The young guard coughed, then said, “Thank you, my King. I’m honored.”
Thayne nodded appreciatively to the healer on duty and then walked to the cook’s dugout. He approached the serving line manned by the final crew of the night.
“An honor to serve you, my King.” The young woman’s cheeks flushed, and she bowed her head of pale pink hair. She and every young female faery in the court seemed to be afflicted with the same behavior around him. His daily habits had become a topic of female gossip. Some went out of their way to serve during times he usually dined, or arranged to deliver meals to his quarters when he dined alone. They even went so far as assisting at the library during late afternoons when he did his historical research. Generally, he found them to be a pretty but giggly sort without enough depth to hold his interest once his lust and the high of the mint wine faded. Kiss-drunk, they always begged for more, as if sex could win them a place as his queen. More and more, Thayne avoided all contact with them.
Thayne nodded and kept his eyes lowered as he accepted a steaming crock of leek soup. “Bread, too, please.”
With a too-obvious, twittery laugh, the girl passed him an extra thick slice of yeasty bread and a brimful butter pot. “Anything else I can do to serve my king? It would be my honor.”
Thayne grunted a thank you and sat on a bench at the table reserved for the king and family, king’s advisers, and guard captains.
Some patrols from Cobweb’s watch finished their meals and departed, leaving Thayne alone in the cavernous root-lined dining hall. A matron server filled his mug with dark roast root. Thankfully, she didn’t intrude on his thoughts like the pink-haired girl.
He ate meditatively, trying to assimilate his evening reading of his father’s journal entries. Pages had been filled with personal conflicts and secret political maneuvers that led him to trade his daughter for peace with the Summer Court. Thayne knew the rudimentary transaction when his sister left their court, but the rationale was kept from him as a child. He hoped to glean some understanding of the balance between a king’s personal choice and public responsibility—something not covered in his training to be king. Reading between his father’s words was much like deciphering a riddle, made even more cryptic because it hid only on those pages. His mother, the queen, had died when Thayne was a young boy, a year after his sister, barely an adult, left and married.
Thayne took his last sip of the brew and his throat convulsed. He sputtered into his napkin, and the surrounding air prickled his skin. He didn’t need to look to know Grayson approached.
“A good evening to you, my King,” the adviser croaked. He seated himself across the table with great care to keep his spine straight, as if when bent it might snap. He arched a single gray brow, its long hairs curling against his lined forehead, though his expression remained stoic. “What draws you to the hall at this late hour?”
“I checked on Cobweb’s injured patrols and wasn’t ready to sleep,” Thayne mumbled between mouthfuls of bread.
“Their wounds will mend under the experienced hands of our healers.” Grayson flicked his two unadorned gray braids onto his back, then arranged his place setting with precision. He tucked the napkin into his white shirt peeking from the mandarin collar of his steel gray frock coat. His ashen eyes pierced Thayne with a jolt of static charge that demanded attention. “You know that as well as I. What troubles your mind, my King? The girl Esmeralda and her talisman?”
Thayne nodded, not wanting to encourage discussion…or rather an interrogation.
“Whatever weighs upon you, keep utmost in your focus the path of greatest advantage for the court. That was always your father’s rubric.” The adviser loudly slurped a spoonful of soup, touched the tail of his napkin to his lips, and angled his stiff frame toward Thayne. “Let me give you an example when the king was in his prime, two hundred years heretofore. He faced a—”
Thayne stood. “Thank you for your interest, but I am the king now and must decide for myself how do to what is best. Good night to you.” Grayson might’ve known his father’s political mind, but Thayne needed to know what emotions caused tears to stain his father’s journal pages when he gave away his daughter.
The adviser rose, gave a slight bow of his head, and loudly snuffled his crooked nose.
***
At Thayne’s request a personal aide woke him early when the morning sun rose to half its full height. With his usual contingent of five king’s sentries, Thayne set out for the hedge adjacent to Holly Cabin.
