by Dani Harper
Brooke looked back only a couple of times on the way to the house. “You’re not worried?” she finally asked.
“When the guys are practicing for the Ren fair events, there’s always a lot of excess testosterone in the air. A guy’s temper can get pretty hot, especially if he’s just gotten knocked on his ass in a joust. So, hey, I don’t even pay attention much anymore. If someone’s bleeding, I’ll take a look at it. Otherwise, it’s their problem.”
They could hear the sounds of struggle, the curses, and the shouting subside by the time they neared the house. “See? Better already,” said Morgan. She glanced over at a paddock and stopped. “Hey!” she suddenly yelled, and jogged over to the gate. “Cygnus, what are you doing in there?”
Brooke looked up just as a big white draft horse raised his enormous head. Morgan looked tiny next to him, but she scolded him as if he were an errant puppy. She tugged at his halter, and Brooke expected her efforts to be as effective as pulling on an ocean liner’s mooring ropes. Incredibly, however, Cygnus allowed himself to be led, following Morgan easily and amiably.
He was even bigger close up. “Holy cow, Morgan, he’s…he’s…” She had no words as the great white beast loomed over her, regarding her with intelligent brown eyes that were both calm and full of mischief. His head alone probably weighed as much as she did.
“I named him Cygnus, Latin for swan, because of his color,” explained Morgan. “He’s young, so he’s not full grown yet, but he’s going to be our herd sire.” She patted his wide neck with her free hand. He snorted and stomped the ground with one of his dinner-plate-sized hooves, then bent his head to nose Fred. The mastiff wagged his tail. “And Cygnus sure seems to want the job. He keeps jumping into that paddock and cozying up to a couple of mares we have in there, whether we want him to or not.” Just then, a black-on-black pickup entered the farm’s laneway.
“Finally,” said Brooke. “It’s about time George—”
Without warning, a thousand chimes, clangings, and rattles sounded at once, as though a hurricane had just blown through a hardware store. Cygnus flattened his ears, but to his credit, the steady beast stayed where he was, with Morgan clinging to his halter. Despite the tumult, the air was still as death, and the hair on the back of Brooke’s neck stood up. From the corners of her eyes, she could see that every strange addition to every mounted horseshoe in the vicinity was behaving as if it were alive. Coils of copper wire waved wildly. Bells shook themselves. Keys and gears and all sorts of metallic paraphernalia moved of their own volition, vibrating, scratching, banging against one another or the horseshoes they were tied to.
A magical alarm system had just been tripped.
Fred growled low in his throat and his hackles were raised all along his brindled back. Yet he wasn’t reacting to the noise. Brooke looked to Morgan for explanation, surprised to see how much her friend had paled. “What is it? Tell me what’s wrong.”
“One of the Fair Ones just crossed the property line.”
As the pickup neared the house, the cacophony died away, allowing the sound of pounding feet to be heard. Brooke turned to see the men arrive. Rhys’s mouth was a thin-set line, and he had an authentic sword in his hand. Held vertically, point down, the blade was hidden as Rhys quickly stood just behind Morgan. In a well-practiced move, Brooke saw him slip her friend a dagger, which she turned neatly in her palm so it was pointed towards her elbow and concealed by her arm. Apparently, they’d been through this drill many times before. Even more surprising, Rhys spoke a word to Cygnus as Morgan released his halter. The creature stood rock steady as if his great feet were glued to the spot.
Aidan placed a solid hand on Brooke’s shoulder as he stood close behind her and spoke in her ear. “Rhys says one of the fae is here. The charms are a warning.”
“Do you have a sword too?” she asked quietly.
“Aye. And my knife, and a fistful of iron filings and nails. Be ready to get behind me, cariad.”
The truck rolled to a stop, and George came bouncing out, grinning. “Hey guys, I made it! I meant to be here a whole lot sooner, but Felicia was tired so we stopped to rest for a bit.”
Brooke resisted the impulse to roll her eyes. Some rest. “You missed a great lunch,” she said instead. She noticed that the monstrous dog by Morgan’s side wasn’t looking at George at all. His entire attention was on the passenger side of the truck—and his lips had pulled back from his formidable teeth. No, she thought. It can’t be. No, no, no, no, no.
