by Ann Gimpel
She slung her sacks over one shoulder. Tairin and Elliott tucked clothing beneath their arms, but not so much they didn’t keep one hand free to help Michael. He grunted, but didn’t pull away from where they linked their hands around his upper arms to steady him.
Yara walked behind, just in case they needed more help. She was touched by the way they cared for Michael. It reminded her of everything she’d lost when her caravan split up, scattering them to the four corners of nowhere.
No one to help.
No one to care.
No one to share things with.
The loneliness she’d lived with ever since her sister left hit her like a physical blow, and it was all she could do not to double over. That was one of the reasons she’d been so quick to hang on Stewart’s every word, never doubting he cared about her.
She closed her teeth over her lower lip and bit hard. Goddammit if she hadn’t been the easiest of easy marks. Maybe he’d scanned her with his considerable power and figured that out. Particularly after her fiasco with Manandan when she was feeling guilty and vulnerable for not having been assertive enough.
Stop it. Just stop. She made her inner voice stern. What was done was done. No way she could go back and undo it. The important thing was not compounding her errors with yet one more.
They reached the rope ladder, and she joined the queue as everyone abandoned the ship as fast as they could. About half of them were already on the dock in a murky quarter light that created an eerie glow. At least no one was hurrying over to see who they were.
Their magical barrier must be working.
She waited until Elliott and Tairin saw Michael safely down the ladder. Elliott went first and steadied the ladder while Tairin hung onto Michael from above. Getting herself down would be awkward since she only had one hand, so she tossed the sacks onto the dock, and scurried after them.
The second her feet hit the planking of the dock, Stewart urged, “Hurry, lassie. Ye’re the last of us.”
“Don’t lassie me.” Yara stared at gloom stretching in all directions and made an attempt at civility so she didn’t get left behind. “Which way?”
“Follow me.” He sprinted lightly into the roiling darkness. It developed a silvery cast where it touched him, which lent him an appealing, otherworldly aspect.
She bit down on her lower lip to flush positive thoughts of him from her mind. They’d just make things harder. Try as she might, though, she couldn’t shutter her longing—not entirely.
Yara moved fast, scattering magic and don’t look here spells as she ran. She’d been remiss about warding herself getting off the ship, but enough ambient magic simmered around the vessel, it probably didn’t matter. The dock gave way to cobblestones, and she kept running. Stewart’s spell surrounded her. She knew it was his because it carried the scent of his workings.
When she reached out with her magic, she sensed the others fanned ahead of her. The plan had been to steal vehicles. What if they couldn’t find any? She shook her head hard. They had to find something. They hadn’t come this far only to end up in a Scottish jail.
Yara reminded herself this wasn’t the Netherlands. Even if some official suspected she was Romani, it wasn’t a crime here. The reason they were running was to distance themselves from the ship in case someone had reported it stolen. Given the demons that had come after them, it was a sure bet whoever owned the gold wouldn’t be far behind.
She’d learned years ago to not give in when bleakness surrounded her, and she borrowed heavily from that training ground. Yara narrowed her focus to the ground beneath her feet and the handful of shifters and Rom around her. She traded breath for keeping spells circulating around herself and running. They left the cobblestones for a smoother surface, which gave way to packed dirt. Kirkcaldy must not be very large, or she’d done a better job than she thought holding the world at bay.
Beyond the spells swirling about her, daylight peeked through. Not bright, but they’d left night behind them, along with the ship and the docks. The simmering sphere of their combined magics ratcheted to a halt. Yara wanted to know why, but held silence. She could have used telepathy, but she’d find out soon enough.
Metal creaked, car doors slammed, and the tang of gasoline stung her nostrils. Magic crumbled, traded for a gray, drizzly morning. A battered sedan sped away from where the rest of them stood. A quick nose count told her Jamal, Ilona, Aron, Elliott, Tairin, and Michael had left in the car.
Widely spaced houses that had seen better days lay scattered nearby, so they’d apparently left the city behind.
