by Karey Brown
Emily laid on the horn. Bodies leapt out of her way. BMW accelerated down narrow cobbled roads, fishtailing on ice. Peter shot Aedan, her mantra repeated. Aedan was O’Shay—had been. No doubt, he was now dead.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Innya made a face. “Centuries pass, and still you fight like a woman!”
“Aye, ‘tis a woman I fight, so I give ye’ the highroad. I canna raise arms against ye’ like I would a mohn.” Garreck offered a slight bow.
Chivalry nearly decapitated him.
Murmurs rippled through the bailey as Innya fiercely battled, proving Garreck had erred in his assumptions. Broc chuckled. These two had spent centuries exchanging barbs. He was reminded of how Urkani and Aurelia had used to quarrel in much the same manner. And now, how many times had he and his men stepped between Urkani and Emily’s hair raising arguments? S’blood, the lass was ruthless when plotting devilry against Urkani. Twice, the Elven commander had been forced ta’ leap from his horse or be tossed. Her inability to cease laughing at him nearly resulted in her impalement from the furious Elf, had Garreck not interceded.
Garreck.
Humor vanquished. Emily and Garreck were quite chummy of late. Broc did not like how it made him feel. As if sensing sudden ill thoughts, Garreck’s attention swung to his laird. Broc waved for them to continue.
“Chances you offer are cause for you to lose, Garreck.” Innya said, not even winded from their mock battle. “In battle, you do not allow adversaries such opportunity, even if they be female.” Faking a spin, Innya lunged at Garreck’s chest.
“S’blood! She nearly skewered ye’!” Kavan laughed, shouting down from his watchtower. “Mi’lord, Elves arrive.”
A few minutes later, his face appeared again. Fear snatched his boyish grin. “They be armed!”
Fey horns bellowed in the far distance. Motion ceased. Attention swiveled towards the forest. Those horns were laden with magicks—only used from the modern side o’ the door. Something had happened! Broc pushed away from the wall he’d lazed against. “Emily’s down there!”
Aunsgar strode with determination into Broc’s lists, an entourage of Elven warriors dressed in full battle regalia following suit.
“Evil surrounds Emily.” He and his retinue came to a halt.
“Allen nears,” Garreck warned.
Everyone looked to the ancient Forest Lord who in turn stared somewhere behind Broc. Broc spun just as Allen shimmered into view. The scholar lunged, grabbing at Broc’s sleeve.
“A man grabbed Emily. A gun. Aedan’s been shot. I think he’s dying. His stomach empties of blood.”
Broc grabbed Allen’s throat and bared his teeth. “Where’s Princess Emily?”
“Man . . . has her.”
“What mohn?”
“Short, dark hair. Expensive clothes. Black fancy car. He forces her to drive. She’s bringing him . . . here. Aedan—“
Broc shoved Allen from him. With two fingers, he sounded a shrill whistle. The piercing stopped after long sounding and was promptly followed by Garreck’s ox horn. Deep blasts constricted air. Answering horns wailed from numerous turrets throughout the miles of castle compound.
Air crackled. Blood of enemy would spill this eve. Short dark hair? Not Lumynari white? Who is this mysterious enemy? Broc held out his arm before any witnessed the bird of prey. As guardsmen and warriors battle-readied themselves, the peregrine glided towards Broc, landed, her talons gripping his leather bracer. “Lady Falcon, your son is in the modern’s realm. He’s been shot.”
The bird riotously chirped. Broc held up his other hand. Falcon settled. “Can you tend him?” Sharp chirps answered. “Urkani, she’ll need your herbs. And your magicks combined with her own.”
Without waste of motion, the Elf approached Lady Falcon, stringing a tiny leather satchel to her leg. Muttering, he looked into the falcon’s black eyes, passing his knowledge to combine with her ancient Fey abilities. Peregrine bobbed her head several times, then majestically spread her wings as Broc thrust his arm to accelerate her liftoff. Piercing chirps cascaded down to them, the falcon flapping frantically towards her fallen son.
“Aunsgar, I would have you request Sister Wind to surround the wings of Mae—“
“It has been done.”
Broc watched the falcon suddenly caught up in a wind current, the bird soaring towards the forest.
