by Dani Harper
Acting quickly to hide her fear, Caris turned her attention to the rest of the hunting party—then immediately wished she had not.
Behind the bright allure of the Tylwyth Teg, the accompanying riders were all human, or had been once. Their faces were haunted and drawn, their clothing tattered and dirty but still distinguishable. Here, a businessman slumped over his horse’s neck, his fine white shirt and waistcoat mere rags, with his watch chain swinging free. There, a woman in a muddy gown sat sideways on her thin steed, her hands tangled in its mane, her bonnet fallen away and her long hair hanging in ropes. There are so many . . . A miner, his face smeared with coal dust, and a shattered lamp still strapped to his hat, sat astride a white-eyed pit pony. A carthorse, still wearing his traces, bore a butcher with his bloody apron. A red-coated soldier with a broken musket listed in his saddle. Not one of the mortals looked at Caris, or even seemed aware of their surroundings at all. All their lathered mounts were thin, wild-eyed, and frothing at their bits.
That’s when Caris saw the knight with the broken sword, his ancient armor rusted, his stallion bony and unkempt. As a child, she’d heard exciting tales of brave knights, but she knew full well that wars were no longer fought in such a manner—two of her own uncles had served in the Royal Welsh Fusiliers against Napoleon. Enchanted, she thought suddenly, and swallowed hard as she realized the hapless people who followed the Hunt were not only from different walks of life but from different times as well! They’re enchanted, every one of them!
In her childhood stories, the Wild Hunt meted out a rough justice of sorts. Liars, thieves, traitors, and murderers, caught out of doors when the Hunt was passing, were often ridden down and compelled to follow in their wake forever. The greedy and the unfaithful were likewise punished. Had her small sins attracted their attention? Had the Hunt come for her? Caris strained to be calm, to tamp down her terror. Even if she were not their intended quarry, she knew she was far from safe. The fae were said to be capricious in nature, and they could take offense where none was intended. She must be very, very careful.
“Girl.” The leader of the Hunt addressed her, his voice a cadence of deep, resonant bells. “Who are you, and what are you doing here in the forest alone?”
“Caris Ellen Dillwyn, and I’m not a girl; I’m twenty and eight,” she said at once, and very nearly put her hand over her own mouth. Where did that come from? Had they spelled her to tell too much of the truth? Every child in Beddgelert knew it was unwise to give your name to the Fair Ones—it gave them power over you.
He made a dismissive gesture. “I am Maelgwn, prince of the House of Ash. And we are a thousand thousand times as old as you, girl. You have not answered us as to your purpose here.”
“My life is not as long as yours, good prince, but I have lived here for all of it,” she said, smothering the dangerous impulse to retort that she had far more right to this spot than the creature that questioned her. Perhaps she should demand what his purpose was. Instead, she quietly added, “My father’s farm lies below, past the trees and over the dry stone wall.”
A fearful splintering sounded from elsewhere in the forest, like a tree being clawed asunder, and Caris turned in time to see one of the hounds emerge from the brush. To her horror, the beast had her fiddle case in his great drooling teeth. “That’s mine!” she burst out. Heedless of the danger, she took several steps toward the monstrous dog with an upraised hand, as if to smack an errant cow that had broken into the garden. “Drop that this minute!”
The fae leader raised a fine eyebrow and signaled the hound, which released the battered wooden case at Caris’s feet. She knelt at once to retrieve it, brushing the slivers and spittle from the container as carefully as if it were a live thing. Withdrawing the fiddle, she cradled it in her arms, feeling gently along its neck and strings for damage. Her whole body sagged with relief as she found none.
“Play for us, girl,” said Maelgwn.
Play? Caris rose slowly, her fiddle and bow clutched to her with uncertain hands. Dear heavens, what could a mortal play for the fae? “My lord, surely your own musicians far surpass my simple skills.”
