by Michele Hauf
“And if you should have success passing through the portal, what then? Have you ever been in Faery?”
“No, but we were given the opportunity to hunt there. It can’t be that dangerous.”
“It was under Malrick’s protection you were allowed into Faery. Without it, you will find the terrain and its inhabitants a challenge.”
“If I go well armed—”
“You will invite enemies who are even more well armed. Your mission is impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible. It can’t be. I have to find Bea!”
Sirque flinched at his bold declaration, then quickly resumed her regal stance. “You claim to love my daughter, yet you would sacrifice your life before you could get close enough to rescue her.”
Thanks for the rousing support, he wanted to mutter.
In truth, he had no clue what to expect upon entering Faery. How awful or challenging could it be? Pack Valoir had enjoyed a few months’ hunting there. The wolves who had hunted the lands had returned elated and unharmed, boasting of their kills and the utter freedom to run the lands.
Of course, none had attempted to journey to the Unseelie king’s home and steal back his daughter to the mortal realm.
The demon rubbed her arms with her palms. Another strangely human motion. His wife’s mother? Had Sirque and Bea known each other all their lives, Kir could have easily warmed to the new mother-in-law and welcomed her into his family. Even now he sensed she was much more similar to Bea than she would believe. A lost soul fighting desperately for her truths. And in that moment he sighed, thankful that he had arranged for Sophie’s escape. He had done the right thing.
“Would you be my guide to Malrick’s demesne?”
Sirque turned away from him again.
“You’ve been there, yes?”
She nodded. The horns glinted with the dull afternoon sunlight beaming through the windows.
“If you’ve navigated Faery once, you could do it again.”
Sirque shuddered. Kir suspected there must have been bad blood between her and Malrick. He shouldn’t ask so much. But the demon may be his only hope.
“I love Bea,” he offered. “She is my world. I don’t know how to breathe when she is away from me.”
She lifted her chin. “You seem to be doing a fair job of it. You haven’t passed out.”
“Please?” he pleaded.
The demon turned and approached him until her natural sulfur perfume threatened to dizzy Kir’s senses. “You swear to me she loves you? How can you be so sure? Perhaps she is pleased to be back in her father’s home.”
“I told you he ignored her, made her feel less than worthy for her mixed blood.”
“That is very much like Malrick. I hate him for treating my daughter with such cruelty. Very well. I will be your guide. For good or for ill. It is the least I can do for the one I wished to hold.”
Chapter 26
The siren was as slippery as...a mermaid. Bea struggled against the creature’s powerful hold, which tightened about her neck. Scales armored the undersides of her opponent’s fingers and they were sharply edged, which cut into her skin. When her eyelids fluttered and her lungs ached, Bea had one clear thought—struggle would be fruitless.
Her hand slipped away from pushing against the scaled beast, and her fingers played across the crystal blade Malrick had gifted her. She managed to grip it, wet as it was, and jab it upward. The siren’s grip loosened. She coughed, gasping for air. Her chest gills flapped near Bea’s face. The vicious creature slid into the waters.
Her sisters screamed and dived with their injured sister, leaving the azure surface bubbling into smooth, silver ripples.
Bea flopped onto a nearby boulder, panting, dripping with water and siren slime. The stuff was thick and green and—yuck! Her throat burned. It felt as if the siren’s fingers were still there, squeezing the life from her. Clasping the crystal blade so tightly her knuckles whitened, she eyed the water. Not a ripple.
She crept farther up the boulder, pushing her wet and exhausted limbs up with her toes. “Who would have thought sirens were so strong?”
Exhausted, she closed her eyes but inwardly cautioned herself not to fall asleep so near the water. She needed to find a safe place.
But the only place she had ever felt safe was in Kir’s arms.
* * *
The portal pack Valoir had been guarding was located in an underground aqueduct near the Louvre on the right bank. Kir and Sirque walked the limestone aisle that hugged the open water. Overhead, the concrete-bricked walls curved up into the ceiling. These aqueducts had been in existence for centuries. Mortal kings had used them to ferry prisoners and liaisons to and from the palace.
