by Leigh Evans
When my arms began to tremble like they did that unfortunate time I tried Pilates, I went back to my original pose. Supine on my spine, arms flat out, right leg twisted horribly. I watched the sky—it was going to be a cloudless day—and listened to the hoarse rasp coming from Mouse. Grudgingly, I eased off on my magic, allowing the guy who was going to get me out of the trap a little air. However, I kept a pincer hold on the Gatekeeper’s waist. I’d lost her once; I wouldn’t lose her twice.
“Release me,” she said, and the line of magic tethering us gave a twitch.
“No,” I replied.
“I will free you if you let me go.”
“You’ll do that anyhow,” I said. “I’m going to sit up. If either of you makes a sudden move that will cause me any grief—I’m talking the slightest level of irritation—I’m going to knock some sense into you again. Starting with you, Gatekeeper. Got that?”
I twisted my neck a tad and Merry’s chain slipped from the groove it had cut into the nape of my neck. Another burst of sweet-pea scent. I was bleeding. Perversely, I blamed the Gatekeeper for that.
“I want this trap off me,” I told them.
“I can spring it,” said Mouse in a cracked whisper.
I rolled my head to squint at him. He was both younger and older than I thought. Listening to his bravado, I’d mentally pegged him at around sixteen. But now, taking in his stature and general air of malnourishment, I revised that estimate to either a short fourteen- or a tall twelve-year-old. He had an intelligent face and disordered, floppy hair that needed a wash.
“Do they feed you enough?” I asked, thinking about another mutt, one who was stolen from me at the age of twelve.
Mouse’s brow pleated. “If I eat too much, I’ll grow too much.”
“And why is that a problem?”
“My wolf will grow too strong.” Though Mouse didn’t add “Are you daft?” to his reply, there had been a wealth of inflection to his comment. The statement lay there between us. An invisible insult.
“You didn’t turn into your wolf last night? Are you too young?”
“I took the potion,” he rasped, clearly insulted. “Like any other mutt. And will do, until my mistress decides that I’ve grown to enough to become a threat and that it would be better to find a new mutt to do her chores.”
That had to suck.
I sat up, and a short moment later Mouse did too. I looked to my left. The Gatekeeper appeared dazed. “Are you going to give me any problems?” I asked her.
“Mutt,” she hissed at me.
Some people need visuals about mutts and their powers.
“Up,” I said wearily again, and merrily, merrily up she went. Her feet scissored; her voluminous skirts flapped.
“I am a Fae of royal birth!” she screeched, sharp little nails tearing at the unseen thing that cinched her waist so tightly.
More blah, blah, blah.
I twisted my wrist, and upside down my toy went, somehow reminding me of one of those wooden Russian dolls. Maybe it was the skirts; maybe it was the vest with its embroidered emblem. Or was it the stiff fringe of her bangs, peeping out from her kerchief? I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
“Can you make her bounce again?” asked Mouse.
I turned to look at him.
“Your eyes,” he said in a shocked whisper. “Only once before have I seen eyes like that. Pale as the green glass bottles in the mage’s tower.” He reared back to sketch a hasty hex sign in the air.
“Now you’re hurting my feelings,” I said.
Great. The mutt knew both Lexi and the Black Mage. So much for a happy working situation. I sighed. “Listen up, you two. You’re going to work together to free me from this trap. Then, you’re going to put me on that pony. After that, you’re going to take me where I want to go.”
“Where?” asked Mouse.
“Daniel’s Rock.”
“I don’t where it is,” he said far too quickly.
Dumb kid, trying to lie to a liar.
“You do, and you’ll take me there. But first,” I said, gingerly turning to look at the overhang of rock where I’d left Ralph, “we’re going to get me some clothing.”
* * *
The horse was not a horse but a pony that had spent many pleasurable hours at the feed trough. My inner thighs ached from hugging her fat sides. Seabiscuit didn’t much care for being ridden by a half Fae, half Were with an injured leg—a disapproval she aired with periodic tail flicks—but she seemed otherwise content to plod along without much steering.