Cadr scuttled next to Stewart. “We need to get moving.”
“Aye, agreed.’Tisn’t likely we’ll come upon another car. Mostly countryside lays beyond this point.”
Vreis pried one of her sacks out of her hands. “I’ll take this one. Ye’ll move faster with less of a burden.”
She noted he’d left her the one containing the book. Not surprising since it probably wouldn’t leave her side without pitching a fit. “Should we resurrect our spells?”
Stewart shook his head. “Nay. We’re far enough from the ship, no one can tie us to it.” He creased his face into a thoughtful expression. “Mayhap ’tis the goddess’s hand in this after all. Part of my task was to summon aid, and I canna do that nearly as well from a moving car.”
He started off in a westerly direction with Cadr, Vreis, Gregor, and the others following. A squawk from overhead reminded her of Meara. The shifter was tracking them in her vulture form. Yara made a wry face. About now, having wings would be a great boon—so long as the book could figure out a way to remain by her side. The way things had shaped up, she had faith in its ability to overcome damn near any adversity.
Unless it was done with her as she’d suspected earlier.
Thinking about the book and wondering if she’d alienated it, Yara sent her mind voice spiraling outward as she trotted after the ragtag group.
“Mother. Are you out there?”
Silence met her query, and she felt like a fool. Even if Rhiannon had been closer than Yara ever guessed all these years, she hadn’t been inclined to make her presence known. Why should that have changed?
Unfamiliar magic swirled and thickened. The scents of heather in bloom and gorse berries tickled her nostrils. When Yara focused her third eye, she saw tiny people, not more than two or three feet tall, surrounding Stewart. Wonder filled her at the sight of what had to be Fae, the faery people, with hair in a bevy of rainbow colors and eyes like hammered silver. Bits of cloth wound about their stocky bodies, and their feet were bare.
One must have a nose for gold because he snaked a hand into Stewart’s pocket and withdrew a single doubloon.
“If ’tis the price for your help, ’tis small enough,” Stewart murmured.
The little people crawled all over him then, riding on his shoulders and grabbing onto his clothing until he pulled two of them into his arms. They chattered in Gaelic so ancient, Yara only picked up one word in three, but the sight of Stewart cradling the magical beings smote her, and she understood it would take a lifetime to get over him.
Maybe more than one.
Nothing so simple as walking away and closing her mind and heart to him.
Whatever did he do to me?
“Nay, daughter.” Rhiannon’s musical voice was so unexpected, Yara almost tripped over her own feet. “’Twas what ye did to each other. It canna be undone, nor should it.”
“You have to say more than that.” Yara hesitated a beat before adding, “Mother.”
“I will, but now isna the time. Have faith. He will not fail you. Nor will I. Ye were born for what is almost upon us. ’Tis sorry I am I dinna do more to prepare you, but ye’re courageous and resourceful. Believe in those things. In yourself. And in Stewart.”
Yara started to reply, but there was no point. Rhiannon was gone. She knew it as surely as she’d ever known anything. Light flickered and pulsed around Stewart, Cadr, and Vreis. They’d attracted
a veritable army of Fae, interspersed by other shining creatures who were taller and dark-haired. Unlike their smaller cousins, they were garbed in leather trousers and jerkins, shading from buff to almost black.
What were they? Dark Fae, or some other manner of being?
Yara didn’t want to ask for fear they might think her rude. Or turn their magic against her. She’d never believed the tales about the fair folk. None of the Rom did.
Almost against her will, she focused on Stewart only to find his gaze fixed on her. He looked so hopeful—and so desolate—her heart cracked wide open. He’d wanted to talk with her earlier, and she’d shut him down.
Worse than that, she’d said some cruel things. Not as many as she could have, but enough.
Meara squawked knowingly, as if she’d been inside Yara’s head, and dive-bombed her. After a last-minute somersault in midair, she fastened sharp talons into Yara’s shoulder.
“Ouch. That hurts.” Yara glared sidelong at the vulture using her shoulder for a tree branch.
