Delia laughed. “What else have you got there?”
I contemplated making a run for it with the laptop, but instead I flinched away and let her reach over the top of my hand to click through the other open windows. Her eyes scanned the ballad of Thomas the Rhymer—stolen away by the Faerie Queen and given a tongue that could not lie—and then moved to the website with the definition of “gallowglass”: a hired mercenary in ancient Irish history. Her eyes reflected the square of the monitor as she read. When she’d finished, she stepped back.
“I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s for a school project.”
I don’t know why that scared me so badly, but it did. It somehow stepped over the line of hinted-at strangeness to out-and-out malevolence. I considered my words carefully. “I think that would be like you telling me that you hadn’t met Luke before the music competition.”
Delia paused; it was her turn in this verbal chess match. “I think I have a promising search for your school project.” She leaned over me again, placed the cursor in the search engine box, and typed “how to free hostages.” She hit enter with a manicured nail.
I stared at the list of news articles and blog postings and remembered Delia handing me the phone earlier that day. She’d known what had happened to James, hadn’t she? And then she’d called his house to make sure I found out.
“He must be very badly hurt,” Delia said to the room in general. “I heard there was a tremendous amount of blood. If he’s still alive, he must not have much time.”
I wanted to close my eyes and ears, shut out her voice, pretend that in my increasingly weird life at least the diva aunt stayed the same. “What are you saying?”
Delia held out her hand. “Why don’t you give me Granna’s ring?”
I blinked up at her, jolted out of my bewilderment by the request. “No, I don’t think so. Granna wanted me to have it.”
“And it belongs with her now.”
“I said no.”
Delia’s hand snaked out and grabbed my wrist with surprising force; I gasped with pain as she gripped the ring with her other hand and ripped it off, tugging the skin up with it. She threw my wrist away from her and shoved the ring in her pocket. I stared up at her, the presence of Luke’s key burning against my skin, hidden by the collar of the light sweater I wore, afraid that she would somehow divine its existence and rip it from me as well.
“Now, you’re going for a walk,” she said, gesturing to the door that lead outside.
“Are you out of your mind?” I jumped up and retreated toward the living room, regretting that I’d chosen Dad’s study for my research. I guess I should have run faster, but I couldn’t shake the image of her as just my bossy aunt. “Mom!”
Delia grabbed my arm again, her fingers iron clamps. “She can’t hear you.”
I twisted and writhed, my skin burning under her grasp. “What do you get out of this?”
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re that stupid.” Delia dragged me unceremoniously toward the French doors. I should have been able to escape from her grasp, but her body was wiry and unyielding beneath her pink velour armor. It reminded me of the endless Cops episodes I’d watched at Granna’s, where they’d said people on highs had inhuman strength. “You’ve put everything else together, haven’t you?”
And just like that, everything snapped neatly into place. The room in Granna’s house where Delia had nearly died. The wet feet on Mom’s bed. Rye, the faerie hound, who had been in the family before I was born. This had started a long, long time before me. “Your life. They saved your life.”
“Don’t forget the best part,” Delia said, and she sang a perfect scale in the pristine voice that had netted her a record deal. “Do you think this voice was mine?”
I whispered, “It was Mom’s, wasn’t it?”
She shoved me hard, reaching for the door handle, and I moved to brace myself against the glass. Too late, I saw that the glass door was already open, and that she’d been reaching for the screen door handle instead. She’d shoved me so hard that I felt the screen give way and tear beneath my weight. I crashed down onto the brick patio, my head striking the ground. My vision throbbed and I gasped, “What do you want from me?”
Delia stared down at me, her eyes hard and glittering. “I just want you gone.”
She slammed the glass door; I heard the lock snick shut. I groaned, sitting up slowly, pulling my bare feet close to my body. As I did, I saw a little metal plate by the door. A twisted bit of black lay on it, still smoking. Thyme! She’d burnt thyme and then she’d thrown me outside.