“What do you see, Aunsgar?”
“Lady Emily drives quickly. Her fear chokes me. I do not recognize this enemy.”
“Lumynari influence? What trickery do our ancient enemies devise? She’s a modern, no knowledge ta’ battle—“
“Her captor is human, though potentially just as deadly.” Aunsgar tilted his head, staring at a distance none could see. “Lumynari do not surround her. It is just she and her . . . assailant. She knows him.”
Broc’s teeth clenched. “Peter. None other knew she was in Scotland.”
“The fiancé’?”
“I’ve only snippets of comments she’s made, but a foul bastard ta’ be sure.” He looked to his men. “We canna chase down a modern’s automobile, but we can be ready when this new evil arrives.” They spurred at his call to arms. “Dressed and armed of our world, no’ Emily’s.” The laird glanced down at his wool trousers, then back up at his clan. “But, the kill is mine.” His glare dared their denial.
They were Forest Lords, once feared by Celts, Saxons, and Romans—especially Romans, who could do naught else but construct a seventy-three mile wall of false bravado. And before that, they guarded Brwenwind Forest from marauding Wild Men and Lumynari.
Today, they rescued a wee lass who had captured their hearts with her temper, biting sarcasm, and hysterical giggling—usually following an awful prank at the laird’s expense.
Today, they rescued their queen.
* * * * *
“Keeping it stupid-simple, explain why you failed to contact my father.”
“The castle lacks phones.”
“Well, you certainly excel at the ‘stupid’ part of my request. Castle. Really. You, Emily Nobody Garrison have been staying at the castle? The castle you were supposed to take photos of so my father could sell it. You remember my father, don’t you? The guy who paid your plane ticket to be here, employs you, the guy who’s the very reason you’ve amounted to anything. No one else offered you a job. Do you know how much money he’s spent on you already?”
“Yeah, guilt has a way of being expensive.”
“Watch yourself, Emily. I can always start shooting parts of your pathetic body that will bleed slowly, but cause much pain.”
“While I’m driving? Genius idea, Peter. We’ll crash and maybe you’ll go through the windshield.” She accelerated for emphases. Screw it. If she was about to die, she was taking him with her!
Pain exploded on the side of her head. Emil screamed. Car swerved. Peter screamed. Louder than her own. “Bitch! Slow down, or I hit you again!”
Emily obeyed.
Pain hammered. White spots winked, blurred by the flood of tears. She could barely see the road, never mind trying to keep hold of the steering wheel with one hand, the other pressed against where Peter had walloped her skull with his gun. Trembling. Teeth chattered. Blood flowed from between her fingers, down her neck.
“Don’t you ever talk down to me again, Emily. Understand?”
Vehemently, she nodded. Cold. Ears rang. Throbbing. Clammy. Shakily, she resumed the legal speed, making sure to remain parallel with the center line in order to remain driving on the correct side of the road. She needed both hands. Sight of her bloodied appendage on the steering wheel brought on more trembling.
They rode in silence for a half hour. She choked the steering wheel, her lifeline to sanity. Her body remained tense. Bleeding had slowed but still dribbled down both her back and her chest. Her blood-covered hand now stuck to the steering wheel in a sickening way. A superhighway of information whizzed by faster than she could grasp. Aedan. Dead. He’d given his life d
efending her. Aedan. O’Shay. Berserk reaction to the cat’s exploits.
Crying commenced.
“Stop sniveling. It swells your face and makes you look most unbecoming. Roll up the window. Your ugly hair is blowing all over the car. I thought my mother told you to cut that mass?”
“As if it were ever her right to tell me what to do with my hair; my body. Let her boss around your new—“
Peter laughed. “Yes, my new wife. Margot very much enjoyed your dress, though it was better off than on.”
Emily concentrated on the road versus his smarmy face in the review mirror.
Hair suddenly yanked, the car swerved in the direction her head was being towed. She slammed the brakes. Car squealed to a halt. Peter lurched. His fist-hold on her hair tightened. Gun pressed so deeply into her cheek, the barrel threatened to dislodge her molars.
“No reaction?” Peter snarled. “No babbling the unfairness of it all?”