“I want you to meet my girlfriend,” continued George, as he jogged around the front of the truck to open the door for her. He brought the blushing, beaming Felicia around to the front of the truck like a footman presenting a queen, despite the fact that her T-shirt was on inside out and her hair was mussed. “Morgan, Rhys, I want you to meet—”
“Celynnen of the House of Thorn of the Tylwyth Teg,” she said, drawing herself up to her full height and dropping her glamor to reveal her true form. Her ethereal beauty burst out like the sun from behind a cloud, and George stood with his mouth open in apparent shock. Brooke was stunned too—she had never imagined the existence of such a glorious being. Celynnen seemed lit from within, her luminous white hair cascading over a gown that was the exact blue of a cold autumn sky, its hem and sleeves dusted with vivid golden leaves that seemed alive. Her iridescent eyes were her most arresting feature, however, so beautiful that it hurt to look at them, yet Brooke could not look away. The faery princess smiled then, a perfect smile, a radiant smile, one that could delight children and break hearts and awaken yearnings from solid rock. But there was no feeling behind it. No warmth passed into those incredible eyes, and that was what finally snapped Brooke out of her fascinated state.
“Oh, and did I mention, heir apparent to the throne of the Nine Realms,” the fae continued. Without missing a beat, she reached into the back of George’s T-shirt and seized a wide silver torc that looked to be made of chain mail. George made no move to pull away; he was still staring at her with wide-eyed disbelief.
“Recognize your collar, Aidan ap Llanfor?” she asked, and blew him a delicate kiss.
In less than the blink of an eye, Aidan grabbed Brooke and moved them both to one side in the same motion, as if the kiss had been a live round of ammunition. Perhaps it was. Brooke felt a tingle of magic pass by them.
“Now, now, it’s no fun for me if you move,” chided the faery. “You were never very good at games, Aidan. In fact, come to think of it, you weren’t very much fun at all. You could take a lesson from my darling George Santiago-Callahan. Isn’t that a grand name for an ordinary mortal? It rolls off the tongue just like honey.” Still retaining her grip on him, she looked at George and stroked his face with her free hand as if bestowing a loving caress. He didn’t resist in the least. “You and I have had a lovely time together, now, haven’t we?” He was barely able to nod. Apparently satisfied, she returned her attention to the little group, and Morgan’s dog began to bark at her.
Immediately, Brooke thought of the Moon, one of the tarot cards that she and Aidan had both drawn. The dogs on the card barked at the moon as if it were something evil to be kept at bay. The card had frightened Olivia, and Brooke felt fear now as she saw Olivia’s words embodied in the faery princess. Powerful magic is involved here, dangerous magic, deception, and hidden enemies.
All of them had their weapons out now, Brooke noticed, except for her. She had no dagger or sword, not even so much as an iron nail to throw. All she had was her magic—and what spell could she use that would be effective in such a situation? Her focus had always been on defense, and she hoped the medicine bags that she and Aidan were wearing were of some help, although they seemed pitiful indeed against such a magnificent being who was clearly not from the mortal plane. “Reach inside yourself for courage,” Olivia had said.
Courage Brooke had, but nothing else that she could see. Despite all her studies, her practices, her strict observation of the Code, and her respect shown to the d
eities who ruled the elements, Brooke Halloran felt completely helpless. She might be a powerful witch on her own turf, but here she was clearly out of her league. She had no idea how to protect George.
Or anyone else.
TWENTY-TWO
You left before the game was over, Aidan,” chided Celynnen. “You left before I was finished with you. That was rude. So now I’m making up a brand new game.”
George was a full-grown man who had won many bouts in the mixed martial arts ring, yet the tall faery lifted him by the back of the neck until his toes barely touched the ground and shook him like a rat being shaken by a terrier. And as if her sudden show of sheer strength wasn’t scary enough, her angelic face changed dramatically. Its cold and feral ferocity belonged more to a master predator than a goddess of unearthly beauty.
