by Dani Harper
Perhaps another man would be tempted, but Aidan was unmoved. Celynnen cared not for him, only for the faint and fleeting emotions he might stimulate in her icy heart, the brief and novel sensations he might visit upon her body. Strange that even as he sought the blessed oblivion of no emotion at all, she craved anything that might make her feel—and of course the brief entertainment he might afford her. He had witnessed firsthand that the burden of living nearly forever was often boredom, and the Fair Ones welcomed any distraction. A plaything, a novelty, an insect in a jar—that was all a human would ever be to the Tylwyth Teg. And what the human thought about it mattered not at all to them.
Aidan stifled the deep, low growl that bubbled up from his throat. It would only please her to know she had gained some reaction from him. Instead, he turned his face to the wall. As always, she would leave soon, and he would go about his morbid task. Even now, Aidan could feel the tug of his calling, the scent of approaching death in the mortal world above. It was part and parcel of what Celynnen had made him. No grim could fail to fulfill his dark purpose.
Or escape his dark destiny.
Every monstrous dog wore a heavy chain-mail torc around his neck. The ornate collar was silver, but as a blacksmith skilled in metals, Aidan knew it was no ordinary silver. For one thing, it was pure, and for another, it was inexplicably stronger than the strongest steel he had ever seen. Even in the much-changed mortal world above, no metal was the equal of what he bore around his massive neck. It wasn’t the strength of the silver that held him to this place, however. It was faery magic that had forged the torc, magic that held it together, magic that commanded it—and therefore commanded him.
Recently, however, that hadn’t seemed sufficient to his jailers. Had he lingered too long in the mortal world, spent too much time watching wistfully as humans went about their lives? Whatever the reason, every link of his collar had been respelled to return to this place without fail, like a magnet that could not be resisted. When Aidan carried out his latest assignment in the mortal world, he quickly discovered that if he did not come back of his own accord by dawn, he would be dragged back through time and space to the stone kennels in the fae kingdom.
“Don’t be tiresome, Aidan. Not when I bring you such interesting news.”
He kept his face to the wall but slid his gaze sideways to observe her in his peripheral vision. She’d finally dropped that damnable angelic smile, but she’d replaced it with something worse—a practiced pout that matched her petulant tone. A slyness crept into Celynnen’s eyes, however, as she realized she’d gained his attention.
“Did you know that one of your fellow grims escaped?” she asked. Aidan bristled at the way she said “your fellow grim,” like they were old friends. Grims seldom even saw one another, never mind communicated. All that bound them was their mutual fate at the hands of the fae. And as for escaping—Aidan had almost accepted that it was impossible. Yet if one of the hounds was actually missing…
“It’s true. A mortal woman broke the enchantment and set him free. The entire court is simply buzzing about it.” She imparted the information with a kind of glee, and Aidan understood now why his collar had been magically reinforced. More than likely the collars of all the grims had been spelled so.
“They say Queen Gwenhidw herself intervened to save him and his lover from the Wild Hunt.” Celynnen paused for effect, arranging her flowing sleeves to perfection. “Of course, the human woman was some sort of distant fae relation to Her Majesty. No one would bother to save you, of course. You are of no importance to anyone. But I’ve been thinking that someday it might be very entertaining to see you run.”
For a fraction of an instant, Aidan could swear her eyes flashed demon green, the pupils elliptical like a cat’s—or a snake’s. Her skin appeared as mottled leaves. “Remember that the next time you refuse me,” she commanded from greenish lips, thin and smooth like leather. He blinked and saw only her angelic face once more as she smiled and disappeared.
Only her laughter lingered in the air, like a glissando of crystal bells.
The great black dog traveled Brecon’s High Street openly in the late-afternoon sun. Many humans passed him by, some on foot, most in cars. None of them saw him. Some walked through him, unknowing. He was invisible to all but those whom he was called to, or to the very rare few who had the ability to perceive fae creatures. With his otherworldly form made of finer stuff than the molecules that made up the human world, he had all the powers he needed to accomplish his task. He could will himself as solid as a rock wall, or he could pass through such a wall like a breeze through tall grass.