Near the property, he applied heavy glamour that camouflaged his features in total shadow and directed his cadre to do likewise. The glaze ice remained, though partially melted since it had been reapplied at pre-dawn.
Thayne raised his arm to administer additional layers, but when Esmeralda stepped onto her front porch, he stopped.
She held an oval piece of wood by a handle in front of her face. Moments later she said, “Back to you,” then repeated the phrase twice more as she turned what was a mirror away from her and rotated herself in a full circle. When she turned in Thayne’s direction, the energy that swept past him contained such a dark aura, he immediately ducked, as did his sentries. Tree branches hit by the power charred on impact. The evil that Esmeralda released had come from inside her before it reflected outward. How could someone, with the pure spirit he read within her yesterday, possess such darkness?
She set the mirror aside and chiseled ice from the steps into a pan. Her gathering of such a common substance intrigued him. Then she kneeled beside the foundation’s holly bushes and engaged in a joyful conversation. Her laughter rang in his ears like tinkling bells.
He took a step forward past the chestnut tree.
Esmeralda’s head snapped in his direction, her eyes scanning the hedge without recognition apparent on her face. “Relic? I smell apple mint. Is that you?”
How could a mortal pick up the slight scent on him from the healing smoke fires? Thayne wanted to reveal himself. He kept his glamour but took another step closer. It delighted him that she rose to her feet and smiled his way. However, she assumed he was Relic so he backed into the woods and settled onto a fallen log, where he watched her touch each bush and flower with green peeking through the ice.
A few she dug up with a hand trowel and put in clay pots. Some were special types of mints that wafted tempting scents of citrus and candy to Thayne. Since mint was a special favorite of his court, he guessed Relic had years ago encouraged Grammy or her granddaughter to plant the unusual varieties. So many wonders Thayne had missed while learning to be a leader.
Esmeralda carried the potted plants indoors, where they soon appeared on various windowsills.
He followed around the house from the distant hedge line, watching. Her placement of rosemary, a known sleep aid among fae, indicated the position of her bedroom. He smiled thinking how he might venture close one night to blow across the plant and provide deep, dreamless sleep to the troubled young woman.
As Thayne returned to the front of the property, a sheriff’s car pulled onto the driveway.
A young man, who looked to be in his mid-twenties, stepped from the car, squared his broad shoulders, and donned a wide-brimmed hat. When Esmeralda answered his knock at her front door, she laughed that same tinkling laugh that warmed the skin along the back of Thayne’s neck.
He clenched his hands into fists, then forced his fingers open, only to find them gripped again when the sheriff deputy chuckled at Esmeralda. Thayne’s reactions confused him. What was his underlying primary emotion? Anger? Confusion? Jealousy? Lust? Yes to all, but not one rose high above the others, as would be expected for normal fae thought patterns. His head ached with the jumble of feelings.
The deputy leaned forward as if to enter the cabin.
Thayne held his breath, then released it when, instead, Esmeralda moved onto the porch.
With a resonating laugh and a wave, the young man left her for his car and shouted back, “Call me if you need anything.�
��
Thayne swept his arm in a broad circle and spread a massive sleet storm across the property. With exacting precision, he withheld the precipitation along the drive and road until the deputy drove away. No need for that man to become stranded at Holly Cabin.
Chapter Seven: Wayward
Esme closed the cabin door. From a front window, she watched Garrett pull his deputy’s car from her gravel drive. Sleet and hail bounced from the cobblestone paths and the shed’s tin roof. Hailstones threatened to topple the mailbox, which leaned markedly lower after last night’s glaze ice. Strangely, however, the precipitation didn’t land on the drive or the road.
Was Relic responsible? She moved to the kitchen window and peered across the wide garden plot to look for him. Glistening, black chestnut branches stood out against the air’s silver-white haze. The tree stood apart from the rest of the dense, gray woods in a way she’d not noticed before. But neither the chestnut nor the forest beyond showed any sign of Relic. The selective sleeting of her property had to be controlled by The Cousins. Could this be an act of Raclaw’s Autumn Court to clear the roadways for their entry?