A good thing, because I couldn’t hold on to her reins properly, my hands being otherwise occupied with the two tethers of magic that kept Mouse and his mistress from doing a runner. The female Fae was ahead of me, those small hands so capable of firing balyfire pinned to her hips by one revolution of my magic. A looser knot was looped around Mouse’s waist.
The boy took better to the leash situation than the Gatekeeper, for the most part pretending that nothing restrained him. On the other hand, his mistress had affected a few “accidental” stumbles within the first quarter hour, likely to test the bound’s strength.
And after that, she’d fallen silent.
I imagine she was cursing herself for not taking better advantage of the earlier escape opportunity.
When I’d forced them to take me back to the place where I’d left my clothing and Ralph, I’d realized that I couldn’t bring them into the cave. They’d see the Royal Amulet. His presence in this world should be a secret—I understood that without fully knowing why I did.
So, I’d taken a calculated risk, severing my magic and using it to surround Mouse and the Gatekeeper in a fat coil that kept them secured to the tree growing just outside the mouth of the cave. I’d done it gambling that I could retrieve Ralph before they figured a way of sliding out of their temporary bonds.
I’d been right on that. It had taken less than a minute to jam His Royal Ass-hat into my jean pockets and only a couple more to get over the heave session incurred from yanking my pant leg over my savaged ankle.
When I’d shakily hopped out of the cave on one foot I’d been afraid that they’d be long gone, but they were still there. Mouse had turned red faced from his efforts to squirm free from the magic donut, but the Gatekeeper had stood unmoving, her eyes fixed speculatively on the mouth of the cave.
Who, me? Escape? That had been the message written on her impassive face.
I suppose I was to deduce from that that she had no magic other than the ability to hurl fireballs. Yeah, right. Like she wasn’t sitting on her hidden talents, hoping to ambush me later. I kept asking myself, What else does she have? And why isn’t she using it?
Food for thought.
I’d get right to unraveling that puzzler if I wasn’t so damn sleepy. “Tired” didn’t cover it—I was near stupid with fatigue. Brain muzzy, eyelids weighted. Not tired, drugged. The drowsiness was an unnecessary complication. What was with that? I’d been in worse situations. Okay, I’d suffered a nasty injury. But people had become terribly keen on killing me. Getting hit, punched, choked, or stabbed was becoming the norm. Facing injury no longer put me into the danger of going into shock.
As for being tired? I’d gone longer without a nap. Not willingly, but longer.
Maybe it was the prefect trifecta of misery? Not one thing, but three. I was hurt, physically drained, and starving. Yep, that would do it. I was so famished, my gut hurt all the time. Hell, it bothered me more than my ankle, and you had to appreciate how bad my leg was to comprehend the hidden weird in that statement.
Despite my wolf-blood, my injury wasn’t healing quickly. Though I hadn’t looked in over an hour, from the smell of sweet peas blooming in the woods I knew the wound was still oozing blood.
Clearly, Lexi had taken my agony and kept it.
A piece of knowledge that held me stiff in the saddle, acutely conscious that every minute adjustment I made to my own personal comfort might be adding to my brother’s
anguish.
You see how each of my endless “wants” fed back onto another problem? I was hungry, so I thought of endless food metaphors, which made me all the more conscious of the squeezing pain of my empty gut. This led me to ponder on the non-existence of pain in my leg and the need to remain still.
Which, of course, made me want to move.
I could console myself that I actually was moving forward by plodding slowly toward the Two Sisters, but that didn’t stop me from aching to stretch my leg. If only to kick the Gatekeeper, who every so often turned around—eyes narrowed, mouth pursed—to check to see if I was still upright.
Exactly like she was doing right now.
I gave her a nod.
Yes, bitch. Still sitting upright.
You’d think she’d give that a rest, considering what she knew of my connections. I was the Shadow’s sister—a fact she’d sussed out at first glance based on the distinctive eye color I share with Lexi—and I obviously had friends in high places. As far as she knew, I was Mad-one’s one and only BFF. Think about it: with ten thousand Fae souls or more from which to choose, the Mystwalker of Threall had tapped her for my rescue. How’s that for coincidence? The only Fae who knew how to open the Safe Passage being coerced into helping the halfling from Creemore who didn’t know how to open it.
