Storm Warrior g-1

by Dani Harper

  Immediately she could hear Rhys’s voice somewhere on the far side of the door. She could hear other voices too, but there was something odd about them, a crystalline quality, like broken glass beneath the rippling surface of a stream. The unnatural sound sent a shiver through her.

  Taking a deep breath, she sat with her back to the wall and reached over and turned the doorknob slowly, slowly, until the latch was free of the strike plate. She allowed the door to fall open a crack. Brilliant light blazed through the slender opening immediately. Her eyes could no more adjust to it than they could adjust to staring directly at the sun. She patted the upper pockets of the vest and thanked all the stars that her sunglasses were in one. Donning them with relief, she waited until she was sure the strange voices she heard weren’t immediately near the door. The entrance into the stable led first into the half-walled section where the feed and grain was kept. Praying that no one was looking squarely in her direction, she made her way through the door on her hands and knees. It was harder than she thought it would be—she still had a skillet and a poker to carry. Fred padded patiently behind her, apparently unaffected by the weight he carried and looking as if he wore quilted red vests every day of his life. She pulled the door to, so it would appear closed to any casual observers, then continued her awkward way over to that half wall that separated her from the open stable.

  Morgan edged along until she found a vantage point—a place where a large knot in the rough wood had split and fallen away. Here she could see and still remain hidden. But she was not prepared for what she saw and clapped her hands over her mouth to keep from making a sound.

  The light was coming directly from them—three tall, slender beings who were arguing with Rhys. They were breathtaking to look at, with fine, pale features and iridescent eyes that were blue one moment, then green, then violet. Shimmering white hair flowed over their shoulders, and their clothes were exquisitely made. There was no question who they were.

  The Fair Ones.

  Omigod.

  As she watched, the sword-wielding fae fell to the floor. The unearthly shriek of the female fae was as sharp and violent as a flood bursting through plate glass windows. It hurt Morgan’s ears but wasn’t nearly as horrifying as the sight of a faery dagger appearing in Rhys’s shoulder.

  As the female lunged for the wounded warrior, Morgan was over the wall. The male fae had glinting copper daggers in each shining white hand, ready to attack again if need be. Anger surged through Morgan’s system, coupled with stark fear for Rhys. Silently, she ran up behind the tall male and swung the iron skillet with all her strength. It smashed him in the back of the head and he fell to his knees. She drew the heavy pan back like a baseball bat, ready for another swing, but the luminous being swayed and fell forward onto his face. Morgan didn’t know if he was unconscious or dead—she’d never hit anyone before, much less a fae—and the surprise made her hesitate for a split second.

  Fred didn’t hesitate, however. He leapt onto her back, knocking her flat just as a pair of copper daggers struck the stable door above them. The dog’s momentum sent the red vest sliding off with a heavy clunk. Morgan jumped up into a crouch with one of the bookends cradled in her hand like a shot put. It was another middle school event in which she’d never excelled, but fury and adrenaline were giving her a massive boost—and the mocking fae was less than twenty feet away. The otherworldly creature was looking right at her, however, and Morgan automatically felt at her throat. Ranyon’s charm was gone, twine and all. It had probably fallen off after she crossed the yard. Great, just great.

  “You’re far too late, useless mortal,” laughed the fae. “I’ve already changed him.”

  The writhing form at the faery’s feet slowly blackened with an eruption of glossy fur even as his limbs flailed and altered before Morgan’s eyes. “No!” she screamed and threw the kitten-shaped bookend with all her strength. Her aim was true enough—but the female simply sidestepped it, and the iron thudded dully to the floor alongside the black shape that lay upon the wooden floor. The dog’s sides heaved hard as if from immense exertion, but otherwise, the massive canine didn’t move. His familiar golden eyes were open but unfocused.

  “He’s mine now.” The fae shoved at the mastiff with a finely made boot.

