by Leigh Evans
Goddess, Hedi, when you screw up, you screw up.
I cleared my dry throat and nodded toward the river. “This looks like a good place.”
“Uh-huh.” Trowbridge scratched his nose, then looked up at the mid-day sun with a scowl. The thin wedge of maple he’d fashioned into a homespun toothpick gave another bob. He’d given me my own stick to chew earlier. Apparently, they keep the hunger pains at bay. Mine had fallen out of my back pocket when I squatted behind some bushes. No way was I putting that back in my mouth.
I pushed the tall grass aside to get another look at the river below. Its banks were pebbled, the center of its span an undeniably traversable froth of water.
Finally.
I closed my eyes and rested my forehead on the crook on my arm. No more tramping along the escarpment, trying to exude resolute calm while inwardly being piddle-pants scared about the very real possibility of toppling into the River of Penance’s churning water below. No more—
“My gut’s not happy,” he said.
Neither was mine. It kept squeezing, making clear its expectations that I should hustle and find a honey hive or five for its satisfaction. The handful of berries we’d nibbled on a couple of hours ago were naught but a faint memory.
Don’t think about food.
“No,” he repeated thoughtfully, “it’s not happy at all.”
I worked up a reply for that.
Normally, I’m quick with the quip and observation. I’d started our journey through the Fae realm leaking exclamations—“the sky’s so blue, Trowbridge!”—but my general enthusiasm had naturally ebbed as the realities of being in Merenwyn had worn in.
We needed to cross the River of Penance. Because the two places high on my must-see destination list were on the other side of it and because its deafening roar had battered my right eardrum all morning. It had been nothing but rapids and waterfalls.
Finally, it had shut up and calmed the hell down.
I was done with the River of Penance and all its frickin’ tributaries.
Done.
Merry slid down the inside crease of my elbow, snaring her feet in my tangled hair. I slit my eyes open and watched her through my lashes. She landed near my nose in a tiny puff of dust, then stalked along the inside of my curved arm.
My best friend was a sentient being, enchanted and imprisoned inside an amulet that hung from the chain I wore around my neck. She was an Asrai, like Ralph, the amulet that Trowbridge wore. “Merry and Ralph are hungry. We should feed them,” I said, pointedly adding, “when we get to the other side.”
“Mmmph,” my darling man said.
With frayed patience, I carefully scratched around an insect bite. “Tell me again why we didn’t cross the river where the Gatekeeper did.”
I’d hated parting from her trail. Without the Gatekeeper, we were stuck in the land of the sneaky biting midges, because I didn’t know the sequence of words and secret hand gestures to reopen the Safe Passage. The portal had closed itself while Trowbridge was occupied hiding the crumpled chain-link fencing. I’d tried to stop it from sealing, but the stone I’d quickly rolled into the doorway had been crushed into pea gravel.
The only plus? I hadn’t followed up on my first instinct of shoving my foot into the doorway.
Ralph unwound two long golden strands from his setting and re-formed them into two long legs. He pushed himself upright, his bright blue stone winking with a self-satisfied light, then trotted to the end of his chain, so that he could take a gander at the old River of Penance. The line of grasses edging the outlook obscured his view so he hopped onto Trowbridge’s forearm and started to prance upward.
Smack.
My guy swatted Ralph off like he was annoying ant. Indignantly, the Royal Amulet righted himself, then whipped out two more strands of gold, presumably to fashion them into something sharp and pointy with which he could demonstrate his outrage.
Trowbridge’s lip lifted enough to expose his teeth and the chew stick clamped between them.
And just like that, the fight went out of Ralph. He lowered his pincers, and he stood down, save for the little blip of insolent white light bleating from his jewel.
My mate removed his toothpick and said softly, “When you travel with an Alpha, you don’t get in his line of vision. Ever. You watch, you listen, you try to be helpful, and if you want your Alpha not to leave you swinging over the gorge you make an extra effort to stay still so that your chain’s not sawing away at the back of his neck. But most of all, you keep your shiny ass out of his line of vision. Got that, Ralphie?”