I wouldn’t want to make book on that.
While the sour-faced Fae chewed over those odds, I’d reached my own conclusion. There could be only one explanation for the Gatekeeper’s providential appearance, and it came with a gut-punch: Mad-one had delved more deeply into my memories than I’d realized, culling important details such as the fact that I needed the surly Fae’s amulet and knowledge to return home to Creemore.
I’d sensed Mad-one’s intrusion during our talk yesterday afternoon and thought I’d rebuffed her. But now I was wondering if she’d ever truly left. What if the Mystwalker of Threall’s palm was semi-permanently glued to the trunk of my walnut?
Ew.
It was entirely possible that she was listening to me think right now.
If she was, she could go fuck herself. Right after she told me exactly how much of my inner musings she was passing to the devious old bastard sharing my brother’s soul.
* * *
I swallowed down some sick and rebalanced my left wrist on the saddle’s pommel. Neither one of the twin cables of magic streaming from my fingers was weightless.
How much longer?
I lifted bleary eyes to the cloudless sky and marked the sun at mid-morning. Trowbridge had reckoned it was a half day from the shallow crossing to the path between the two hills. Daniel’s Rock would be on the other side. But last night’s run had added miles and we were coming at the two hills from a slightly different direction.
I didn’t know how much longer it was going to be. And I wasn’t going to ask.
Stay awake.
A few miles back Merry had instigated a campaign of pinches and jabs in an effort to keep me in the here and now, but about five dales ago she’d run out of gas too. Now, under the cover of my shirt, she lay sluggish, bouncing between the valley of the girls.
Stay awake.
I forced my eyes wide until my brows rose, and then wider again until I could feel my pointed Fae ears pull back, and then, for lack of anything better to do, I pinned my dull gaze upon Mouse. His hair needed washing, his clothing needed burning, and he had a long scar running down the inside of his arm.
My rope of magic was a glowing green coil around his waist.
Mouse shot an upward glance at me through his lashes. “Fair gave me a fright the first time the Shadow’s eyes rested on me. But then I said to myself, for all his fine clothes, the Shadow was a mutt, just like me. Is he your da, then?”
“No.”
“And here I thought I knew every mutt’s face.” Mouse caught a low branch and held it away back so my trusty pony and I could pass.
“Stop fishing,” I told him, bending low over the saddle.
“Never in my life have I taken a fishing pole to the River of Penance.” He let the branch fly with enough force for my hair to stir in the backdraft. “Where has he kept you? Some village sympathetic to your birth, filled with kindly souls who don’t mind the Shadow’s mutt among them?”
“Still fishing.”
“You’re a mutt,” stated Mouse, his tone flat, “whoever your da may be. And they won’t forget that—the Fae never forget that. The Shadow may have worn the silks of the court, but he was never one of them, was he? I know he’s missing from the court. They say the Black Mage has their hounds looking for him as well as the Son of Lukynae. If he’s sent word that he needs your help and you answer him, you’re fat for the fire.”
At mention of the Black Mage’s name, my insides clenched, which my Fae incorrectly read as a threat. She reacted without leave, swelling until the slack, invisible rope about the boy’s torso tightened into a squeezing vice.
Mouse’s face set, his nostrils flared with pain. They were fine nostrils. On a boy better dressed, on a youth better loved, they’d be elegant ones.
Still he didn’t try to fight the restraint. It made me think that he must be accustomed to being restrained and/or being hurt.
“Lighten up, magic-mine!” I snapped. “He’s allowed to talk.”
She hesitated, the shiny bits inside the stream of green flashing her reluctance; then she sulkily loosened her hold. And something changed in Mouse’s expression, or perhaps better said, something was added to his carefully set countenance.