  Not even in your dreams, you bitch. Morgan could barely keep her hands from forming fists, and she fought to keep her rage and horror from her expression. Think, damn it, think. What would Nainie tell me to do? Every faery story she had ever read or heard indicated that she had to step carefully with these powerful beings. However, Nainie had said there were a few things that the Tylwyth Teg respected, and one of them was mortal generosity. Morgan hoped like hell it was true…

  “Well fought, my lady. Your cleverness is exceeded only by your beauty,” said Morgan, bowing slightly, her words deliberately courteous and deferential although she felt neither. She’d rather be pulling every glossy white hair from that creature’s skull than waste time being polite. “This man belongs to me, but perhaps I could make you a gift of something else. Please come inside, and we’ll discuss it over tea. You’ve had such a long journey. Allow me to offer you hospitality.”

  The fae’s glittering smile turned hesitant, a mixture of curiosity and confusion behind it. “You would invite me into your home?” she asked.

  A small figure suddenly dropped from the loft in a shower of straw. “They’re not deserving of hospitality,” Ranyon shouted. “The Tylwyth Teg don’t understand kindness or courtesy or even decency.”

  The fae sniffed. “What would an ugly little ellyll know of such lofty things?”

  “There was a time when the Wild Hunt would mete out justice upon the greedy, the slothful, and the heartless,” continued Ranyon, standing beside Morgan and pointing a twiggy finger at the fae. His Blue Jays cap had a cocky tilt to it, as if it too defied the Fair Ones. “And now you’re naught but bullies.”

  Morgan made a subtle shushing motion with her hand at Rhys’s eye level. “My offer stands,” she said to the fae. “It’s the least I can do. This rough stable is not a fit place for the Fair Ones. My house is humble, but it is clean, and you are welcome within its walls.”

  “There is still a matter of balance, of payment and satisfaction,” declared the female, and her otherworldly gaze sharpened on Morgan. “Surely, you are not disputing my right to this man?” The fae snapped a length of silvery rope from a hidden pocket and dropped it on the black furry heap beside her. Of its own accord, the rope slid around the neck of the inert black mastiff and dragged him to his feet. The enormous dog shook off his grogginess and erupted into blood-chilling snarls, baring his long fangs and lunging at his luminous captor. She didn’t move an inch. A cruel smile quirked her perfect lips as the silver rope yanked the animal back and forced him up on his hind legs, up and up, until the snarling jaws were level with her flawless face—yet neither teeth nor claws could reach her. “I think he looks better like this,” remarked the fae. “Don’t you?”

  Morgan’s heart squeezed hard enough to hurt as her eyes witnessed what her heart had finally been willing to believe. Rhys had indeed been Rhyswr, the dog who saved her life and whose disappearance she had mourned. The knowledge did her little good now, however. All of them were in imminent danger, and she had to choose her words carefully. “I desire to show respect to the Tylwyth Teg, yet as a healer, I cannot violate my sacred oath to protect mortal life, be it animal or human. Therefore, I cannot allow this man to be taken. In his place, I offer any and all of my belongings freely. My truck, my house, my farm…whatever possession you want.”

  “No!” Ranyon stood squarely in front of Morgan. “Have the Tylwyth Teg grown so poor that they must need rob mortals? Are ya thieves now as well as tyrants?”

  “Shut up, Ranyon!” she whispered through clenched teeth. To offend the Fair Ones could get both of them changed into dogs, or worse. Far worse, if Nainie’s stories were any indication. Morgan studied the shining being before her, unable to dis
cern her mood. Was she truly angry or just enjoying the drama? Nainie had once said the Tylwyth Teg suffered from eternal boredom, and mortals were one of their few sources of entertainment.

  “What need have we of your silly possessions?” The fae gave a dismissive wave. “Your little house? Your tiny piece of land? Shall we leave the splendor of our kingdom beneath the hills to till the soil above it?”

  “It is all I have to offer,” said Morgan, and bowed again for good measure.

  The female laughed, a cold slurry of crystal shards in arctic waters. “My dear foolish mortal, there are much better things to barter with. What will you give up for this man? Your beauty perhaps? Your youth?”