Point taken. Ralph picked up the slack in his chain and sidled out of the Son of Lukynae’s sight line.
“Who’s the big bad wolf?” I murmured with only a little bit of sarcasm. “Now, returning of the question of why we ditched the Gatekeeper, your answer is…”
“If we followed her across the river, we’d be walking right into the Fae’s hands. We’ve got time. It’s smarter to play it safe.”
True. We’d journeyed into this world a day earlier than anticipated, so we were ahead of the game, considering there was a time limit on my epic quest. Time considerations only became crucial once Lexi finished his passage between the two realms. If the old man’s soul wasn’t wrenched from Lexi’s by my twin’s third sunset in Merenwyn, their soul merge became permanent.
Don’t think about it. Just do one thing at time.
Get to Daniel’s Rock.
Though, you see, there it was—another tiny crack in the mental image I’d held of what Trowbridge, aka the Son of Lukynae, Hero Alpha of the Raha’ells, would be like in Merenwyn. I’d figured he’d be impatient. Feral. Violence simmering, glinting eyes showing hints of his undomesticated masculinity, musk so strong that it made me damp.
He wasn’t.
He was … pragmatic. Calculating. And mostly, very damn quiet.
Huh.
I listened to the sound of the water running over the river’s rocks. It was clean and fresh, a cheery chortle versus an outraged thunder. Merry’s chain tightened, signaling she was on the move again. I could feel the pinch of her little vine-tipped feet as she minced down my arm for a better view of the valley.
Why was Trowbridge balking now? For the first time in a couple of hours, we were on a section of cliff that had great handholds. We could make it down to the valley below without loss of limb and life. And even more important, the freakin’ River of Penance had worn out some of its anger. Sure, it was moving fast, but we could ford it. And even if we lost our footing, the other side could be reached in a few determined strokes—after all, the river didn’t look that wide.
I kept my eyes closed, careful not to look at him. “Is this because you’re afraid of water?”
“I’m not afraid of water.”
“I’m a great swimmer,” I told him. “If you lose your footing, I’ll tow you.”
“That’s. Not. Going. To. Happen.”
“So it is about you drowning.”
“You do remember that I’m an Alpha, right?” I heard Trowbridge murmur mildly. “And that I’m used to—”
“Ordering people about like a puppet master.” The sun was pleasant on my back.
“Choosing the correct path for my pack.” He shifted, releasing a thread of scent that slid along my arm in an invisible caress. “People used to jump when I spoke.”
“Not. Going. To. Happen.” My empty stomach rumbled.
Trowbridge’s head swiveled, his blue eyes narrowing on me. “Where’s your chew stick?” he demanded.
“It was bitter.”
“Chewing it will make your belly hurt less.”
“I’m not hungry.” But my words came out sharper than I meant—he loves me—and so I softened my tone. “I’m tired. That’s all.”
He chewed on his toothpick for a thoughtful moment, his gaze roving over me. His eyes missed nothing. My bundled feet, my sweaty hairline, the pulse at my throat, the sunburn that made even smiling hurt.
&nb
sp; The shuttered look in his eyes hurt me. Because I couldn’t shake the thought that he understood something I didn’t and instinct told me that I wasn’t ready to ask what it was. After a beat, he turned his head to study the scene again. “Something feels wrong down there, Tink,” he said. “And I can’t put my finger on it.”
Crap. That was different. Merry scuttled for a more secure perch as I went up on my elbows. “What am I looking for?”
“Not sure,” he said, his head swiveling. “But it’s too quiet.”
I scanned the valley. The river was blue; the firs were green; the forests on the other side of the river stretched for eternity and beyond. I tucked my hair behind my pointed Fae ears and concentrated, trying to listen over the sound of the river rushing over the rocks.
He was right.
Missing were the ambient forest noises. The tweet-tweet-tweet of the cardinals having the last word about who’s the prettiest; the rustle of leaves as squirrels moved along the wood’s arterial highway of thick tree boughs searching for nuts and other delights.