Last year, Kir had walked these same aqueducts with his sister’s now-husband, Stryke Saint-Pierre, in a quest to locate demons intent on unleashing havoc in the mortal realm by summoning a foul demon king from Daemonia.
Lately, his life seemed to revolve around his involvement with demons. Perhaps it was a means to force him to stare into the one thing he feared most—an unfounded fear.
Walking ahead of him a few paces, Sirque wore a glamour so humans—they had passed a few vagrants along the way—would only see a tall woman with dark hair in a black leather catsuit, and no horns.
He wore leather pants, a long-sleeved black shirt and the vest Bea had imbued with her faery dust. Though it was light and supple, it felt as if it were armor. Sheathed at his back was the samurai blade from the wall. When he’d considered a pistol, Sirque had shaken her head. He mustn’t invite danger. And mortal pistols would never fire correctly in Faery, generally resulting in an injury to the one holding the gun.
“I’m not sure exactly where it’s located,” he noted as they walked the cobbled pathway. “I wasn’t assigned a shift to guard the portal because I drew the short stick.”
“The short stick?” she asked over her shoulder.
Thinking about the term made Kir smile. Then Sirque caught him in an all-out grin.
“Whatever it means,” she said, “it must be good.”
“It’s Bea. I was the one elected to marry Malrick’s daughter, sight unseen, to seal the bargain. It’s called drawing the short stick.”
“Not something you should have been thrilled about,” she noted. “So why the smile?”
“Because I’ve grown to love my short stick.”
“My admiration for you grows more and more, wolf. It pleases me one of my daughters found someone who loves her.”
“Have you met any of your other children?”
“Never. Though, in passing from realm to realm, I have spied on a few. Just to see what they’ve become. Most have not made me proud. Here.” The demoness stopped and put up both palms as if to feel the air before her. “It’s right before us. But it’s been recently closed from the Faery side, which should make it impenetrable from this side.”
“Do you know a way through?”
She nodded. “Let me try some malefic magic. Step back, but remain on guard. If you see me step through, follow closely.”
With her back to him, the demoness spread out her arms and turned her palms up, her fingers testing the air. Then those sharpened black fingernails danced, moved gracefully, as they seemed to be filing through some unseen system of spells or incantations. A low, steady hum surprised Kir with its strangely metallic tone, as if her voice were altered by an electronic device. The tones grew wide, then settled to nothing. She swayed and seemed to clutch at nothing, bringing it to her chest and then pushing it away.
A gorgeous note of the angels lured him closer—and the demoness disappeared. Through the portal?
No time to question. Rushing toward the space where Sirque had once stood, Kir leaped, and the portal’s invisible skein crept over his face, hands and torso as he glided through it and landed on a lush patch of knee-high grass.
He rolled to a stop, landing on his back, his sword arm flailing right and the blade cutting with a swoosh acro
ss the grass. Sweet summer smells of loamy grass and verdant earth perfumed the air. Looking up, the sky, vast and wide, was different from the Paris sky. Not gray, or laced with trees dropping their leaves. This blue was unreal, bright and thick, as if a painting. And he could taste it, fresh and crisp at the back of his tongue.
He scanned the landscape. Vast green grass stretched as far as he could see. Yet the trees were...trees. And rocks and flowers scattered here and there were the same as the rocks and flowers in the mortal realm. No bizarre colors like a purple sky and yellow grass.
“This is Faery?”
“You don’t seem impressed.” Sirque appeared above him, offering a hand to pull him upright.
“It’s gorgeous. But it doesn’t look very menacing to me. Should be a nice jaunt through the meadow, eh?”
Sudden, intense pain at his back tore through Kir’s shoulder muscles. He gritted his jaw and swung about to face the culprit. Before him stood a creature as wide as it was tall. Blocky, and with fists like tractor tires. It cracked a yellowed grin.
“Me like to suck marrow from werewolf’s bones,” it said.
