by Holley Trent
Just at the end of the dark tunnel, she narrowed her eyes and let her pupils adjust to the light, albeit dim, of the forest.
“Forest. So, that’s one thing right.”
She turned slowly to right to scan for the cottage. At the same time she stepped on a twig, startling herself with the cracking sound, a low growl mumbled from nearby.
Oh shit.
Swallowing hard, she patted her bag blindly and tried not to make any sudden movements. She didn’t want to turn to see what was making that noise. If the beast was large enough to eat her and she was going to die anyway, she preferred not to see it coming.
Somehow, she managed to find the opening of her purse and slid her hand in.
The growl was closer, and feet dragged through the thick layer of leaves on the forest floor.
Her fingers wrapped reflexively around the gun butt and she sucked in a bolstering breath.
Where is it?
If her ears were as good as she hoped, the growling thing was behind her and to her left.
“You know, if you’re thinking about eating me,” she said in what she hoped was a soothing tone, “I probably don’t taste very good. My mother says all I’m skin and bone anyway, which isn’t true. I’m actually ten pounds over my goal weight. I gave up my gym membership last quarter because the stationery bikes were always full. I might buy one.”
The forest went eerily quiet for a while—maybe a minute—and then came another low, short growl.
She dragged her tongue across her dry lips and tightened her trip on the gun. “Just so you know, I’m not running because I know trying to escape is pointless. You could probably catch me in ten seconds or less.”
And she certainly didn’t want whatever it was to run into that tunnel. That line of thought made her wonder how, precisely, portal keys like Simone, Katie, and Fergus kept critters from entering those open-ended temporary tunnels they made. Permanent portals had gateways that could only be opened by people meeting qualifications prescribed by the portal maker. For instance, most of the tunnels Fergus made could only be opened by people with fairy ancestry. That had apparently been Rhiannon’s idea, and a rare good one in Heath’s opinion.
“You can walk away and I won’t think badly of you,” she said to the animal. “It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone you changed your mind. You don’t have to worry about losing your street cred, you know?”
No response from the beast.
Taking a bracing breath, Dasha turned about ninety degrees to her right and caught sight of the big, furry animal in her periphery.
Jesus.
The creature had to be a couple hundred pounds at the very least, and was long and far broader than any canine she’d ever seen.
Wolf? She didn’t know where the part of the realm she was in corresponded to in regards to Earth geometry, but she wasn’t sure they had wolves in the general region Ethan’s family came from.
She considered her options. She could wait until the wolf got bored and went away, which she didn’t have time for given her deadline of under an hour. She could fight—try to fire a few bullets and keep the wolf from entering the portal, but she didn’t really like the idea of hurting an animal when she’d been the one trespassing in its territory. She could walk away and hope it didn’t follow. Or, she could keep talking to it. “Like a dumbass,” she muttered.
Being short on time, option one wasn’t going to fly. Option four seemed about her speed, but she couldn’t do that for the same reasons she couldn’t do option one. Option two made her want to piss herself. So, she decided on option three combined with a little bit of four, hoping the talking would help abate her nervousness.
She turned the other way and found the stone cottage off to the left and the man-sized wolf crouched low and watching her from its perch atop the rock the portal sheared through.
Hollllly shit.
She cleared her throat and started walking toward the house’s stone path. “I just…need to go see a sick lady. Carrying a message from her son. Once I do my job, I’ll be out of your fur.”
The wolf followed, keeping a few feet of distance but certainly giving no illusions that it was going to give up pursuit.
“You see, a lady…well, a goddess, I guess, stopped by earlier and told him his mother was sick. Since he can’t come here, I said I’d bring the message. He’d probably do the same for me if the tables were turned. The only reason I can be here is because I’m not a fairy. Whee.”
The wolf made a sound that was some mix of bark and huff.
“Everyone’s a critic,” she muttered.