I barely had time to think my friggin’ aunt betrayed me when I saw a brown-and-gold-haired faerie striding up through the back yard. A hundred Rye-dogs milled about his ankles—some lean as greyhounds, some huge as mastiffs, but all the same color as Rye.
Casting no shadow in the afternoon sun, the faerie was curiously difficult to see with the trees as a backdrop. He wore odd, tight-fitting clothing in varying colors of green and brown. The body of the jerkin and his leggings were made of leather, and the sleeves were made of something like suede or moss. Dried braids of grass were tied on the outside of each leg and hung in loose bunches at the cuff of each sleeve, like the frills on a Victorian costume or stuffing hanging from a scarecrow. He looked as if he had been made from the earth and could return to it just as easily, but his features had the same fearful symmetry as Freckle Freak and Eleanor, lending him otherworldly beauty.
His head was turning from side to side—he hadn’t seen me yet. I could have tried the door to the house, but I saw Delia on the other side, a massive malevolent presence. I hesitated a bare moment, and then leapt up and began to run. As I bolted across the yard, legs pumping, I was reminded of something Granna had once said: dogs only chase cats that run. But it was a little late to change my mind now.
When I cut across our yard into our neighbors’, darting around the maze of terra-cotta pots that dotted their yard, I heard a long, thin wail. It was a terrible sound even without knowing that it meant the hounds had begun their chase. A second later, white bodies burst through the brush, and I heard the shattering of pots. By then I was already into the hayfield beyond our neighbors’ yard, cool blades of grass crushing beneath my feet, the sight of the treelined road beyond the field giving me newfound speed.
The sun burned me as I scrambled through the waist-high timothy grass, casting a shadow that was pursued by one hundred bodies with none. That high-pitched wail came again, long and reedy, more bird-like than hound-like, and the bigger mastiff hounds began to cry low and melodic behind it. I tore my sweater off as I ran, feeling faster because of it.
But the hounds were gaining on me. There was no way I was going to make it to the road, much less to the cow pasture, before they caught me. I heard hay being crushed to the ground, close behind me.
I’m faster, I thought fiercely. Hounds are fast, but I’m faster.
And I was. I cleared the tangled brush in the ditch by the field and leapt onto the dappled road on the other side. The hounds were still behind me, not on top of me. My breath was beginning to tear at my lungs, and my knees were aching. My feet slapped hard against the asphalt, and I stole glances over at the cow pasture on my right, looking for anything I’d recognize from Una’s glowing vision of Thomas Rhymer. Up ahead was where I’d found Luke in his car that day; it had to be somewhere along here.
I glanced behind me and wished I hadn’t; a wall of white dogs filled the width of the road like an oncoming wave, and behind them, walking calmly, was that green-clad Hunter with the two-toned hair.
Please be there. Thomas Rhymer, be there. There was nothing saying that things would be all right once I found him in the cow pasture, but they would be. They had to be. Because I’d seen how close Una could get to the key, and I didn’t want to think of what one hundred hounds could do with their newfound midsummer power.
Gasping, I ran to the edge of the cow pasture, hoping at least for some iron barbed wire that
would slow the hounds down, but there was only a board fence. Damn our county codes for not allowing ugly fences. I clambered over the fence, more slowly than I would have liked, and suddenly, I saw the gentle slope of the cow pasture—the top of the hill from Una’s vision.
Behind me, hounds hit boards and some of the lighter ones cleared it in a single leap. In my head, I repeated again, firmly: I’m faster. I’m going to find Thomas. I’ll be safe then.
Up the hill I went, muscles groaning, and the hounds streamed after me. I just had time to see that there was a lumpy ring of mushrooms growing at the top of the hill before paws brushed against my leg. This is it.
I jumped into the ring, and there was silence.
No, not quite silence. It was as if I had just stuck a pair of earplugs in; the frustrated howl of the hounds had not gone away, it had just grown muffled and distant. I looked behind me, beyond the circle of mushrooms, and saw nothing but the broad field sloping gently down toward the road. If I squinted toward where I knew the hounds ought to be, I thought I could see vague smears of light and dark, imperfections in my vision.