Sirque spoke from behind Kir. “Welcome to Faery.”
* * *
The first swing from the troll’s fist skimmed Kir’s shoulder and put him back twenty yards, his heels skidding through the tall grass. He knew he would only stand a chance against the blocky opponent in his were form.
The troll’s bellow reeked of a stench greater than any Hell pit Kir could imagine. It charged, feet pounding the ground so that Kir felt every step thud in his veins.
Kir shifted, pulling off his clothing as he did. His bones lengthened and spine stretched. Fur grew over his skin and his maw formed into a deadly, toothy snarl. He achieved his werewolf shape within seconds. His werewolf lunged and clamped its jaw about the thick Achilles portion of the beast’s ankle. Whipped about as the troll yowled and beat the air with its fists, the werewolf bit deeply into skin and muscle. The blood was acrid and the wolf almost let go, but if it did, such surrender would mean its sure death.
The wolf sensed another presence when a fierce slash of white fire curled about the troll’s belly and squeezed as if a lasso. The flames were so hot the werewolf released its prey, stumbling backward from the brightness. Flame cut the creature it had been fighting in two.
The werewolf shook off the eerie shudder of near-death and sat, collapsing against a tree trunk, where he instinctively shifted. Kir always came out of his werewolf with a start. He shifted on the mossy ground, alert for danger, his nose scenting death and a metallic remnant of what could only be the white flame he’d witnessed.
* * *
The blue sky was too much for Kir’s eyes. He saw no sun, though the brilliant azure burned his retinas. He blinked repeatedly and found himself stumbling across nothing more than the ribbon-thick grass. The air was too fresh, too pure, almost muffling.
He’d shoved down his pants first before shifting, so they were fine now—not a single ripped seam—as were the boots he’d swiftly kicked off. But he’d gotten to his shirt too late and the seams down the arms had split as well as tearing up the back. Complete loss. The vest, though, was intact and it glinted.
“Fine armor,” Sirque commented as she now walked beside him. “Enchanted.”
“Yes, Bea touched it.”
A rise in the land brought him to the top of a hill dimpled with tiny pink flowers. Looking down the steep incline, he managed to catch his breath. Below stretched a forest. A darkly brilliant forest that sparkled in luscious invite, yet the needlework of black branches boded ill. He could imagine those needles cutting his skin, aggravating the wounds he’d gotten from the troll. And he’d only just healed from the banishment.
“This is the place,” she announced softly. “The Unseelie court resides down there within the darkness.”
Kir sensed her reluctance. Not willing to return to a place that harbored perhaps both good and bad memories. Should he send her off now? She had shown him the way. He could certainly handle himself from here on. Unless, of course, another troll lurked nearby. He wasn’t sure what to call the white flame the demoness had utilized, but he deemed it a handy weapon. As well, he appreciated the companionship, even though the demon wasn’t much for talking. And...she was family. He didn’t want to send her off until he had reunited with Bea, and they were allowed an official meeting.
“Onward,” he said.
Descending the grassy hill, he used the momentum to rush toward the forest. The grasses were flat and he avoided the mushroom crops. If he stepped on one, it would release a poisonous mist into the air, or so Sirque explained.
“Faery is much like time travel to the uninitiated,” she said.
“How so?”
“This realm embraces all ages your humans have endured over the centuries. Past, present, even future. Do not be surprised by anything you see. And know that time is not as you believe.”
Weird but sound advice.
As he neared the forest, dark shadows flew from the grotesque border of menacing trees. Bats? The creatures screeched and dived for him. Huge creatures the size of a man.
The first to arrive before him opened its maw to expose fangs and long hissing spittles of glow-in-the-dark drool. Wings slashed for Kir’s face. A razor-edged wing cut across his cheek.
“This is not a welcoming committee!” he cried in frustration.
“Did you expect one?”
He swung his weapon. The blade flashed in the darkness and cut through the thing with an ease that made him glance back to ensure he had actually struck something. Two halves of the creature landed on the black stones that tiled the ground. A sparkle of dust glittered about the fallen body, and it dissipated.