  In a move too fast to follow, Ranyon leapt astride Fred and charged the fae with Morgan’s poker in his hands like a lance. His target leapt aside, laughing, but the sound was abruptly cut short. The ellyll must have worked some magic upon the iron tool because it had sliced open the female’s upper thigh as he passed. Glistening droplets of pale-blue blood flew as the fae threw out her hand toward Ranyon. The hapless ellyll was hurled from Fred’s back and slammed against a wall with such force that the thick wooden planks cracked from the impact of the tiny body. He slid to the floor in a boneless heap, and Morgan was certain he was dead. Rhys, still bound by the silver rope to an upright position that strained his canine form, howled long and loud.

  Damn it. She held the tears inside—it wasn’t the time for them. Nothing was working, and the situation didn’t seem to be following any of the stories. Now she was facing a truly pissed-off fae, alone, with no idea of what to do. She could see the female’s smirk of triumph, knew the creature believed she had won. Morgan tried to keep her own face impassive even as her thoughts whirled frantically. She rested a shaking hand on Fred’s broad head, grateful he had returned to sit in front of her. Grateful he’d been able to do so, unlike Rhys or poor Ranyon. How long would it be before the fae tired of playing and simply destroyed them all with a flick of her elegant fingers?

  What would Nainie do? Morgan grasped the pendant through the material of her shirt for comfort—and suddenly she knew she had one more card to play.

  “I would offer a gift to Queen Gwenhidw,” she declared loudly, hoping not only that the faery queen of Nainie’s stories was still on the throne, but that she was pronouncing the name right.

  The female snorted. “What dirty little trinket could she possibly want from you?”

  “In exchange for Rhys’s freedom, for a promise that the Tylwyth Teg will consider all debts satisfied, I would give the queen this.”

  Morgan drew the pendant from its hiding place. She kept the long chain around her neck, but held the carved stone medallion up in front of her. In the living light of the fae, it began to glow. In moments, its fiery blue light had eclipsed hers utterly.

  “The Sigil!” hissed the female as she slowly sank to her knees, her gaze riveted on the medallion. The mocking smile had completely disappeared from her beautiful face. The silver rope she had used to bind the black dog slackened, and the great creature shook itself free. For a split second, Morgan thought he was going to savage his adversary, but instead, he bounded over to Morgan and planted himself squarely in front of her, alongside Fred.

  “I see you recognize this,” said Morgan, pretending she knew what the hell it was, although she hadn’t the faintest notion.

  A gasp came from her left, and she saw that the fae she had hit with the skillet had half risen from the straw. He too was staring at the medallion as if hypnotized by it. “Good lady, the Sigil has been lost to the royal house for many mortal lifetimes.” His voice was weak but full of wonder. “It is the symbol of their power, the seal of the realm itself. How came you by it?”

  “It has been guarded by my family for generations. My grandmother gave it into my keeping.”

  “It has been stolen by your family!” The female pointed a long delicate finger at Morgan, and her words fairly dripped with venom. “It is obvious now that your ancestor used her friendship with the queen in order to rob us of our greatest treasure! You have brought certain death upon yourself and a curse upon—”

  “I think not.”

  The new voice startled them all. Morgan glanced around until she spotted a pulsing bead of silver light hovering in midair. The light grew rapidly until a glittering being appeared in the midst of it. Both of the faeries quickly pressed their faces to the floor.

  Instinctively, Morgan knelt too. “Your Majesty,” she breathed. She had thought the faeries beautiful, but their appearance did not compare with the unearthly splendor of the queen of the Tylwyth Teg. Her flowing robes were both iridescent and luminous. They changed color so rapidly that to human sight, they were all colors at once. It was her face, however, framed by intricate braids and loops of silvery hair, which captured the eye and held it. It might have been made of exquisite porcelain, lit from within. She glowed, and her exotic eyes were unexpectedly kind as they turned to the mortal kneeling in the stable.

  “How lovely to meet a descendant of my dear friend Aylwen. We used to have such fun together. I am very pleased that you have taken good care of the Sigil, Morgan Edwards. I had given it to Aylwen for safekeeping.”

  “Why would you give something so important to a human?” Morgan blurted.

  The queen laughed prettily, with surprising warmth. “You are as curious as she was. There was an intrigue designed to usurp the throne. Had the traitors gained the Sigil, they might have succeeded. Aylwen smuggled it out of the kingdom for me, and while many searched for the Sigil, none of the fae suspected it might be in mortal hands. Your family has performed a valuable service to me, and I am in your debt.”