He edged closer and I put a cautious hand on the burlap sack that brushed against my knee. “Why is getting to that God-cursed rock so important that a mystwalker would sink into a shit-pool like my mistress’s mind?” I didn’t answer, suddenly awash with the need to move in my saddle again, and he asked with a trace of his old belligerence, “Do you think you’re better than me?”
“Oh, don’t get your panties in such a twist. I’m not better than you and I’m not less than you. I’m just me.”
A girl with a quest and a numb bottom.
“What are panties?”
“Something I wish I’d thought to put on before I left my house yesterday.” I gave the strand of hair tickling my nose a huff and it went back to tormenting the corner of my lip.
The path narrowed to curl around an outcrop of boulders about the same time as the land began dropping on our left side. I was leery of Seabiscuit taking a misstep into the ditch widening on our left, but she seemed unconcerned. Her gait never faltered; she lumbered along, seemingly indifferent to my body’s tension.
I forced myself to relax my muscles and tried not to think of my chafed bits.
Mouse took an opportunity to study me from toes to nose. “You’ll never make it on your own to the rock.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “You’re about to slide off your saddle like butter tipped from a fry pan.”
“I won’t fall.”
He nodded toward the Gatekeeper, who was pretending not to listen but so very much was. “If you do, she’ll be on you.”
“I repeat, I’m not going to fall.” I straightened, vertebra by vertebra. “Why are you telling me this?”
“You’ll be needing friends. And mayhap, I’ll be needing some.”
“I have lots of friends.”
He did a walking turn, arms held wide. “I don’t see any.”
The front of my shirt rustled. Two golden arms grabbed either side of the chain I wore around my neck, then held on for the ride as Merry shortened the length of Fae gold until her amber pendant rested upright an inch or two above my cleavage line. Too weary to climb higher but too belligerent to let such a challenge rest, my BFF hung, arms raised, the bottom of her pendant balanced on the curve of her chain. A wrestler, waiting with resigned fatigue for the next round.
Mouse stared at her with parted lips.
“Meet my little friend, Merry.”
“Leaping goats,” Mouse breathed. “It’s the Son of Lukynae’s amulet.
”
“Rock,” I warned him when he was in danger of walking backward into a boulder.
He executed a quick-footed evasion. “Who are you?”
“I’m Hedi of Creemore.” My gaze dropped to Merry as I spoke. With dismay, I noticed that her amber stone had a brownish cast and her inner light had faded to a pinprick of red. No wonder she’d grown quiet over the last couple of miles.
She was starving too.
Now that I focused on it, I realized that Ralph had been peculiarly quiet since I’d jammed him in my jeans pocket. Normally, he made his presence known, at least to the person who bore him, but he’d hardly twitched this last age.
Last night’s dinner had amounted to a snack. There’d been no time to fully satisfy their hungers before the moon dominated the sky.
We’d have to stop, but stopping had a lot of built-in problems. Unless I could navigate my pony over to a stand of trees, get within arm’s reach of a healthy branch, and let my amulets take over from there …
I studied the staggered ridge of firs above the outcrop of rocks.
Not worth the climb. Merry hates spruces.
I swiveled in my saddle.
Though the ground dropped sharply away, the forests to my left were a smorgasbord of yum: elders, beeches, and maples. Merry and Ralph could pick their choice if I could only get to them. However, we had that ditch bordering the beaten path. As an obstacle, it wasn’t terribly deep or wide, but navigating its incline would prove a daunting challenge to my minimal riding skills. Up to now, any pitch changes to our road had been gradual and slow, requiring minute adjustments to my seat. Sometimes I was required to lean slightly forward in the saddle, sometimes slightly backward.
I was never going to be a student of dressage. Riding was hard. I had chafing. I’d ridden Seabiscuit without a stitch of clothing for half of a mile before I picked up my clothing, and I had chafing in places you don’t want chafing.
Enough said.
Bottom line, my seat was not confident in more ways than one. Besides my being crazy-ass tired, my grip on Seabiscuit’s reins was tenuous—a less than satisfactory arrangement of a tired thumb pressed hard against the loop of leather circling my right palm.