Sirque brandished white flame from her fingertips. Each laser-direct shot sliced through one of the flying bats and cut it in two, the halves landing on the ground with a splat.
Kir nodded approvingly. If he had some firepower like that, things would be easier. But he hadn’t time to marvel. There were four remaining, and they flew at him as a pack, snarling and sweeping their stiletto-tipped wings as weapons.
As he swung, he was distinctly aware of his own waning strength. Faery had challenged him at every turn. He struck one, then another, with a backswing, leaving but two.
“What the bloody hell are these things?” he yelled as he geared up a two-handed swing for another oncoming. “Faeries?”
A winged beast soared toward him with open maw screeching. No language skills, then. Easier to kill. He decapitated the thing. The air sparkled with glittering faery dust. Perhaps all inhabitants of Faery bled ichor.
He did not. And the scent of his blood was weak, a warning that he had taken another injury and must be cautious. He’d never make it to Bea if he could not restore and heal his wounds.
And yet, above all the smells surrounding him, the scent of honey surrounded, a strange death knell.
Sirque strode over and lifted his head by his hair. “Still with me, wolf?”
He nodded. She dropped his head and he bowed it to the ground.
“I hope you didn’t expect this was going to be easy.”
He had when he’d first arrived in this bright and beautiful land. Foolish wolf.
* * *
Once when he’d been a child, Kir’s mother had told him a faery tale that had made him cower under his bedcovers long after she’d kissed him good-night. It hadn’t been the dark Faery king or the lovesick human woman who had scared him from his wits. It had been the evil forest Madeline had described with great detail that had given him the shivers.
The trees had eyes; their branches were creeping, moving arms. And the moss could drown a man while the vines choked the breath from him. Trees that could shift and move but never within a man’s eyesight, always after the man had walked far enough to lose sight of the branch that reached for his hair. Ground that shifted so subtly beneath a man’s foot the moss-heavy carpet would eventually lead the
man on, not his path, but one the malicious world of Faery had destined he journey.
Tiny creatures lived beneath toadstools and peered out from the darkness with violet or white glowing eyes. Snickers and giggles that sounded in the man’s head like wind or leaves brushing against one another were really voices whispering treacherous deeds.
Kir strode the thick mossy carpet with careful footsteps. Sword held in his right hand, with his left he traced the air before him, as if he expected something to form from thin air and gnash at him. And why the hell not?
Sirque followed closely. He’d taken the lead out of an innate desire to protect any woman. She did not argue the point, although he suspected, after witnessing her surprising arsenal, she could handle herself without assistance from him.
Everywhere, the forest seemed to lower its boughs and branches and wrap about him, perhaps zipping up the path whence he’d come. But he did not look backward, because ahead the forest opened to a vast and wondrous auditorium of darkness and light and rich emeralds, azures and crimsons that flickered to gray and black as quickly as he noticed their vibrancy.
Walking forward he was tickled by long vines trailing from the ceiling many dozens of stories overhead. Kir brushed his fingers over one of the vines and realized it was actually a tree root. The air above was filled with them, like hair spilling from a maiden’s head. Were the maiden a hag. And the ceiling was not branches or trees but, rather, earth.
He’d arrived at the Unseelie court; he knew it to his bones. People milled about in the vast courtyard, not yet realizing they had company. Not people, faeries. Of all sorts, shapes, sizes and design. Many as large as he, and dozens more as small as a dragonfly. A buzz of faeries. A dark enclave of glamour. This was the place of his nightmares.
Sirque stood beside him, silent and not looking around as he was. The veil now hung over her face. Sulfur softly emanated with her breaths. Of course, she had been here before. He could sense her intake of breath and the subtle shiver of submission as she took another step to place herself completely behind him.
Kir scanned the courtyard to determine what had disturbed the demoness. He decided the tall dark-haired faery with the silver-and-black wings who approached with an entourage of half-sized creatures skittering about and behind his legs must be the Unseelie king.