“You certainly know how to make an entrance, don’t you? She has quite a retinue as well, though they’re a good deal less hairy than yours.”
I knew who I’d see before I turned. As in Una’s vision, Thomas the Rhymer had long, curly hair and eyes surrounded by laugh lines. He was long and skinny and wore a multicolored tunic, with dozens of buttons up the front, over a pair of close-fitting leather leggings. He looked up at me from his cross-legged perch on the ground, casting a long, long afternoon shadow that fell outside the mushroom circle.
I panted, relieved. “You’re here.”
He smiled at me, puzzled. “Of course I am. You are.”
“You know who I am?”
“Deirdre Monaghan. We all know your name now.” It was hard to imagine any harm coming from him. His words formed around broad Scottish vowels. “Even if I didn’t know your face, your ability to do that—” he gestured to the nearly invisible hounds circling the mushroom ring, “tells me who you are.”
I didn’t want to look stupid by asking him to clarify. I think he meant the fact that the hounds couldn’t pass into the circle. Or maybe he just meant the fact that I was being chased by a hundred of them. That was probably it.
“Is it true you can’t lie?”
“Yes. But, you know I’d say that if I could lie.” He shrugged and watched my long shadow; its edges shimmered as invisible bodies passed over the top of it, outside the circle. “Of course, I’ll let you look in my head if you like.”
It was tempting, but I didn’t feel like potentially adding the memories of a curly-haired prophet with a Scottish brogue to the ones I already had juggling around in my head. “I’ll take your word for it. Una—one of the Daoine Sidhe—told me I should talk to you, and showed me this place.”
“The Daoine Sidhe are not generally friendly with humans.” Thomas gestured to the ring of mushrooms. Aching with the effort of keeping the hounds out, I remembered the surge of power—the invincibility—I’d felt when I started Bucephalus’ engine, the darkness strong around me. If only the hounds had chosen to hunt me at night.
“But this was a good place to expect me to appear,” Thomas was saying as I dragged my attention back to him. “And it’s widely known that the Queen and I have had a falling out. Why do you think this faerie wanted you to talk to me?”
Inside, I felt a little prickle of dismay. “I was hoping it would be obvious.”
Thomas looked up at me, his fingers plucking absently at the grass by his legs. “So … what do you want to know?”
There were a thousand different possible answers to this question, but I went with the one that bothered me the most. “I want to know why she wants me dead. If she’d never messed with me, I would’ve never known what I could do.”
Thomas’ thin face was startled. “You think she wants you dead because you can do this?” He pointed to the hounds’ barely visible paws digging at the edge of the ring; my control of the circle was waning. “Child, your telekinesis is only a symptom of why she wants you dead. There are plenty of people out there who can move objects with their minds or set fire to a field without a match.”
I didn’t like the word symptom. Diseases had symptoms. “Symptom of what?”
“Didn’t you ever wonder at the coincidence, that you and the Faerie Queen should be in such proximity? That a host of faeries should suddenly be on your doorstep?”
I felt foolish. “I—uh—guess I just thought there were a lot of faeries.”
“They’re here because of you. Faeries aren’t like humans; Their realm and Their bodies don’t really have fixed locations, like humans.”
I seized the chance to look like I wasn’t clueless. “You mean how some of Them use the energy of a storm, or a person, to appear.”
Thomas nodded his approval; it made his curls bounce. I fought the urge to reach out and sproing one of them. “Exactly. Faeries are drawn to a certain sort of energy, and They move like satellites around that energy. The realm of Faerie centers around one person, the monarch—usually a human—who radiates that energy.”
It was starting to make sense, so I finished the thought. “So she kills anyone else who pulls Them like she does.”
He nodded. “And your telekinesis is just a side effect of that energy.”
“So, is she here? I mean, close to here? Or is she back in Ireland? I mean, she’s human, right? So she shouldn’t be pulled by my—what did you call it—my energy?”