“Get over yourself and listen up, child.” Meara clacked her beak for emphasis. “And keep moving. It’s a hundred miles to Fort William. That’s quite a distance for someone without wings.”
“I’m scarcely your child.” Yara bristled.
“Get over yourself and listen anyway.” The talons dug deeper.
Blood trickled down from her shoulder, and Yara thinned her lips into a determined line. “I’m listening. Sooner you’ve said your peace, the sooner you can get off my shoulder.”
She cringed. She was being insufferably rude to a strong, ancient magic wielder. If she didn’t shape up, the first shifter could flatten her with magic.
“Better.” Another beak clack. “I’m the reason Stewart backed off courting you. I had solid motives, and they still stand…”
Chapter 17
The Fae’s rapid response to Stewart’s call both surprised and heartened him. According to them, they’d been waiting for his arrival, which had been foretold by their seers. That last got his attention. If knowledge of the conflagration to come was so widespread the entire magical community knew about it, that meant the other side knew as well.
No possibility of springing a surprise attack and gaining the upper hand via stealth.
The dark Fae were here too. They’d swallowed their built-in antipathy for the other half of their race without so much as a sarcastic rejoinder. None that had happened in his vicinity, anyway. At the point when he’d left Scotland, the dark Fae would rather eat nails than breathe the same air as the waifs clinging to him and filching gold from his pockets.
He’d forgotten the Fae’s attraction to the shiny metal, and it made him smile. The world might be ending, but a bunch of delighted Fae would drag gold coin into the Dreaming with them if their hills and barrows became uninhabitable.
The Dreaming.
The faery folk retreated there when they tired of human foibles. Stewart had never fully understood if it was linked to Earth energy, or existed in a separate plane. He hoped the latter since if demons won this round, magic and the faery folk had to survive. He’d been raised on tales of Armageddon, threats that Earth needed magic to survive, even though humans didn’t know that.
Wars had come and gone over his long lifetime, but there’d never been a war when evil aligned with one side or the other. Magic, either. The unseen world had always kept to itself. Why was this time different? It had to be vampires. Up until the end of the nineteenth century, they’d added to their ranks without much difficulty. Modern life, where cars replaced walking or traveling by horseback, had cut down their opportunities for snatching the unsuspecting and turning them.
Stewart was as guilty as any of them. He’d all but forgotten about vampires until Tairin and Elliott unearthed a nest outside Munich.
Out of sight.
Out of mind.
Aye, and badly underestimated.
He made a wry face. The blood and sex rituals with the SS infused new life into what had probably been a slowly-dying race. The rise of dark power weakened the gates holding Hell’s denizens captive. Arawn, god of the dead, used to ride herd on his charges. What the hell happened to him? For all Stewart knew, the Celts had abandoned Earth for more promising worlds. Those not being torn apart by power-mad humans.
Rhiannon is still here. So’s Manandan.
She showed up to keep an eye on her daughter, but his presence argues the Celts havena left—at least not yet.
He hadn’t let himself reflect on Yara, but thinking about Rhiannon gave him a stiff push in that direction. He’d botched things badly. He hadn’t been sure quite what to say. It had seemed clunky and awkward to launch into a whole explanation about the Celts maybe being more inclined to help if he were unattached—since they’d always preferred him that way. Because words hadn’t risen to do his bidding easily, he’d said nothing at all.
She’d been hurt—and then angry. The open longing stamped into her features when she first saw him in the hold dug into him. He’d wanted her too, wanted to draw her close and cover her lips with his. Instead, he’d turned into a bumbling schoolboy tripping over his own feet.
Duty and responsibility came first, but because he’d put them first, he’d hurt Yara. The reality was like a physical blow, but he couldn’t rewind time and override Meara’s advice with a different choice. Yara was a proud woman, not one who’d ever stand still for being taken advantage of. He’d seen the truth of her thoughts etched into her expressive face without needing to peek into her mind. She felt used, like he’d taken the path many men did when they ached for release, saying whatever would coax a woman to open her legs.
