Storm Warned (The Grim Series)

by Dani Harper

  Of course, it didn’t take a shrink to figure out a whole shitload of whys. He wasn’t stupid. Jade and his music were intertwined, had been since before his first public performance at age fourteen at the state fair. Gangly and tall, he hadn’t been a popular kid then, hadn’t filled out the promise of his height, or gotten what Aunt Ruby called his “heartbreaker looks” yet. And still, pretty blonde Jade Marshall had cheered him on and encouraged him to follow his dream. She attended countless little performances as he filled in last-minute slots in playbills and did backup work for some concert bands. By the time high school was over, Liam was opening for some of the larger acts that came through the area. Over the following five years, both the shows and the audiences got bigger—and Jade was still there. How many times had she sat behind that rickety folding table, selling CDs of his songs and handing out business cards? No wonder she’d felt so invisible. He could see that much now.

  Nevertheless, it had been Jade who had first encountered Mel and talked him into listening to Liam’s work.

  Mel had offered to represent him at once. And within minutes of leaving the office of his brand-new agent, Liam asked Jade to marry him. It seemed natural and right. No matter how often he tried to think back to that night, he still couldn’t see any hint that she might not want the same things he wanted. Theirs was a shared dream, or so he thought. But then, he’d been young and riding high on enthusiasm—how could he see anything but a bright future ahead?

  He’d understood, of course, when Jade started staying home more. She had a wedding to plan and a house to furnish and a college program to enroll in, if she ever figured out which one. And besides, she was his sounding board for every new song before he debuted it, so she knew his music inside out. It wouldn’t be the same without her input, their shared analysis of each performance, but he understood that she might be getting bored. Liam took a week off so they could get married, and then he went back on the road. He missed her of course, but they were both busy, just like every other modern young couple, right? He was creating a future for them both. She’d gotten him started, and he didn’t blame her a bit for being tired of the road life. She had better things to do, and it was time she did them.

  He’d just never imagined she had someone better to do. Maybe what goaded him most was feeling like such a damn idiot. How stupid he’d been to assume Jade was happy, how dumb to take for granted that they were on the same page. Especially when hindsight now rudely pointed out all the flashing neon signs he’d missed. The future he’d imagined was now a pile of ashes. Either he blamed his music for the loss of Jade, or he blamed himself and gave up the music he loved as a kind of penance.

  Whatever the cause, the songs that had once flowed so freely were now blocked. Three whole years had passed since the ending of his world as he knew it, yet his talent couldn’t be more inaccessible to him if the vast concrete walls of Hoover Dam were holding it prisoner. He could beat his fists bloody against it, yet the music—his music—simply could not be reached.

  And he didn’t give a beggar’s damn if it stayed that way.

  In the human world, the horizon was just blushing with dawn, yet evening was new as Caris returned to the Nine Realms, and the moon had not reached its height. The cool air was thick with the scents of exotic night-blooming flowers, and strange constellations glittered high above. She would never understand how the faery kingdom could lie far beneath the Black Mountains of Wales and yet have a sun and moon and stars! It should be black as Hades here, dark and suffocating, but all was brighter and more vivid than the world above, even at night.

  The beauty did not cheer her, however. Her appointed task had taken her to a sullen young man who routinely stabbed his body with needles. Thinking the great black dog in his room was a hallucination, he’d thrown an ale bottle at her, then laughed out loud when it passed right through her as if she were a ghost. Like most of the human world, he had forgotten the old faery legends—if he had ever heard of them at all. But whether or not he understood her purpose, he would still be dead the next day of his habit.

  The thought made her soul sick, and as always, Caris loathed her morbid role. She cared about the people she appeared to—and surely that was the worst quality in the world for a death dog to possess. She couldn’t seem to help herself, though she suspected the heartache would eventually kill her soul.

  So far, she hadn’t forgotten what it was to be mortal herself, hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be part of the human world above. Not yet. Other grims, she knew, eventually lost sight of their origins, especially the ones who had been among the Fair Ones for a very long time. Some began to worship their fae captors, who surpassed all human dreams of beauty. Other grims became despondent, wishing that the death they foretold was their own, or they stopped feeling emotion at all, as if their hearts had died within them. Far too many turned cruel, deriving great pleasure in frightening or tormenting those whom they were sent to warn.

  Caris still attempted to lessen people’s fears. She behaved calmly, tried not to surprise people, and she certainly didn’t chase them. In fact, she tried to model her behavior from the loyal and friendly collies her da had kept with the sheep. Sadly, it didn’t work very often. Not surprising when all grims were black as sin itself, and monstrous in size. Most were like mastiffs or like wolves. Some had glowing eyes, and their very appearance was designed to inspire raw terror, even if the person had no idea what the dog’s morbid mission was.

  Though tall as a man’s waist, Caris was more slightly built than the other grims. More like a deerhound, she thought—as far as she could discern without being able to see her reflection—or perhaps it was because she was female.

  And the only female grim at that.

  When Caris first arrived in the fae kingdom on the heels of the Hunt, Rhedyn, the green-clad faery, tried once more to influence the prince. “At least permit the girl to be as she was. There are other ways of hiding her, other ways that she can serve you. The work of a death dog is simply too morose to be borne by a mortal woman’s heart.” Maelgwn’s heart—if he had one at all—remained completely untouched. As the pair argued, Caris learned that the prince had cobbled together a hunt of his own for sport. His entourage, which had so terrified her, was but a pale imitation of the real thing!