Emily’s stomach balled up like paper in a giant’s fist. Feign car trouble and take off running? He runs seventeen miles. Daily. He’d catch me. He has a gun. Can’t outrun bullets.
His mouth pressed against her temple. She recoiled both from his nearness and the stench of his aftershave. “That virginity of yours is a thing of the past. It’s mine. Compensation for making my life hell. I got you that job with my father’s firm. That alone makes you indebted to me.” Peter shoved her away and leaned back, leather interior creaking. “Too bad I can’t somehow keep you on the side. Tied up, of course. Tape over your mouth—right this car and get moving before someone comes up behind us and wonders what’s going on. You talk too much when nervous. Mouth taped. Eyes taped—nah, just easier to kill you and be done with it.” He smiled, a demon about to feast. “Enjoy this scenic drive. It’s going to be your last. Wonder how many drivers will pass by, never realizing your carcass lays out there, amongst all this land going to waste? They really need to build up. All this potential and they don’t bother with it.” He tsk-tisked. “I see your head is bleeding. Does it hurt? Wait until you see what I’m going to do to your face.” His own face contorted. Emily cringed, watching him in her review mirror more than she watched the road. Spittle ran down the corner of his mouth.
“I suggest you get us to this mysterious castle, posthaste. My fingers itch to slap you again.”
Tears sogged her shirt as she pushed down on the accelerator. Black ice be damned. With luck, the car would spin out of control, killing them both. Almost, hysterical giggling bubbled up. Her ears were ringing. Heart pounded. Crazed fear provoked her to drive the car down an embankment, ending her agony once and for all.
She chickened out.
“We’re coming to a bumpy road, Peter. You might wanna take your gun off my head. If we hit something hard enough, and in this snow the rocks can’t be seen—“
“Then you lose your head.” His lips stretched, his version of a grin. “Better drive carefully, huh?”
* * * * *
Headlights blazed against a wall of reddish stone. Each rock had been placed together with puzzle-like precision, the great structure curtaining miles and miles of Castle MacLarrin’s perimeter. “Who the hell built this? And why?” Peter gawked, his eyes crawling up, and up, and up the forty-foot high curtain wall.
Emily gave a quick silent prayer of thanks. Being one who could get lost walking from her house to the end of the street, God only knew how she’d found her way back and through the ‘door’ Allen had shown her on their drive down to the village. Maybe that’s what’s really going on, Allen’s here, invisible, guiding the steering wheel. Yeah, right. If Allen were here, I’d like to think he’d have shown himself, scaring Peter to death—literally. Nope. She was alone. Just like all the times she’d cowered during Millie’s various brutalities.
Peter gawked. “Looks like no gate—stupid to build a wall and not have a gate. Drive through.”
“Can’t. This particular entrance is an illusion. The tunnel narrows. Designed to trick the enemy into assuming their entire infantry could pass through. At one point, you’re forced to walk single file. It enabled the inhabitants to better pick off their foe, one at a time before they exited into the lower bailey.”
“And now, you’re a fucking tour guide?”
Emily muted.
“Why aren’t there floodlights?” He snorted, then waved his gun while opening his door. “You first. Wouldn’t want you to throw the car into reverse, leaving me here.”
Eyes locked on Peter, Emily stepped from the vehicle. She weaved, white dots dancing again. Nausea filled her. She felt lopsided. Gingerly, she touched where he’d bashed her head. Caked blood. Tears welled. I’m so screwed. She knew her vertigo was a very bad sign of just how hard he’d whacked her head.
“Quiet. Too quiet,” Peter mumbled, looking above them. The crest of the wall was an imposing darkness against a starry night. “You lead, I’ll follow.” He lunged, grabbing Emily’s hair, yanking her against him. “Make no mistake, Emily, I’ll shoot you, but not to kill. Not at first. I want to make sure you suffer for at least a while. I don’t like you.” He laughed. “Pretty obvious, eh? I want to savor your pain.” Brutally, he shoved her, and again, smacked the gun across her head. Nonchalantly, he stared down at her where she writhed in the dirt. “Exactly where you belong.” He kicked her. “As much as I enjoy you groveling,” he kicked her again, “get up! A body can survive several gunshot wounds. Where would you like the first one? I’ll let you pick. Hand? Foot? Hands. Yes, I think I’ll shoot off your hands.” He swooped down and fisted her hair so fast, she didn’t even have time to flinch, let alone, shrink away from him. Yanking her up, he slammed her against the hood. “Not like you’ll need them again. Show me your hands, Emily. I’ll give you break for a few minutes before I blow off the other one.”