He wasn’t like that, though. Making love to her had been one of the most intense experiences of his life. Not something to walk away from. Why hadn’t he been able get the words out? Words to reassure her he was falling in love with her and would protect her with his dying breath. He’d come close, but her jibe about his lovemaking not being up to par rankled.
Aye, I became angry, defensive, and then she was gone.
He risked a glance her way. Meara rode on her shoulder, and he’d bet his last gold coin—if he had any left—they were conversing telepathically. He could have checked with magic, but it felt disrespectful to bother them.
He took stock of where they were. He’d been walking mindlessly. Planes roared overhead, but the unpleasant, fear-saturated energy of an occupied country hadn’t yet reached Scotland. Stewart uttered a silent prayer it never would. It occurred to him that the shifters still with them might be better off traveling in their animal forms. They’d make better time that way.
A collection of vehicles in front of what appeared to be an abandoned farm caught the corner of his vision. He directed a thread of magic in that direction to double check his impressions about the untidy spread being unoccupied. Nothing living pinged against his magic.
“Hold up,” he told the others.
A chatter of questions in Gaelic from the Fae rattled against him. He explained that while they had a magical network from one end of the U.K. to the other allowing quick passage, it wouldn’t accommodate the rest of them.
Gregor and the bear shifter who’d driven them out of Germany intuited Stewart’s intent. They loped to the motley group of farm trucks and older sedans, moving easily from one to another. Stewart hurried after them. They could squeeze into two cars—if they found two that still ran.
An engine stuttered to life, and Gregor motioned to Stewart. “Solves half our problem,” he said.
“Aye. How’s the fuel?”
Gregor shrugged. “Who knows? The gauge is broken. I’ll siphon what I can from the ones that will never run again. It should be enough. While I’m doing that, sort who goes with me. Be sure someone knows the way to where we’re going.”
Stewart nodded sharply and set down the faeries who’d been nestled against him. One of the dark Fae marched dead in front of him and said, “Your destination is Ben Nevis. We shall meet you th
ere.” His words were stilted, formal. He wasn’t asking. He was telling.
Stewart adopted the same formality and bowed slightly. “Thank you. Open fires and safe travels.”
A chorus of, “Open fires,” rose around him, and the faery folk shimmered to nothingness in an iridescent haze of droplets. Their scent remained, and the heather and gorse kindled a bone-deep longing for home and hearth. For Yara by his side… Meara still rode on her shoulder, and Stewart headed toward them.
“Ye’ll go with Gregor,” he told Yara, then added, “I presume ye’ll fly,” to Meara.
The vulture squawked and launched herself off Yara’s shoulder. Wincing, Yara rubbed it gingerly. “Bird weighs more than she looks like.” Yara leveled her gaze at Stewart. “I’m not going with Gregor. Pick someone else. I’m fine.”
“But lass,” he protested. “Ye’ll be safer that way.”
“Pick someone else,” she repeated and made a grab for the sack she’d dropped to rub her shoulder. The bear shifter was working on another car, and Yara strode toward him. A brilliant flash of light presaged Meara’s shift just before she joined Yara. The two women converged on where the bear shifter bent over the vehicle’s open hood.
Gregor was ready to leave, so Stewart herded half of them his way, including both Cadr and Vreis. Even though the farmhouse appeared deserted, he breathed a sigh of relief when the car rolled up the rutted drive, and no one materialized out of the ether shaking a fist and screaming imprecations.
Only four of them remained. Stewart picked his way through the rusting junkyard to the accompaniment of cursing from the bear shifter. “Do ye know what’s wrong with it?” Stewart asked.
“More or less,” the bear grumbled. “Spark plugs are shot.”
“Can you cannibalize something from these other cars?” Yara asked.
It was a good question. She’d been living off her wits for years, and it showed, but Stewart kept his thoughts to himself. She might think he was patronizing her, trying to make up for his earlier blunder. At least she hadn’t jumped at the chance to put as much distance as possible between them when he’d offered her a spot in Gregor’s car.