I shot a glance at Trowbridge. His chin was tucked in, his focus intent: a wolf tracking sound that still eluded my Fae ears. “Something has spooked the wildlife.”
I went back to studying the terrain. Nothing, nothing—
Something.
At least five miles north of us, a flicker of unexpected light. Very tiny, very brief. As small as a speck of glitter. What was that? A trick of light? The sun reflecting off a weapon? I focused on that spot, willing for the flash to happen again. And it did, not a second later, except this time it was an elf-sized fistful of flickers, clustered over the distant notched treetops. I leaned forward, my own eyes slitting.
“Trowbridge,” I said, pointing to far-off trees. “Do you see it?”
He squinted, then gave his head a rough, impatient shake. “Show me.”
“Look northeast and concentrate on the tops of that stand of firs. You have to really focus to see it. Look for a blurred sheen over the horizon. And—there! See those tiny flashes?” My finger outlined its shape. The almost translucent haze was moving fast, heading in what looked like a zigzag pattern. “What is that?”
“Some short of Fae shit,” he said under his breath.
“Have you ever seen it before?”
Grimly he shook his head.
I watched it for a while. “It reminds me of that alien movie with Arnie.”
“Huh?”
The scar on my wrist was aching faintly. “You know, when Arnie’s staring at the trees and he realizes that there’s something off?”
“Predator?” He twisted to stare at me. “We’re in Merenwyn where we’re at the top of the wanted list and you’re thinking of some old Schwarzenegger flick?”
“If the sun wasn’t reflecting off its glittery bits, I’m not sure if we’d have seen that thing. At first glance it’s more of a pixilation than anything else. A blurring of the defined edges. It moves fast. What do you think it is?”
“There are no aliens running around Merenwyn, Tink. There’s just a lot of Fae shit.” Abruptly Trowbridge rose to his feet in a fluid motion of muscle and grace.
“You realize that I find the term ‘Fae shit’ vaguely insulting, right?” My fingers went to the pointed peak of my ear. I’m half Fae and half Were.
Trowbridge began pacing. Six steps in one direction, hands jammed in back pockets, a turn, then six steps back to me. A short but energetic circuit.
Kind of mesmerizing, really.
All those muscles, all that grace.
I rolled on my side, planted an elbow, and propped my head on my palm to watch him. He was either thinking or worrying. Whatever the distinction, my mate was walking and just watching him made my feet hurt. Despite the swaddling insulation of Trowbridge’s socks and two layers of fleece jersey, they were sore. Fully washable 60 percent cotton does not measure well against shoe leather.
I cleared my throat. “Are we crossing the river here or not?”
“Fucking jeans,” he said, yanking them upward again.
That would be a no. “I can’t see how a tiny bunch of sparkles in the sky—”
“Listening to my instincts has kept me alive over here.”
I rolled to sit and stared at the vista on the other side of a river whose rightful name should be Frustration, not Penance. “We’re not going to get to Daniel’s Rock tonight, are we?” My voice was small.
“Not until I understand what’s going on down in the valley.”
I drew my knees up and leaned my chin on them. “Can I see the rock from here?”
His knees brushed mine as he sank to his haunches beside me. “No, but you can see the Two Sisters. Daniel’s Rock is right behind them.”
“What sisters?”
“See those two hills?” he asked, lifting an arm to point across the river.
I twisted my head slightly, searching for two rounded humps that could be potential siblings, and came up empty. He glanced at me, then muttered out of the side of his mouth, “You need to look farther east.”
East?
Oh, my word. The twin peaks—and they were peaks, not hills—were decidedly east if one was thinking of foot power. But hadn’t I noticed those two snow-topped dames a couple of hours ago? If so, we’d been performing a long, lazy loop around them all freakin’ afternoon. My gaze flicked to his. “How much of a detour did we take today?”
“It was worth it,” he said, lowering his arm. “Everything on the other side of the river is Fae territory. The area’s populated with farms. We can’t pass as one of them. I haven’t got the ears, and we haven’t got the right clothing.”
