declared. The words had barely left her lips before she was seized by the shoulders and lifted bodily to her feet—and then some. She was standing on empty air as she stared eye to eye with Rhys. “Put me down!”
“Go to the house at once. I cannot fight them if you’re not safe.” He gave her a shake before setting her on the ground. “They will kill you or take you for their own.”
“And they won’t kill you? Won’t take you back or turn you into a dog again? Listen, mister, you don’t tell me what to do. If you think I’m just going to hide in the house while you’re out here—”
Thunder drowned out the rest of her words, rending the air and shaking the floor beneath her. Rhys held her tightly in his powerful arms, and still the vibrations rocked her. When the noise died away, Morgan’s ears were ringing hard enough to hurt.
The ellyll cursed soundly. “They’re coming,” he said. Fred, now wide awake, shook himself.
“Wait a minute, they did that?” asked Morgan, trying to wriggle free of Rhys’s arms.
He released her. “Aye. The Tylwyth Teg are riding the storm.”
Terrifying illustrations from some of the old Welsh storybooks flashed into Morgan’s mind. Rhys grasped her by the wrist and cautiously opened the tack room door. “Come on,” he said, then jogged through the barn to its front door with her in tow. Ranyon and Fred followed close behind.
Rhys slid the door open a crack, and they studied the yard between the barn and the house. Nothing moved. No rain had fallen yet, and the air seemed charged with expectancy. Morgan made a mental note to call an electrician to change the yard light fixture as soon as possible—its weak light seemed more greenish than ever, giving the whole area a ghostly feel. Like she needed to feel more frightened than she already did.
Ranyon slipped a strange object into her hand. “If you have this, they cannot see you. ’Tis a charm and a good one.”
She was about to ask questions when Rhys opened the door farther and pushed her toward it. “It has to be now, and fast.”
“I don’t want to—”
His mouth was hot on hers, hard, urgent, and just a little desperate. And then he pulled back. “If you love me, you’ll go. If you stay, you’ll give them leverage against me, and they will win.”
“Run, good lady,” urged Ranyon. “Run like the hounds of hell are after ya, because they surely will be if ya stay.”
“Crap,” said Morgan and bolted from the barn.
TWENTY-TWO
In grade school, she’d never collected more than the white participant ribbon for the hundred-yard dash. Tonight Morgan knew she would have taken first place. Heart thumping hard in her chest as if trying to escape from the cage of her ribs, she ran straight across the terrifyingly open area, as exposed as a rabbit flushed from its thicket. Fred kept pace with her, and if her mind hadn’t been completely blank with terror, she might have drawn courage from his big steady presence. What surely should only take a few seconds seemed to stretch on and on—
She collapsed inside her door, forcing Fred to leap over her. With the last of her adrenaline, Morgan spun on her knees and slammed the door behind her, just as another roll of thunder shattered the silence. Fred nosed her, and she threw her arms around the dog’s enormous neck, holding on until the echoes died away and the house stopped vibrating. Or maybe she was the source of the vibration—when silence finally returned, she discovered she was shaking. The mastiff, on the other hand, seemed concerned about her but otherwise steady as ever. “Fred, you’ve got nerves of steel,” she said, rubbing behind his ears. “I’m not afraid of thunder, but that’s the loudest I’ve ever—”
No, it’s not the loudest I’ve heard. Morgan thought back to the night in the Welsh hotel when she’d been awakened by deafening thunder directly overhead—and discovered the black dog outside. Had the Tylwyth Teg been riding that night too? She shivered at the thought. Nainie’s stories had warned that mortals in the path of the Wild Hunt could disappear, spirited away to the faery realm or forced to follow the hunt forever—dead or alive. According to her grandmother’s tales, most of the riders in the hunting party were captives, and many of the horses were “borrowed” from mortals. Is that where poor Lucy was
?
“Goddamn it, they’ll kill her,” she said aloud. That horse was in no condition to be running around, much less pushed to her limit. If she remembered right, the stories said that only a few of the hunters were actually of the Tylwyth Teg—but those were without pity. They whipped and drove both horses and captives equally. And their quarry had no hope.
In some of the tales, the Wild Hunt’s purpose was to capture a particular individual who had been greedy or unjust, but the Fair Ones were whimsical by nature. Unless appeased or amused, they were as likely to seize the innocent as they were to ride down the guilty.
Did Rhys and Ranyon actually stand a chance against such beings?
The palm of her hand hurt, and she realized she still had Ranyon’s charm clutched tightly in her fist. She opened her stiff fingers and studied the strange thing he’d given her. It seemed to be a lump of clear quartz wrapped with copper wire and a few bright glass beads. It was kind of pretty, she thought. She had no idea if it actually worked—but she was going to find out. There was no way she was going to just sit here in the house and do nothing.
If iron was the Achilles’ heel of the Tylwyth Teg, then she was going to damn well look for some. And then she was going back to the barn.
There was no need to turn the lights on—there was no darkness. The storm was still over the fields, but its lightning strobed strange hues of blue and green and pink through the windows. With it, guttural thunder pounded the senses as if with physical blows.