“Play for us.” It wasn’t a request, and for a moment she bristled. She was not their servant to order about. Yet perhaps if she amused them, they’d let her go. At first Caris was certain her fingers would shake too much to play a note, but as she tucked the fiddle under her chin, she felt a small measure of comfort from the familiar instrument. And thanks to the repertoire she’d gained from the Romani, she knew exactly which song to begin with . . .
How many mortals, she wondered, have performed “The King of the Faeries” for the Tylwyth Teg themselves?
She drew the notes with her bow, slowly, quietly at first. Her body rocked and swayed as she built upon the old Celtic tune, as she added the flourishes that begged to be included. By the time she slid smoothly into “Saith Nos Olau,” she’d all but forgotten she had an audience, and a dangerous one at that. Her feet launched her upward and she landed on her toes. The music seemed to flow through her as if from the earth itself, her steps were light and sure, and there was power in her rendition of “Nydd y Gwcw.” Darkness broke apart with flashes of light, and the storm released a pelting shower. Yet the rain seemed only to add to the music, bouncing like silver notes from the shining surface of the fiddle as Caris’s unbound hair flew about almost as rapidly as the fraying strands of the bow cord. Here was a tune she had never known, a dizzying reel with depth and strength, blossoming from so deep within her that Caris was no longer aware of anything . . .
That is, until the last fiber of the cord snapped, and she suddenly held a useless bow in her ice-cold hands. Shocked, she remembered where she was and lowered the fiddle to her side as water ran down her face and dripped from her clothing. Her breath was ragged and her heart pounded loudly in her ears. The entire Hunt stood silent as a graveyard, as still and motionless as marble statues, completely untouched by the driving rain. Untouched by the music too, it seemed, as their beguiling faces were yet devoid of expression. Caris sighed inwardly. No matter if they didn’t like it, she told herself. No matter, I have given it my all. I have played with everything I had, and I can do no more. She stood quietly, awaiting her dismissal.
Maelgwn, however, smiled. It lent a saintlike radiance to his perfect features, but like the winter sun reflecting off mountain snows, there was no true warmth in his countenance. “It is apparent that you do not belong in this place,” he announced. “You will come with us.”
Her heart lurched in her chest. “I would but slow you down, my lord,” she said with care. “My pony is gone, and in truth, I must make my way home to care for my father.”
A female in a riding habit the color of spring leaves laughed aloud, reminding Caris of the tiny strings of bells on Romani wagons. “Wouldn’t you rather play for us at Court, dear child? The queen’s palace is a splendid place. Think of the wonderful dances we might invent together! And what songs you might learn from us as well.”
If the old stories were true—and with the Fair Ones standing before her very eyes, she had to believe they were—Caris knew what would surely happen next. Those foolish enough to enter the vast faery lands beneath the mountains were seldom seen again. She steeled herself as she regarded Maelgwn. She must be firm, yet not offend.
“The Tylwyth Teg are said to be generous hosts, and your offer is truly kind, good sir. Yet I would be a faithless daughter if I left my father to run the farm alone. Come for me in twenty years, which is naught but a moment to you,” she offered. Her heart hurt as she realized for the first time that at the rate her dear da was drinking, he’d be unlikely to last so long. “I will practice my music every day, in preparation to go with thee willingly at that time.”
Maelgwn’s smile disappeared as if it had never been. “Think you to bargain with us, girl? Your loyalty to your father is admirable, but in your absence, he will simply drink more an
d care nothing that you are gone.”
“That’s not true!” declared Caris. “He misses my mother, and it would be cruel for Da to lose me as well. He’ll have no one to run the farm, he’ll—”
“Enough.” The leader of the Hunt dismounted. Holding a silver stirrup in one hand and extending his other to her, he obviously intended her to ride with him.
Caris had sins in abundance, but abandoning her father would never be one of them. If the Fair Ones were intent on having her music, then there must be none for them to have! Quickly, she took the old fiddle in hands made strong by years of hard work . . .
And broke the beloved instrument over her knee.