“No, Peter, please.”
“No, Peter, please,” he whined. He swung the gun. She deflected the blow. Her scream of agony blasted across the darkened vale. In the car’s headlights, she viewed her pinky now at an unnatural angle. Again, her hair was fisted. Peter shook her head. She kicked out. He slapped her, spun her around, shoved her face-down on the hood. She tasted blood; felt more of it on her forehead.
“Put your hand in front of the headlight so I see what I’m shooting! You don’t want me to miss and I accidentally shoot you dead, do you?”
“No!” Think. “You’ll shoot the engine.” Blood rivered into her eyes. He was going to shoot off her hands. Then, her feet. Peter’s silence frightened her more than his threats.
Hissing burst from inky blackness.
Peter aimed his gun at his darkness. “What was that?”
Emily used her cuff to mop blood. So cold.
“I said, what was that?”
“I don’t know.” The front of her head had to be split in two. “Don’t care.” Red hands. Macabre finger painter. Blood gushed. Imploding. Her head was imploding. Sinister hissing echoed again, this time from behind. Peter frantically waved his gun. His back to her, Emily considered slipping—
“Think you’re going to escape me?”
Emily buckled. He nearly collapsed with her. Snow cradled her. Hot. She burned. Snow. Nice, cold, snow. Headlights quadrupled. Painful orbs of light. She closed her eyes, no longer caring how many times Peter shot her. Blessedly, coherency was slipping.
Growling.
Peter stepped away, pivoted, and shot into the night.
Emily yelped, gunfire loud.
God, who is he killing this time?
A hand slithered across her mouth. She screamed. No use. Muffled. None too gently, she was dragged away, bucking and clawing. Hissing in her ear. Foreign words. Spicy scent wafted. Cardamom? Here?
“Shhhh, Keer’dra, I am here.”
Emily succumbed to the loud hum within her skull. From a great distance, a man screamed. She frowned and mumbled incoherently. Vibrations of someone speaking. Screams silenced. Emily nuzzled aching head against the chest of whomever carried her.
She sighed deeply. He was so warm. No shirt. Spicy. Deep inhale. She could drown in the heavenly scent of him.
“Forest Lords obeyed and remained indoors; let us take her up to them.”
“Think we’ll incite them enough to attack?”
“You simply search for bookends. She needs help. I cannot use my magicks on her.”
Emily turned her head, frowning. Must wake up. Broc’s voice is . . . wrong. Accent soothing . . . safe, no . . . wrong. Familiar. Cardamom. Her favorite. When had she lit incense?
“Drag him behind us. I do not wish to leave my prize to freeze, robbing me of my revenge.”
Pain burst through Emily. She lurched, clasping onto the one who carried her. She moaned, her pinky banging against a hard body. Tears drenched his chest. Coherency dangled as she screamed into him, crazed with pain.
“Damn. Her hand has been damaged. Inzyr, we need to stop.”
Jostling. “Please . . . don’t move. Pain.” Her moans turned to keening.
“Hold up your hand, Keer’dra.”
“No.”
Chuckling.
“Always difficult.”
Her hand was touched. She flinched.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
“I will ease your pain.”
Hot air blew across her finger. From far away, a stick cracked. More hot air and strange words. “Does your hand still hurt?”
“Can’t . . . feel.”
“I’ve reset your finger.” Again, she was lifted. She squirmed. “Be still, Keer’dra. I will carry you to your Forest Lords.”
“We will follow, and by the blessings of your father, mayhaps I will bleed a few Forest Lords and Elves this night,” Inzyr said.
“Vaide, our backs. Humans attempt treachery, regardless if they agree to temporary truce. Inzyr, your blood may be needed to save her, so I will thank you to try and avoid your yearning to bleed a Forest Lord or two.”
Emily opened her eyes, deep male chuckling vibrating against her; coming from all sides. Pain. Excruciating. So dark. “Where am . . . I?”