  There was a gasp from the female, who was still pressing her forehead to the floor. Queen Gwenhidw didn’t spare her a glance although her mouth quirked. “Yes, Daeria, you heard correctly. I am indebted to a mortal.”

  “But she is nothing!” hissed the fae, glancing up. “Humans are beneath us.”

  The royal smile disappeared. “In that, you are quite wrong. You defy me, as always, Daeria, and worse, you now defy our laws. You have summoned the Wild Hunt and taken them outside of our dominion, upsetting the balance between realms and causing chaos among innocents. Since you favor the Hunt so much, I decree that you shall join it.”

  A look of horror crossed Daeria’s face. She tried to speak, but her words were choked off as her body began to writhe and spasm, as limbs reshaped and reformed. In a matter of seconds, the beautiful fae’s perfect features were gone, and a lean white hound stood where she had been.

  From outside, a mournful horn sounded, as long and low as a winter wolf’s howl. The thunder and lightning ceased and the wind fell away until all was still and silent.

  “The Hunt returns to its rightful place,” said the queen. “And your place henceforth is wherever it goes.” The white dog fled the barn as if pursued by demons. Queen Gwenhidw turned her gaze to the other faery, who visibly trembled, without looking up from his prostrate position. “I see that you yet respect my authority, Tyne. To date, you have chosen your companions poorly, but perhaps without Daeria’s influence, you could learn to do better. I will have more to say to you later. For now, take the bodies of the fallen back to our realm, and do not return to this place again.”

  “As you command,” he said and vanished. The dead fae disappeared as well.

  Morgan removed the necklace at once and held it out to the queen. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know this belonged to you. I had only known it as my grandmother’s necklace.”

  Instead of taking it, the queen grasped Morgan’s hand and drew her to her feet. Rhys immediately placed his canine body in front of Morgan protectively, his eyes wary and watchful. Fred was at the ready as well.

  “I will take the Sigil after accounts are balanced,” said the queen. “What may I give you in return, Morgan Edwards?”

  “Rhys’s freedom.”

  “This is all you ask?”

  Morgan nodde
d, hoping against hope that the queen would agree. The faery ruler appeared benevolent, but appearances could be deceiving, particularly when dealing with the Tylwyth Teg. And Morgan had no doubt that this being was far more dangerous than those who had threatened her earlier and the entire Wild Hunt combined.

  “I could fill this building with wealth until gold and silver poured from the loft overhead. All for you. You could be famous on every continent, beautiful and sought after until the end of an extended life.”

  “Thanks, but Rhys is worth far more to me.”

  Queen Gwenhidw smiled. “True love always is. You shall have what you seek.”

  The monarch placed a hand on Fred’s head and scratched his ears. “You’re a handsome fellow, but I think Morgan has already made you happier than anything I can do for you.” Her hand then rested on Rhys’s broad black head.

  “We have not treated you well, have we?” the queen asked Rhys. “I cannot change that, but I can release you.”

  In an instant, the black dog was gone, and Rhys stood, tall and strong, in its place. The wound in his shoulder had vanished as well.

  “Thank you, your Majesty,” said Morgan and bowed. Rhys inclined his head slightly as well but said nothing.

  “You have no thanks for me?” asked Queen Gwenhidw.

  “Two millennia of service seems gratitude enough,” he replied.

  Morgan was horrified, but the queen simply laughed. “Well said, and so it is.”

  The ruler put out her hand—the long, slender fingers were adorned with many rings that chimed together—and Morgan placed the necklace in it. There was a pang in her heart as she did so. It was still Nainie’s necklace to her, but her grandmother would no doubt have approved of the transaction.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The necklace vanished from the queen’s palm and reappeared around her willowy neck. Every jewel glowed vibrantly in its silver setting, and the medallion shone as brightly as Queen Gwenhidw herself. “No one from our realm will trouble either of you again,” she said. “And I will do my utmost to set to rights all that has been disrupted by Daeria. However, I will reserve the right to send gifts to you whenever I please, in remembrance of Aylwen. I have missed her sorely these long years.”