The shattering of the varnished wood affected the Tylwyth Teg far more than her music had. There was anger on some faces, disbelief on others. As for herself, Caris might as well have torn her own heart in two. Tears streamed unchecked, but still she stood straight. “I cannot play for thee, my lord,” she said simply. “I am a faithful daughter.”
“Faithful, are you?” he mocked. The prince’s handsome face was twisted with fury, as he seized a coiled silver whip from his elegant saddle. “Then you should have a faithful form!”
The heavy whip glowed with a strange light of its own—dear heaven, was he going to beat her? She pressed her lips together tightly, refusing to plead for mercy, and simply waited for judgment to fall.
“Maelgwn, please! Surely you don’t need this child?” It was the faery in green who protested.
He rounded on her at once. “Do you think me foolish, Rhedyn? A ruler gathers every weapon against future battles,” he snapped. “I would not leave a sword upon the ground, and neither will I leave this one behind.”
What weapon? Caris frowned. What sword?
Rhedyn bravely tried again. “But the girl does not deserve such—”
A blinding flash of light, hot and bright as a dozen suns, split the air with a deafening crack of thunder. Caris could no longer see or hear, and the air she dragged into her lungs was thick with the smell of sparks. Agony overtook her until it seemed her body would break apart as surely as the precious fiddle had. She had never fainted in her life, but she was grateful when blackness swallowed her.
When next she was aware, Caris found herself stooped and racing along the ground, neck in neck with the great hounds that followed the Hunt.
And realized she had become one of them.
TWO
Eastern Washington State, USA
Modern Day
Not interested,” Liam Cole said into his smartphone. That was true. “I’m happy doing what I’m doing.” That, however, was a total lie. He hadn’t been happy for a minute since he’d turned his back on his old life, what little of it had been left after his world imploded.
“Yeah, well, no one’s asking you to give up the farm, you know,” said Mel, who had been his agent once and would still like to be. “Just come out of isolation long enough to do a few gigs. I’ve got a couple open-air festivals at the end of the summer—nothing too big, just a little something to keep yourself in practice. It’ll be enough to let people know you’re still here, and then you can go right back to being a hermit. Buy some extra fancy cows with the money. Just tell me you’ll think about it, okay?”
“I’ll think about it,” said Liam. Another lie. He wouldn’t, although guilt pricked him. Mel was a good guy, but he didn’t understand. Nobody did, least of all, Liam himself. Tossing the phone onto a side table, he rose from the wicker armchair on the wraparound porch, slapped on a faded Mariners ball cap—a long-ago gift from his Aunt Ruby, who followed baseball like a religion—and headed down the steps. As soon as he left the shade, the day’s accumulated heat hit him like a wall; it wouldn’t even begin to cool down for another few hours. But if he didn’t get busy and do something, anything, he’d start thinking, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be about doing a concert.
Of course, the damn thinking happened anyway. A little something to keep yourself in practice. What would Mel say if he knew that Liam’s guitar and mandolin hadn’t been out of their cases in three years? Not even his beloved fiddle had seen the light of day since his last gig, the one in Minneapolis, the one that changed everything. Maybe I should have paid attention to the damn number. Not that he was superstitious, but it was the thirteenth stop in Liam’s first tour as an honest-to-God headliner. The reviews had been nothing short of stellar, representing a ginormous step forward in the career he’d been struggling to build since high school. And Liam was on fire that night, improvising on the bluegrass ballads and newgrass numbers he’d written himself. The audience had demanded three encores, and he was on top of the world . . .
Unaware that some voyeuristic pervert had just uploaded a video to YouTube.
After wishing for years that the media would spare him a little more attention, Liam Cole was pleased to see the after-concert scrum of reporters, the biggest gathering yet. But they didn’t want to interview him about what was plainly his best performance ever. No, they were all asking for his reaction. He didn’t know what the hell they were talking about. Thank God for Mel. Not only had his agent run interference for him with the press; the man somehow conjured four plainclothes security guards the size of linebackers to act as human shields. They bundled Liam into a plain gray SUV, and the driver (Mel’s brother-in-law, as it turned out) took him to a hotel room—and not the one that was booked and waiting for him.