But she’s not a goddess at all, thought Brooke. She’s a creature masquerading as one. And she’s going to hurt George. To hold the Gift is to guard the helpless and to remove power from the cruel. Brooke knew she had to do something. The Ten of Pentacles had been in that tarot reading as well: a great risk was necessary, and it was up to her.
When all else fails, return to the basics. Intent was the key to magic, plus anything that could help her focus that intention. So what was her intention? What she really wanted to do was give Celynnen a helluva black eye, but that seemed a little vague. Somehow she had to create enough of a diversion for George to get away—the fact that the powerful faery was quite likely to kill her for her interference notwithstanding. There was no getting around the fact that once in a very rare while, so rarely that it was almost never mentioned, the Death card actually meant what it said.
A black eye…In one of his first bouts, when his career had barely begun, G had come out of the ring unconscious with a pair of shiners. He’d laughed about it later, of course, even though the purple swelling around his eyes seemed to take forever to go away. That guy’s punch was like being kicked by a mule. Out of the periphery of her vision, Brooke studied the big white horse that towered over Rhys and Morgan, and she imagined several of the enormous beasts kicking Celynnen full in the face—and instantly, Brooke knew what her intent was going to be.
“George and I are going to have that delightful weekend getaway in Seattle, just as he planned for us,” continued Celynnen, beaming her perfect smile and obviously enjoying herself. “Then I’m going to treat him to a little trip to the faery realm. He won’t be coming back, of course. Unless…” She looked squarely at Aidan.
“Seven days, Aidan ap Llanfor. You have one mortal week to surrender yourself to me as a willing lover, or George will wear your collar in your place as a grim. That is, after I finish playing with him.” Hanging limply in Celynnen’s grip like a puppet, G was helpless to resist. His friends were helpless too, unless…Tears stung Brooke’s eyes as she fought to plan a way to beat back the monster that held her dearest friend.
Without warning, Celynnen flung George forward onto the ground as if he’d been nothing more than a crumpled tissue. He lay unmoving, clutching the silver chain mail with both hands as if the torc had tightened around his throat. His eyes had rolled back in his head so only the whites could be seen. “Of course you know what a grim looks like, don’t you, dear Aidan? But for the benefit of your new friends, here’s a little preview.”
George began to writhe on the ground, gasping and choking as his eyes bulged. His fighter’s muscles contorted horribly, and bones began to shift beneath his tanned skin. Brooke was grateful that Aidan had placed his tall, powerful body in front of her. Not only did it shield her from Celynnen’s direct view; it prevented Brooke from seeing more of what was happening to G—and right now, she needed every bit of her concentration to be of any help to him. Quickly, Brooke slipped out of her sandals and stood on the ground in bare feet. Reciting a spell in her mind, she summoned every ounce of magic she could muster from within herself, even as she knew it was far from enough. The farm itself should have been a veritable hotspot, a deep reservoir of the earth’s power, but the power was largely blocked from countless wardings against faery magics. Nevertheless, she drew what she could through the ground and into her body through the soles of her feet. She held her hands over her ears to block George’s moans as he made his slow and painful transformation. Tears fell free as she half closed her eyes, acting as if she couldn’t bear the sight—which wasn’t far from the truth.
In reality, however, Brooke was looking everywhere, making note of every iron horseshoe within her field of view. There were dozens upon dozens of them, all of a size fit for mighty warhorses like Cygnus. But she still needed more power, dammit, or her plan would never work. Where could she possibly find more?
As if he’d heard her, Aidan brandished his sword in front of him to keep the faery’s attention even as he slid his free arm behind his back, his hand reaching for hers. “Take it,” he breathed. “Take whatever magic I have, even if it means my life. Understand, cariad? She must be stopped.”
What he had was considerable. Brooke grasped his big strong hand, and fought to stand still as a torrent of magic simply flowed into her from Aidan’s fingers. It blended seamlessly with her own and that of the earth, and suddenly her vision came back to her full force. Not the rain-soaked sexual heat, but something else, the underlying revelation she had missed. Sex had united them, certainly, but it was merely the physical expression of something much bigger. It was the magic that truly merged them, as they were merging now. Synergy flowed freely, blending body and soul into something greater and grander and more potent than she could have imagined. Brooke drew the power as if it were the string of a bow, drew it back to its farthest point…
And let it fly.