The door of the cottage was ajar, and window curtains dancing in the slight breeze. The house was small—only slightly larger than Fergus’s little hut—and Dasha tried to picture Ethan ever having lived there. Being well over six feet tall, he had to duck to pass through many modern doorways. The one at the front of the cottage wasn’t much taller than Dasha.
“Probably a good thing fairies don’t have many children. I bet if Ethan had a bunch of siblings, they would have torn this house down with all the fighting. I mean, have you seen the guy? Eh. Maybe you haven’t. I don’t think he comes home very often. That’s sad. I can see my parents whenever I want, and I haven’t gone the best job of taking advantage of that.”
She was right at the moss-covered doormat with the wolf several yards behind her. She was pretty sure she could jump into the house and quickly shut the door on him, so to prepare for the act, she crept forward a little more while continuing her soothing conversation with the wolf.
“I’ll go see them soon after I get back,” she said and stepped onto the mat. “I don’t have a good excuse not to. They’re right up the coast in Currituck, and I know my dad has wanted me to help him clean out some of my old junk from the garage. I keep putting the chore off, but I’ve gotta do better, you know?”
Her toes were right at the threshold.
“Daddy…um…should be able to park that old junky car he keeps promising to fix up in the garage if he wants to. I need to get my crap out first.”
One, two, three, go.
She jumped into the house, closed the door, and then quickly closed and locked the windows.
“Jesus.” Clutching her chest, she took a moment to get her bearings. The kitchen, dining space, and living area were all cramped into one compact square, like in most two-room houses. Cluttered with rustic, wood-hewn furniture and antique appliances, the cottage had the same homey appeal of Fergus’s place and the same lack of modern conveniences. “Rhiannon really dropped the ball on getting the kingdom caught up to the times. Sheesh.”
The door to the second room was open, and the room was dark. Mrs. Gotch might have been resting. Dasha certainly didn’t want to disturb her if she was, but she had to take a look to be sure. She wouldn’t just toss Ethan’s note onto the table and flee without trying to connect. She could do a little better than that for Ethan’s sake.
She walked softly to the room, calling out quietly, “Mrs. Gotch?” as she went.
“Who is there?” came the thready voice.
She’s awake.
Dasha’s heart stuttered and she put her hand over her chest. “Oh. My name is Dasha. I…I brought a note from your son. From Ethan. He couldn’t come, but I could.”
“Ethan?”
Dasha paused in the doorway and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darker room. She made out the slight form of a woman curled beneath the covers of the massive bed. The hulking wooden thing with its posters and canopy made her look small, and if there was one thing Dasha had yet to see, it was a tiny Sídhe. Simone was short compared to her peers, but even she was close enough to average human height.
Dasha swallowed again and fondled the end of her scarf that had come loose. “Yes. I don’t know if you know, but Rhiannon had some spell cast over the realm and no outsiders can visit without triggering security, I guess. I don’t have any magic, so I don’t hit her radar.”
“Come clos
er. To the side, here.” Mrs. Gotch patted the bed’s edge. “I can’t turn my head.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Dasha moved slowly to the left side of the bed, rooting Ethan’s note out of her pocket as she went.
“Sit.” Mrs. Gotch patted the bedside again, so Dasha sat and tried not to stare.
The woman was emaciated. Her skin was sallow, the hollows beneath her dim green eyes dark, and her white-blond hair was thin enough to expose her veiny scalp. Cancer immediately came to mind, but Sídhe weren’t susceptible to such ailments. Supposedly.
“She…said you’d recover.” The words rattled off Dasha’s tongue unbidden—without any approval from her brain. Her filter had been unhinged during the trek through the tunnel, apparently.
Mrs. Gotch lowered her eyelids. “I will. Who is she?”
“You mean, who said you’d recover?”
“Yes.”
“Mielikki. She stopped by earlier at the place where I’m visiting. In North Carolina. You know, in the other realm.”