But I was an excellent thief. I could have raided someone’s clothesline. “And what’s this territory?”
“All the land on this side of the river belongs to my pa—” He stopped himself, mid-word.
He didn’t have to finish it. I knew he was going to say “pack.”
“This is Raha’ell territory?”
“Yeah.”
Oh. Joy.
You would think that the two of us would have had some sort of discussion about the Raha’ells before this. But we hadn’t. Our landing in this realm had been abrupt and on the heels of near disaster. Since then, we’d been on the move and it hadn’t come up.
Okay, I’ll own to not being terribly keen about opening a topic that touched on the fact that I had sent my lover to Merenwyn for nine numbing years. A lesser man wouldn’t have survived exile to a realm that hunts wolves. However, my Trowbridge had thrived, discovering unsuspected leadership qualities as the Alpha of the Raha’ells. Under his tutelage, the dissident pack’s guerilla warfare tactics had sharpened and their war on the ruling Fae had evolved from a fringe irritation to a real threat.
It was a given that Trowbridge would rise to the top of the Fae’s wanted list. Eventually, he was captured and brought to the Spectacle grounds, a prison within the Fae castle that serves as a theater of death for those with wolf blood. Executions are scheduled for full moons and well attended by the Fae. After all, it’s a fine spectacle for those in the stands—gladiator games played without any weapons. Death was inevitable for a wolf; the only thing left to chance and self-will was the length of time it took to die. I’ll be forever grateful that Lexi kidnapped Trowbridge and led him out of those killing grounds.
But it had looked bad.
It had appeared that the Son of Lukynae had turned his back on his people.
Trowbridge squeezed my arms, then stood.
“What will happen if we run into them?” I asked. Would the Raha’ells tear him apart limb by limb? Feast on his internal organs? Use his head to play soccer?
Goddess, my imagination is too vivid.
For a long time, he said nothing. “A cowardly Alpha who turned his back on his people—there’s no coming back from that. They’d go to town on me and they’d have every right to do it.”
“You’re not a coward. You were under Lexi’s compulsion spell. You w
ould never have—”
“Left some of my pack to die at the Spectacle? Walked right out of that hellhole with my pack’s worst enemy? That’s what I did. Doesn’t really matter why I did it.”
Note to self: see a Raha’ell, run like hell. “What are our chances of encountering them?”
“I know their hunting grounds. I know which trails they take, and where they choose to camp down for the night. We’ve stayed clear of those areas and the wind’s been in our favor. As long as we stick close to the river, we should be all right.”
I hate the word “should.”
“I doubt we have anything to worry about,” I heard him say.
Not a fan of the word “doubt” either.
He walked away, turning his back to me to meditate on the land behind us. We’d been following the edge of what had to be a very long escarpment. Behind us were mountains. Big ones. A long range of the type that adventure seekers flock to. Take Everest, K2, Mount Ranier, and Mont Blanc and throw in some of their craggy cousins.
“What are you thinking?” I asked, hoping it didn’t involve scaling K2.
He turned back to study me. Rubbing a hand over his bristled hair, he shook his head at my jersey-wrapped feet. “Jesus, I wish we had shoes for you.”
“You’re not wearing any.”
“I’m—”
“Used to this place.”
“I was going to say that my feet are like leather.” He walked back to me and sank into another squat. Two large, warm paws reached to cup my jaw again. Blue eyes surveyed mine. I read approval and respect. Love and worry. “We’ll take a rest here.” My mouth opened to issue the usual lie about being “perfectly all right,” and he said, “We both need it, sweetheart.”
“I can take whatever’s coming, Trowbridge,” I said, and found, to my surprise, that I meant it.
His expression grew tender and he shook his head. “When are you going to stop calling me Trowbridge?”
“The day I find a better name for you.”
He grinned, and he was Robbie Trowbridge again. The guy who played a guitar and had long hair, instead of this buzz cut that I couldn’t reconcile myself to. I studied him, taking in the gaunt beauty of his face. Then I finally said what I should have said several hours ago. “Thank you for following me back to this realm, mate.”