When the door closed and he was finally alone, Liam had sat on the edge of the bed, peering at the screen of his phone, unsure exactly how to go about searching for something he didn’t want to find.
In the end, it found him. Any email from an address he didn’t recognize normally went straight to the trash bin as spam—but there was one that stood out. It wasn’t advertising hot women or blue pills or credit cards; instead, the subject line simply read, “Sorry.” Opening it revealed a link to the video that complete strangers were now talking about: Jade Marshall Cole, Liam’s love since middle school and bride of less than a year, in bed with Vic Raymond, the guy who’d been his best friend and best man. Certain parts had been blurred, but it made no difference. Like his Uncle Conall had said, “If you’re naked, it’s a sure bet you’re not fishing.”
Liam had known loss. He’d felt his mother’s death keenly, and still missed her. And yet he hadn’t known heartbreak could produce such raw physical pain. He even ran his hand over his chest, certain that there must be a hole there, that his ribs had been sawn asunder and his heart torn out by the roots.
She loved me. She said she loved me. She showed she loved me. How could she do this to me? To us? If everything he’d had with Jade was a lie, then what the hell was left in his world to believe in? What was real?
And as for Vic, anger flooded Liam’s gut, mixing like acid with the agony. Leaving Mel to cancel the rest of the tour, Liam rented a car from the first place he found that opened their doors at 6 a.m. Originally he’d intended to drive straight through to his home in Portland, but even ignoring speed limits could trim only so much off a twenty-six-hour trip, and he hadn’t slept a wink to start with. The inner pain and fury that wrestled each other for dominance exhausted him, and he finally conceded to catch some z’s in a couple of truck stops along the way. Afterward he chugged bad coffee and filled up on doughnuts and burritos that he couldn’t taste and that sat in his stomach like rocks. He willed his body to digest them, to take in the “quick and dirty” fuel. It would do no good to collapse on the goddamn doorstep before he even confronted Jade. Besides, he wanted his head clear—or clearer, since it was already buzzing with volatile thoughts like a frickin’ hive of angry bees.
It was just past noon the next day when Liam finally turned onto his own street. His brain had finally settled, somewhat. Although he hurt like he’d been gutshot, he’d carefully rehearsed what he wanted to say, what he planned to ask, what he needed to know—and every last reasonabl
e word of it went right out the window as he spotted an all-too-familiar vehicle parked in front of his house, a yellow Jeep Wrangler that was strangely clean for once.
Apparently Vic’s been too damn busy sleeping with my wife to go off-roading!
Rage bubbled up from the depths of Liam’s soul, like magma making its way toward the earth’s surface, as he parked halfway down the block and stalked to the house. The drapes were drawn, but it was the middle of the day and that just ratcheted up his fury. There was no disguising his approach from his own dog of course—Homer was barking wildly from the backyard. Maybe Vic and Jade would suspect Liam’s presence, but more likely they’d attribute the dog’s excitement to the neighbor lady’s half-dozen cats. After all, Liam wasn’t expected home for another three weeks.
He had his keys. It was his own damn house. He had no idea why he didn’t simply burst in, except that some small corner of his mind that was still sane told him he didn’t want Jade in the middle. Instead, ringing the bell like a frickin’ stranger brought him exactly what he hoped for . . .
Vic Raymond, former best friend and current betrayer, opened the door.
In a heartbeat, Liam had seized him by the shirtfront and yanked him outside hard enough to throw him off the porch. With a growl that was very far from human, the volcano within Liam finally erupted with world-shattering force. He was blind to everything but the need to let his fists express all the anguish and anger that words could not. If the traitor got in a punch or six of his own, Liam didn’t know or care. Some distant part of him was vaguely aware of Jade screaming in the background, of people gathering, of Vic’s face going from white and shocked to bloody and unrecognizable, of sirens coming down the street. And still he could not stop.