Esme raced to the front porch, where ice now covered the drive and road. Her theory fell apart, and her gaze shifted to the property’s right hedgeline. A sharp minty scent like Altoids laced with determination and authority drew her in the opposite direction toward the shed. Past the large garden plot, a shadow widened the chestnut’s trunk from behind. Whiffs of musk mixed with trepidation moderated the stronger smell. She eyed the tree. Although the scent was far more intense than Relic ever gave off, perhaps he’d been frightened by the deputy. Or maybe her mixed feelings toward Garrett, attraction she worked to avoid, confused the old faery while he tried to protect her. “Relic? Is that you?” No answer came, and she fixed her gaze on the chestnut. “Shade?” The captain had revealed no odor last night but would surely reply.
The shadow vanished in a fraction of a second. Sleet pummeled Holly Cabin and obliterated all traces of the fragrances.
Esme waited until her nose and cheeks grew cold and the chill cut through her favorite threadbare jogging pants and sweatshirt, then moved inside to the kitchen window. The chestnut’s bark appeared its normal gray-brown hue again. The Cousin must’ve left. Why didn’t the faery reply?
When she sat to eat a simple lunch of canned soup, her talisman swung toward the table edge. She touched the gem’s smooth jet-black surface, glad for its protection in case the faery at the chestnut meant her harm.
Last night the witch’s amber had comforted her after the intense nightmare. Its coolness had absorbed the feverish heat from her palms. However, the image of her father, who she didn’t remember as a child nor from any picture, still burned in her mind.
She knew so little about him. He was a witch, not from the Hollow, who had drifted in to help with a construction project. He promised Mother that he’d stay with her, but he didn’t. Something about a job. Mother hated him, called him no-good, bum, cur, or any foul word that spat out before she pursed her lips and refused to explain more. Grammy told Esme that he’d loved her as a baby. Yet somehow he couldn't stay with them, ’cause he fought to control his strong magic, what Gram called wayward. That knowledge softened Esme’s frustration with her mother’s silence, but not the sadness.
During Esme’s first year of witchcraft school in the coven, a boy teased her with the name “wayward” as she stepped from the bus onto the end of her lane. Mother glared at the boy, though he didn’t stop. A week later, Esme began homeschooling under her mother’s direction. Esme cried to be with the other kids. She didn’t remember much from her mother’s teachings. Something must’ve gone terribly wrong, ’cause a few months later, when winter broke, Mother moved them to Indianapolis and away from all connections to witchcraft. All except Grammy.
Esme’s birth certificate listed Erebus J. Underhill as her father and Sharon Rose Freestone as her mother. Esme searched online records a few times without success. Only one match turned up, a man younger than herself and living in California. Curious about the uncommon name “Erebus,” her Google search revealed it meant utter darkness, associated with the mythic god of the Underworld. The name had to be fake, clearly an invention of her mother’s, and something Esme gladly dismissed.
Dove leaped into Esme’s lap and brought her thoughts back to the present.
She flinched and faced the clock. “It’s almost time for Rowe and Logan to come. I need to get busy.”
Esme washed dishes and changed into a pleated tan skirt and trim green cardigan while she reviewed what she’d seen the afternoon during the blood ice incident. Her details needed to be exact and accurate. A false accusation could cost her a lot in the community. And gaining the favor of the high priest and a councilman could help open doors for her to become a successful healer.
When a knock sounded at the door, the familiar scratchy feeling started inside her throat. She gently swallowed in a poor attempt to ease the ache and greeted the two men on her front porch. A black Studebaker sedan, twice as long and with three times as much shiny chrome as her Airflow, sat on the drive behind them.
The man with shoulder-length dark hair gave a tentative smile. “Esme? I’m Rowe McCoy.” His friendly manner and bristly stubble broke the fastidious appearance he cut in his Thirties-style double-breasted black suit and pressed white shirt. He gestured to his companion. “This is High Priest Logan Dennehy.”