There wasn’t a village in all of Wales that Aidan had not been called to countless times over the centuries. He had been to Brecon often. Much had changed since his time. The village had been called Aberhonddu then, the place where the river Honddu met the greater river Usk. The place where he’d gone to market with his family as a child. And something else too…He always felt that there was something else about this place he should remember. Someone. But like a word that stubbornly remained on the tip of one’s tongue, he could not recall who the person was. He knew only that his heart ached even more each time he tried…
In the fae kingdom, the concept of time meant little. The entire human world was focused on time, however. Ten centuries had gone by here, and he had not felt their passing. He could see it, however, progressing in tiny increments, during each and every visit he made to the mortal realm. Still, a few things remained the same from his former life. Brecon was still a market town, and despite the advent of horseless vehicles, many streets and passageways were as narrow as ever. Cars and trucks labored to squeeze through, and more than one had to back all the way out to allow another to pass. The great old castle had once towered over the junction of the rivers, imposed on the site by Norman conquerors before he was born. The walls still stood, but the fortress didn’t look so big now that it was surrounded by a modern, white-painted inn. A hotel people called it, not an inn. Still, the castle stones were the same ones he had dared his friend, Grigor, to touch when they were small boys. They had both run away laughing as the foreign soldiers shouted at them. The castle had been hated by his people, a symbol of oppression—how strange to feel a kinship with it now! But it was one of the only things he shared a mote of history with, something that linked him to his own time and place.
Temporarily at least.
As soon as he returned to the kingdom of the Tylwyth Teg, he would once again remember little or nothing of this place, but in these brief moments, he drank in the sights and scents. Perhaps some part of his mind kept things like this, little vignettes stored away like cheeses and wines for some future occasion.
There would be no such future occasions for Maeve Lowri Jones.
He padded silently along Cerrigcochion Lane until he came to a modest home with a once-tidy garden. Despite the spring weather, the grounds were untended, although masses of tulips were blooming red and gold. The tall flowers had pushed their way through a thick blanket of last autumn’s leaves. Aidan approached the door, adrift with yellowed newspapers, and listened intently, his head cocked to one side in doglike fashion. His supernatural hearing easily detected labored breathing coming from a second-floor bedroom.
He passed through the door and headed up the stairs. The old woman was in her bed but not asleep. She started when she saw the giant canine, then unexpectedly smiled.
“Ah, ’tis you. I wondered when you would come. It’s been harder and harder to get meself up in the mornings lately, and today, well, I found meself just too tired.” She studied him with watery blue eyes. “My, aren’t you a strapping big fellow? If my little terrier were still alive, he’d be like to bark his head off. Come closer, won’t you? Let me get a good look at you.”
This had never happened before—most mortals greeted him with fear, loathing, sorrow, or even anger. Instead, Maeve crooked her gnarled fingers on the quilts, and Aidan didn’t hesitate. It seemed like the rig
ht thing to do, the human thing to do, though he was on four legs. He approached the narrow bed and rested his great head next to Maeve, firming his spectral form until he was as solid as any mortal dog. He nuzzled his way beneath her hand so her fingers rested on his broad forehead.
“Aye, there’s a good dog. There’s a fine fellow. You can keep an old woman company fer a bit before she passes. When I was a girl, me mam spoke of the gwyllgi sometimes when she told me stories of the Fair Ones.” Maeve’s weak fingers rubbed little circles around the base of his ear. “She’d seen a grim come fer my nainie afore I was born. Afraid of it, she was, but I always liked the idea. Seems fair that you get a little warning when your time comes.”
Aidan wished he had the power of speech, but Maeve seemed content to do the talking. Her words were English with a charming Welsh seasoning—few people in this time spoke the language Aidan had been born to—but had she used any other tongue, he would have understood her just as well. As a grim, he’d been exposed to many languages over the centuries and knew them all well.