With a sound like a thunderclap, every iron horseshoe within a hundred yards instantly tore loose from its moorings and slammed into Celynnen. The impact was horrific. Blue blood spattered in every direction as fae flesh tore and bone shattered. The wounded faery sank to her knees, keening in pain and terrible rage, her flawless features ravaged beyond recognition.
Brooke didn’t know if the Tylwyth Teg could die, but Aidan was taking no chances. He ran at the downed creature with upraised sword, and Rhys was barely two strides behind him.
Without any warning, both of them were knocked backwards as if they’d struck an invisible wall. A tall man, in sable leathers and long black hair, suddenly appeared beside the fallen Celynnen. His eyes were dark and dangerous, but it was the sheer power that radiated from him that made Brooke’s heart sink to her shoeless feet. He was obviously fae, and that probably meant they were all dead. Brooke had spent every last molecule of magic she had, making it impossible for her to even light a candle, never mind deflect whatever this being was about to do to them.
Strangely, the dark fae paid no attention to any of the humans. Instead, he regarded the horribly wounded Celynnen, who was kneeling crookedly with her ruined face in her broken hands and listing to one side. Her keening had given way to strange rasping sounds, as if she were having trouble breathing.
“I seem to have caught you at a bad time, princess,” he said. His voice was hard and businesslike, as if her ghastly condition mattered not at all. “But this is more important than your latest game.”
“There is nothing more important than the game, Lurien,” she wheezed, and blue blood ran between her fingers. “And no one has ever played it as well as I do.”
“There was a Draigddynion scale found in your dress. How came you by it?”
Incredibly, the princess began to laugh. Hideous and hissing, bereft of the musical lilt it had once had, there was no mirth in her laughter. Slowly, painfully, she removed her hands and gazed up at all of them with a mocking nightmare smile of broken teeth, the torn lips smeared lopsidedly over her unrecognizable face. “You foolish lackey,” she jeered at the man who had questioned her. “How came you by the scar on your chest?”
She laughed madly then, clawing at the wounded skin on her face, tearing it away in jagged strip
s to reveal scaled reptilian features beneath it. Only one eye was still open, but it was no longer the beautiful iridescent eye of a fae princess. It was green like a cat’s, with an elliptical pupil. A dragon’s eye.
Lurien appeared horrified. “What have you done with Celynnen?” he demanded.
The creature cackled louder then. “I am Celynnen, you ridiculous excuse for a hunter,” she wheezed. “You knew my mother, Drysi. A full-blooded tywysoges, in direct line for the throne—but Gwenhidw and Arthfael were never going to leave it. Drysi allowed herself to be bedded by the king of the Draigddynion, who promised to put the crown on her head.
“He was far more clever than that, of course. He had her killed, so that I, the true daughter of both realms, would rule the entire kingdom as its rightful queen.”
“You were the ninth assassin,” he breathed. “Murderer of the king. But you leapt into the chasm…”
“So you thought, just as I thought I had killed you. Surprise.” She coughed and dark-blue blood coated her chin. “I gained a ledge below just as I had practiced, and reentered the palace as Celynnen, tywysoges and heir apparent to the throne. Fair and beautiful and perfect. Known by all and suspected by none. Your search was pointless.”
“So is your quest for the throne.” Lurien drew his sword in a flash of obsidian, but he was too late. The creature that had been Celynnen screamed shrilly as smoke suddenly began pouring from every wound, from every orifice. A flash of orange light enveloped her, illuminated her hideous features for a brief second—
And she was gone. The fae used the tip of his black sword to stir a pile of white ash that lingered on the ground, his face unreadable save for a slight glint of moisture at the corner of one eye. “Indeed, Celynnen,” he said quietly. “I never played the game as well as you. But then, we were never playing the same game, were we?”