“They call humans like you ‘cloverhands.’ You know, because clover draws faeries as well.” Thomas shook his head. “And no, she’s drawn to you, just as I am—the more time we spend in Faerie, the more we become like Them, and that means we’re attracted to the cloverhands. And yes, she’s close, and getting closer all the time, as you get stronger and as Solstice gets closer. She won’t be able to avoid manifesting in your presence as soon as the veil is at its thinnest.”
It was a terrifying thought; I pushed it to the back of my head for later contemplation. “Does that mean that Luke Dillon was drawn to me, too? You know who he is, don’t you?”
Thomas’ eyes were grim, incongruous with the laugh lines around them. “The Queen’s gallowglass? Everyone knows who he is. And no, he doesn’t live in Faerie, so he’s not corrupted like the other humans in Faerie are. We live with the faeries to keep from dying, but doing so gives us their weaknesses as well. Luke Dillon doesn’t need to live among Them to stay young like I do—he cannot grow old.” His face was troubled. “There is rumor that he loves you.”
I swallowed.
“And that you love him. That’s a fool’s game, child.”
“I didn’t choose to.” My voice was unintentionally frosty. “I didn’t choose to be this—cloverhand—either. It’s friggin’ unfair, if you ask me. I’m not keen on dying, so she steals my best friend and Luke? How is that fair?”
Thomas lay down on the grass, eye to eye with one of the hounds staring into the circle; they were far more visible than they had been before. “Don’t blame me. I’m just a scholar; I’ve already gotten my hand slapped for disagreeing with her over matters of life and death. There’s a reason I’m sitting in a ring of mushrooms, talking with her latest enemy, instead of fawning on her arm.”
Frustration welled up in me and overflowed. “What about my best friend? Will she only let him go if I die?”
Thomas tapped his finger against the empty air of the mushroom ring; it rang back at him as if it were glass. On the other side, the hound whined and pawed at his finger. “The piper? He’s too good for this world, you know. A piper that good can attract the wrong sort of attention. Worse than faeries. I’ve heard more than one faerie mutter he’d be better off dead, anyway.”
“He would not be better off dead,” I snapped. My fingers were beginning to tremble; the subconscious effort of keeping the faerie ring closed to the hounds was draining me too fa
st. I wasn’t sure how long I could keep them out.
Thomas’ face was sympathetic. “I’m sorry, child, but she will never let you exist while she does. You challenge her very existence, and you have a leg up with your humanity as well. One of you has to die to end this.”
I stared at him, taking it in, hugging my shivering arms around me with the effort of keeping the ring secure. It sounded so cheesy: one of you has to die. This town ain’t big enough for the both of us.
I couldn’t keep the hounds out anymore. I just wasn’t strong enough without the moon above me.
“And as long as we’re telling the truth,” Thomas added earnestly, “I’d prefer it to be she.”
I only had a moment to realize what he meant before the invisible walls of the faerie ring burst open and a wave of hounds poured in, instantly blanketing Thomas’ body and pressing close to me.
The stench of thyme was overwhelming.
eighteen
It wasn’t just the press of the hounds that made the collapse of the circle unbearable. It was the frost of their fur against my skin, the suffocating scent of herbs and clover, and, above all, the howls of the mastiffs and the screams of the lithe sighthounds: our prey, our quarry, we have captured our kill.
The Hunter strode in among them, their bodies making way for him, parting like water. His progress toward me was made silent by the cacophony. I barely heard him speak: “Quiet.”
Instantly, the hounds fell silent. The hill was so quiet I could hear the roar of a car’s tires on the road below. I could have cried out, but for what purpose? To the car’s driver, I was the only one on the hill.
The Hunter stopped an arm’s length away from me. From this close, his strangeness took my breath away. His deep-set eyes were as fathomless as a hawk’s, and I could see that the gold streak in his hair was literally gold, each strand gleaming as it sat stiffly within his regular brown hair. There were strange brown marks up and down his neck—like tattooed characters, only they looked as if he had been born with them.
Lament: The Faerie Queen's Deception Page 20