“You know, we used to leave yn cynnig, an offering, on the back porch for the Tylwyth Teg,” she said. “We were taught to show respect to the Fair Ones, so they wouldn’t be playing tricks on our farm. They love pranks, the Fair Ones do, even cruel ones. Yet quick they were to reward people for generosity and unselfishness. They punished the greedy and the mean spirited. Seems to have kept the balance in the world somehow.” Her fingers were barely moving on Aidan’s dark head, and her voice became softer. “It’s different now, ya know. The older I get, the less balance there seems to be. Some say it’s because people stopped believing in the Fair Ones, although I don’t know as you have to believe in a thing to make it real. You don’t believe in the sun, it still shines, now, don’t it?”
He nuzzled her arm to indicate his agreement, and she seemed satisfied.
“Some say the church ran them off, but it would have to admit the Fair Folk existed afore it could do such a thing,” she chuckled. “’Sides, the Tylwyth Teg are old, far older than men. Seems they must have a place in the way of things, else they wouldn’t be here.” Her hand moved to Aidan’s neck, grasping weakly in an attempt to ruffle the thick mane of black fur. “Glad I am that you came. Tells me there’s still a purpose and a reason behind it all.”
Had he believed that once? He licked the old woman’s arm like the most faithful of dogs, even as he envied her outlook. She smiled and closed her eyes.
And she was gone.
FOUR
A faint vibration in the links of Aidan’s silver collar warned him that he should leave the mortal realm soon, but he ignored it. The magic couldn’t drag him away until dawn approached. Instead, he lingered at Maeve Lowri Jones’s bedside for a while. He hadn’t known Maeve, had never met her before, but it seemed to him that the world was poorer without her. And that his world had been better for a few moments because of her.
Finally, he went downstairs, his great black paws gliding silently over the steps as though he were a ghost. The empty place in Aidan’s chest pained him as he approached the front door. Rather than pass through it, he gazed intently at it until it opened wide. A chair slid across the floor and braced itself against the door to hold it in place. All the lights in the house came on at the same time, making the house a beacon in the approaching twilight. Maeve’s spirit had gone on, but Aidan was determined that her earthly vessel be found and properly cared for.
He padded down the leaf-littered sidewalk, deep in thought—until a sudden flurry of leaves gathered itself into a whirlwind. The column rose up and up, drawing more and more leaves from the lawn into the swirling vortex. Abruptly, it resolved itself into a dark figure he recognized from the fae realm: Lurien, Lord of the Wild Hunt.
Unlike most of the Fae, Lurien’s hair was as black as his riding leathers and hung in hundreds of long, loose braids. Whiplike strands escaped that seemed to have a life of their own. His eyes were dark with secrets and glittered with danger, and a strong jaw seemed to dare the world. No fine features here, no glamor or artifice to make himself appealing. It wasn’t necessary. His broad shoulders bore the weight of a power so strong that it buffeted the air surrounding Aidan with its presence alone.
Aidan stood his ground and growled deep, even as his fur rose along his spine. His black lips drew back to reveal fearsome white fangs, and he crouched ready to spring.
“Take your ease, grim,” said Lurien. “I have no quarrel with you. I pay honor to Maeve.”
Startled, Aidan hid his sharp teeth, though he remained at the ready.
“No doubt that seems strange to you, but she was a fine woman, one of the few mortals left in this land who still believed. Had you entered by the back door, you would have seen the bread and milk she placed outside yesterday night.” His voice was contemplative, as if he spoke half to himself. “It was all she had left in the house, the most unselfish of offerings. It cost her dearly to set it upon the step—I feared she wouldn’t be able to get back up and provided her an unseen hand. By the stars of the Seven Sisters, she thanked me. She could not see me but knew I was there. I have lived a long time, grim, but never have I been thanked by a mortal.”
The Lord of the Wild Hunt had shown kindness to an old mortal woman, been surprised by her, and now paid his respects to her as well. Aidan didn’t know what to make of such a thing. Celynnen would never have noticed the woman’s offering or her need, never mind actually thought to aid her in any way. Celynnen cared only about Celynnen. In fact, if any of the Fair Ones cared about anything other than themselves, he had not seen it.