“Is that where Ethan is?” Mrs. Gotch’s voice was feathery and weak, but she seemed wakeful enough.
“Yes. He’s been there for…oh, going on six months, I think.”
“He has a home there?”
“Home? Well, I think he and the rest of the crew have the closest thing to one they’ve had for a long time. They seem to think of their new digs as a home, anyway.”
“He’s still with Heath, then?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, good. I’d heard that Heath… That he…”
“Defected? Yeah. He and the rest of the crew. They’re still together. I guess getting word from him is rare. Ethan hasn’t visited in a while, huh?”
“Visiting is hard…with things being—” Mrs. Gotch paused to pull in a breath. Something in her chest rattled, and the tugs on her lips from her grimace made the skin crack and bleed. “How they are.”
Shit.
Dasha rooted in her purse and found one of the five or six unopened tubes of lip balm she carried around like true cosmetics hoarders did. She broke the seal, popped the cap, and turned the base to push the product up.
“He sent you a note.” She dotted the balm across Mrs. Gotch’s lips, then set the tube on the nightstand. “You can read it whenever you have the strength. I don’t know what he said.”
“Read it to me, dear.”
Dasha gave her head a slight shake. “I…I’m sure whatever he had to say was personal. I don’t want to intrude.”
“Give me the note.”
At the sound of the unfamiliar male voice, Dasha started, and whipped her head toward the open window across from her.
A shirtless man with hair streaked half blond and half brown leaned onto the casement. She couldn’t tell how old he was—she could never tell with fairies—but if he wasn’t Ethan’s father, she would have eaten her flip-flop. Same tall foreheads. Same proud noses. Same masculine chins.
“Don’t clam up now,” he said. “You’ll talk to a wolf, but you won’t talk to an old man?”
Dasha gulped for the umpteenth time in ten minutes. “I guess you’re referring to yourself as the old man.”
“I am.”
“You saw me talking to a wolf?”
“I was the wolf.”
“Huh?”
He drummed his fingers on the windowsill and bobbed his thick eyebrows. “I guess Ethan didn’t tell you about me.”
“Well, in his defense, he can’t really be blamed for that. You’re…a werewolf?”
“No. Just a fairy who can change shapes as necessary.”
Dasha forced her mouth closed before she inadvertently caught a few flies.
“Didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said, “but I didn’t know what was going to come out of that tunnel. Tunnels don’t generally show up here like that unless Rhiannon’s dragged Fergus out of his cottage so she can come treat us to a chat.”
Mr. Gotch said “chat” in such a way that hinted that Rhiannon’s chats were the exact opposites of treats.
“Um. Fergus’s granddaughter made the tunnel. She’s waiting on the other end. I don’t have a lot of time and have to run back before it closes. I hope they’re not fighting off a bunch of fairy forest squirrels on the other end.”
Mrs. Gotch let out a quiet laugh.
“Here.” Dasha slipped the letter to Mr. Gotch, who took it and immediately moved away from the window.
“Fergus’s granddaughter…made the portal, you said?” Mrs. Gotch asked in a halting whisper.
“Mm-hmm. I stopped in to visit with her a couple of days ago. We’ve been friends since college.”
“She didn’t know…she was…”
“A fairy? No. Big surprise for both of us, I assure you.”
“I imagine.” Mrs. Gotch reached for the end of Dasha’s garish scarf and fondled the corner between her fingers.
“The pattern’s ugly but, believe it or not, the scarf is real silk. I can’t resist picking one up whenever I pass by a scarf rack in a department store.”
“It’s lovely.”
“I think your eyes might be bad, but if you really like this thing, you can have it.”
Mrs. Gotch gave no verbal response, but her soft smile prompted Dasha to undo the scarf’s knot and pass the length of silk over to her.
Mrs. Gotch clutched the scarf in one weak fist and let her eyelids droop.
What’s wrong with her?