“Hello, Esme. Thank you for contacting us.” Tall and angular, Logan took one large stride toward her and swept out his hand. With the assertive motion, a wave of thick blond bangs fell below his brows but didn’t impede the intensity of his stormy blue eyes. Although he wore a similar style suit, the elbows were creased and the padded shoulders hung a bit off-kilter—a man whose job must matter more than his clothes. Both men, near to her age, seemed like many of the determined young professionals Esme had worked with at the bioresearch firm.
“Please come in.” Esme opened the door wider and waved them inside toward the hearth room.
Heavy footsteps stomped against her wooden floor and called attention to hiking boots, which clashed with their tailored suits.
A heady mix of pine, citrus, and musk colognes from the men swirled around the small room as they sat across from each other at the table.
Esme took a chair close to them at the head, while trying without luck to read emotions beneath those strong scents.
Exchanging silent glances, the pair fumbled to retrieve small notebooks and pens from their jackets.
With a nod to Rowe, who poised his pen to write, the high priest asked, “Rowe told me you witnessed a potential murder at the back of Eugenia Trustwell’s property. Is that correct?”
On the table Esme laced her trembling fingers to keep them still. “I don’t know Eugenia, but I took the trailhead at the rear corner of my lot through the woods until I reached another cabin.”
“We’ll check out that trail, but maps indicate that should lead to her place.” Logan’s irises changed to midnight blue and the pupils to mere pinpricks fixed on her. “And at that site you saw Oscar Burnhard dragging a wrapped body which looked to be small, like a female. How are you sure it was him and not someone else?”
Esme described her substantiating encounter with Oscar at the Council office.
Logan caught Rowe’s gaze, cleared his throat, and restated, “Are you sure the man dragging the body was the same as the man you spoke to? Was the man dressed the same or did he wear different clothes in the office? It’s critical that you are sure of the potential offender’s identity.”
She twisted her interlaced fingers. “He wore the same clothing, a black shirt. In the office, his shirt was still wet.”
The councilman scribbled in his notebook.
“Rowe told me you witnessed magical evidence as well.” Logan leaned toward her, his tone more intense, eager. “Will you please explain?”
She detailed the transitioning colors of the ice, which le
d her to the crime scene. “From what I can tell, if Oscar saw the red ice, he didn’t know it led me to him.”
“Any other magical clues?” Logan asked.
She waited for Rowe to finish writing. “The smell of the man…I can sometimes read emotions carried by scents. The man at the crime scene and the man at the office both reeked of revenge. Will that be important?”
“Definitely.” Logan’s eyes flashed steel-gray. “Although since you don’t hold ceremonial status, we may need to validate your heightened sensory abilities.”
Esme moved her hands to her lap, unable to contain their shaking. What if their tests showed her skill to be unreliable or fake? She’d never earn advanced standing and be financially able to stay here. She didn’t want to sell Grammy’s home, and certainly didn’t want to move back to live by her mother again.
“It’s okay. Don’t be nervous.” Logan softened his voice and briefly touched her shoulder.
That close, she detected his smell of keen interest.
“We’re here to make certain justice is upheld. Under the last high priestess, troublemakers ran amuck. My standards are higher. Have you told anyone about what you saw?”
She shook her head and considered his emotion. With two Council seats open, he must be on edge. Would her information help them achieve political gain in the upcoming Council election? As long as they were trustworthy in the deal and helped her out in turn, that could serve her goals well. She relaxed against the chair’s back.
“Good. You told Rowe that you'd tried to report the crime to the sheriff's office and they referred you to us. That much is okay, but for your safety and the sake of this investigation, it’s vital that you talk only to us in the future. I suspect we’ll bring in the sheriff soon, but only speak to them in my presence.”
Coon Hollow Coven Tales 1-3 Page 71