“What Maeve said to you was quite true, of course. The Tylwyth Teg once kept the balance. Everything changed when King Arthfael was killed—more likely, it was changing before his death and none of us knew it. Queen Gwenhidw holds things together as best as she can, but the Nine Realms beneath this land have splintered like a broken mirror, every faction for itself. There is no unity, and little loyalty left in the kingdom. I wish for a return to the way things were, when the Tylwyth Teg were honorable and just in their dealings.”
He couldn’t help it. Aidan chuffed at the word just.
“You should wish for such too,” chided Lurien. “You live a life of servitude, forcibly indentured to Celynnen. Nearly a thousand years have passed since she spirited you away, and she still does not comprehend that you will never give in to her. You do not understand that a millennium means nothing to an immortal.
“Therefore you have no hope. I, on the other hand, have some hopes of my own, and I would do us both a favor. I have a proposal.”
Traffic cast bright beams of light along the street beyond as Aidan studied Lurien’s face. The fae’s black gaze was steady—his eyes still promised danger but not necessarily deception. Perhaps it was merely an artful ruse, but what if it was? Aidan had already lost all that he cared about. His family, his siblings, his friends—what few he could remember when he was in the mortal world—all were lost to the dust of time. And none of them had recalled his face or his name. Aidan had left behind no lineage, no legacy—nothing. As Celynnen had declared, he had ceased to exist. The animal sound that emerged from his throat was a cross between anguish and anger. Lurien frowned. “You have been too long without words, and I care not to hear only myself. Speak as a man speaks,” he commanded.
The canine flews that covered Aidan’s teeth moved strangely, trying to mimic human lips. The voice was not his own—how could it be, coming from a hound’s throat? But the forceful words came straight from his heart. “Send me back! Send me back from whence I came!” roared Aidan, springing at the tall fae and knocking him to the ground as easily as a large wolf might take down a deer. He planted his massive front paws on either side of Lurien’s perfect face and snarled savagely. “Send me back!”
The close view of long, sharp teeth failed to make Lurien flinch. “Only Celynnen could do that, as a member of the royal house,” he said calmly, as if a monstrous canine weren’t a breath away
from tearing out his throat. “They alone have the power to affect time. And as I said, she will never let go of you.”
An invisible force struck Aidan squarely in the chest like a battering ram, knocking him nose over tail to the far side of the yard and pinning him there. The dark fae rose gracefully from the grass as if he’d only been resting. Not a single midnight hair was out of place, yet he made a show of straightening his leather tunic. No sooner had he done so than the force that had slammed into the great black dog abruptly released him.
Aidan stumbled forward. He braced his front legs, head lowered and teeth bared. The thick fur around his neck had stiffened like a lion’s mane with anger, but Lurien only laughed. It was not a merry sound. Something in the tone suggested the tolling of mourning bells, and it played along Aidan’s spine like an off-key dirge.
“You will not be the last of Celynnen’s acquisitions, and believe me, you are far from the first. And she has never freed any of her pets. Ever,” declared the fae. “You have lasted the longest, but do you truly think Celynnen will release you when she tires of you at last? They have all died, one way or another. Usually after the first bedding, in fact.”
“How do you know that?” Aidan hissed. “Do you kill them for her?”
Lurien snorted. “Celynnen prefers to do her own killing. She enjoys it, and you’ll find she is very inventive at drawing out her entertainment as long as possible.”
The remaining tension between Lurien and Aidan was shattered as a half dozen boisterous boys suddenly rocketed along the sidewalk on skateboards, their voices loud and raucous as they passed Maeve’s house. It seemed disrespectful to Aidan, even as he knew they could have no idea of her passing. They also had no idea that a monstrous grim and a dark fae observed their antics. Aidan was reminded anew that he was no longer part of the mortal world, and something about that cleared the last of the anger from his head.