Mr. Gotch entered the room wearing only a pair of breeches and clutching Ethan’s note in one large hand. Blank-faced, he looked from Dasha, to his wife, back to Dasha, then cleared his throat. “You might have told us you were his mate.”
“Mate?” Dasha scowled. “I…”
Damn it, Ethan.
She shifted uncomfortably on the bedside and let her lips sputter. “Um. I didn’t see where that information was relevant.”
“Oh, good,” Mrs. Gotch said mysteriously without opening her eyes.
“You could have said something,” Mr. Gotch said.
“I guess, all things considered, I didn’t think telling you was pressing. After all, that wasn’t the reason I came here, and…I guess I didn’t want things to get awkward.”
“Why would things be awkward?” Mr. Gotch furrowed his brow. “Do you not accept him as your mate?”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
“That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve decided you’ll refuse him. Why would you? I know he’s rough around the edges, but he can’t help the way he is. He can’t help being what he is.”
Dasha groaned inwardly and rubbed her eyes.
Really digging a hole for myself here.
“Listen. Really, you’re jumping to conclusions. I haven’t refused him, exactly. The thing is, I’ve only known that I’m supposed to be his mate for the past couple of days, and I’m still trying to figure out what that means.”
“Should be obvious what that means, dear. You’ll live as man and wife. That’s simple sociology.”
“I understand that’s how the thing is supposed to work in theory, but, the problem is…I’m plain-old human. We don’t pair off like that.”
Mr. Gotch nodded knowingly. “Right. Right. You do that odd courtship thing. You waste a lot of time when you could just save your energy and accept the inevitable.”
“Okay, but staying together isn’t always inevitable with us. We find who’s best for us through trial and error, and usually, we make a lot of errors before we find The One…assuming we ever find him or her.”
Mrs. Gotch gave the hem of Dasha’s tank top a tug, so Dasha turned to her.
“Yes?”
“Maybe you don’t…know, but…he does.”
“You sound so sure of that.”
“You said your friend is of the Sídhe,” Mr. Gotch said. “Didn’t she explain to you what our mates mean to us?”
“Well, yes, but it wasn’t quite love at first sight for her and Heath, either. Her magic was suppressed.”
“Your friend—Fergus’s granddaughter—is Prince Heath’s mate?”
“Uh. Yeah?”
Mr. Gotch swore under his breath.
“I guess you didn’t get word of that, huh?”
At the slight movement on the bed behind Dasha, Mr. Gotch said, “Don’t try to get up, sweetheart, shocking as that morsel is.”
Mrs. Gotch sighed and put her head back down.
“We don’t get word about much way out here,” Mr. Gotch said. “This was the farthest away from Rhiannon that we could get without magical assistance, and even that doesn’t stop her from visiting on the rare occasion. We’d heard from a peddler who made his way through a few months ago that Prince Heath had married, but he didn’t give any specifics. All he knew was that Rhiannon was even angrier about the bride than anyone would have expected. I certainly understand why now. Of all the people he could take for mate, she—what’s her name, dear?”
“Simone.”
“Ah. Simone. Katie’s daughter Simone would certainly have been a slap in the face from the gods.” He chuckled. More than chuckled, actually. He doubled over at the waist and could hardly catch his breath from the laughter.
Mrs. Gotch laughed as well, but in the halting, breathless way of the sick, and not of the hale and hearty.
“Just goes to show you that the gods have a sense of humor after all,” he said.
“Well, good thing they actually love each other, at least,” Dasha said.
“Of course they do.” Mr. Gotch straightened up and wiped tears of laughter from his cheeks. “I don’t doubt that for a second. That’s the way matches are supposed to shake out. It may seem at times like the gods are pulling the puppet strings and far too often they get tangled, but the sane ones tend to think these things through much farther in advance than you could imagine. The Fates put a thumbprint on you from the time you were born marking you as Ethan’s.”
“You don’t think that sounds weird at all?”
He shrugged. “I’m a fairy.”