  Finally, Rhedyn declared she would take the matter before Lurien, true Lord of the Wild Hunt—but Maelgwn’s vile temper erupted. He struck his lovely companion hard enough to knock her down and ordered her to silence. “A prince,” he declared, “enjoys a status far superior to any mere lord. And do not forget that one day soon, I will elevate my royal standing above all.”

  She rose slowly but with dignity, her exquisite mouth bleeding blue, and bowed her acquiescence. Caris felt almost as heartsick for the green-clad faery as she did for herself.

  She soon learned that most of the Tylwyth Teg were as Maelgwn: selfish, uncaring, quicker to anger than any other emotion, and altogether contemptuous of mortals. A few, like the faery who had spoken up for her, possessed some semblance of fairness, even kindness, but they were rare—although it was said that Gwenhidw herself, queen of the Nine Realms, had once held dear a human friend.

  There was no one left for Caris to hold dear. She’d been a captive of the Fair Ones for close to two centuries, a fact she knew only because her task took her to the mortal world above. There she had witnessed for herself the deliberate march of years in her country, the struggles and the progress, the changes and the growth. But in the strange kingdom of the fae, the old stories proved true: time not only didn’t move the same; it might not even exist.

  Had she not been human only days ago?

  Certainly the grief in her heart was still fresh. Dafydd Dillwyn drank himself to death, just as the cruel fae prince had predicted. That it would have happened anyway was no comfort to her at all. Had she been there, her father would still have liked his ale too much. But he might not have
slid into perpetual drunkenness so quickly, and she would have cared for him to the very last. Because of Maelgwn, her father had died alone, his farm in ruins around him.

  She blamed herself just as much as the ice-hearted prince. If she had repented of her music, if she had not been so determined to play, she would never have spent hours hiding herself in the woods, would likely never have encountered a faery hunt in her lifetime. The preacher would undoubtedly declare that Caris was being punished for her long list of sins—but if that were so, it seemed horribly unfair that her father had been made to suffer as well.

  As for her soul, its most raw and agonizing wounds were not caused by guilt for the music she had made but by frustration for her inability to create more! How often did she hear songs and tunes, both human and fae, that enlivened the deeply buried remnants of her spirit. As a grim, her clever fingers had been replaced with useless toes, yet she could still sense a tingle in them, the yearning to express the spark of music that was still part of her. It was like starving in the face of a sumptuous feast, her hands and mouth bound so she could not partake.

  Perhaps this is hell after all.

  THREE

  The fae smith lay in a pool of his own blue blood. Maelgwn paid the body no heed, nor did he spare a glance at his own blade as he spelled it clean and sheathed it. His attention was wholly on the exquisite breastplate. It was painstakingly fitted and elaborately tooled, a thing of great beauty, but he cared little for that. Nor did he particularly care about the quality of the faery-forged silver that it was made from, although it was far stronger than any steel that mortals could make.

  No, the prince had eyes only for the twenty-two small stones and eleven large stones that adorned the breastplate. They gleamed in their double-sided settings like darkly iridescent pearls, facing inward toward the wearer as well as outward, and he stroked a finger over each one as if caressing a lover. At last. Maelgwn had spent centuries accumulating the rare nuggets that possessed the priceless capacity to amplify magic. As a member of the royal family, he’d been given a bwgan stone—a very tiny one, commensurate with his distance from the throne—when he reached adulthood. Its expansion of his magical abilities was likewise unremarkable, but he’d realized the potential immediately: more bwgan stones equals more power.

  Now, finally, he had thirty-three—only the queen herself possessed more. Many he had won by gaming, a few he had purchased with his winnings, most he had stolen outright. None were from any bwgan he’d ever slain on a hunt. Very few of the aggressive, sharp-toothed creatures, perhaps only one in ten thousand, ever developed a precious stone within its skull. But the prince made certain he was seen hunting the massive salamander-like creatures often, lest anyone should ever catch sight of the handful of stones he always carried with him and question how he came by them. So far, the only one who had ever witnessed the complete collection was the smith who had crafted the breastplate. And he won’t be telling anyone.

  Slowly Maelgwn stripped off his fine clothing until he was naked to the waist, then hunched into the breastplate like a knight donning a cuirass. The process was far easier than he thought it would be, a testament to the smith’s fine eye for fit and design. Breathing deep, the prince reveled in the sensation of silver and stone against his skin. And in a sudden rush, his magic reared up within him like a rampant stallion, powerful and potent—and with it, the dizzying desire to dominate. For a long moment, Maelgwn stood with his head back, eyes closed, and arms outstretched as the intense energies from the stones burned through his body like thirty-three flames. A whirlwind of power raged within and without, gathering strength, looming larger and larger, filling the very room and threatening to consume him . . .

  Until the magic abruptly merged with him, becoming his to command.

  Maelgwn opened his eyes. Like an impatient hound brought to heel, the power sat uneasily as if eager to be sent out. Accordingly, the prince’s first act was to flick a finger toward the fallen smith and reduce the body to ash. At a word, a spectral breeze gathered the particles and bore them up the chimney of the forge, to be scattered over the swampland beyond like so much dross.

  It pleased him immensely.

  Usually the prince would have a servant dress him, but now that would have to change. A small sacrifice, he thought, as he fastened his new secret securely beneath his fine clothing. And a good trade. No more stones sewn into the hems of his garments, no more stones tucked into hidden pockets. Now, all of his bwgan stones would be with him, with all of their enhancing qualities available to him, at all times.

  Maelgwn’s followers had been attracted to him partly by his station but mostly by his magical prowess and his power; they had no idea of its source. They admired him and obeyed him—and they did both without question. That would not change. If anything, now that he had even more power at his disposal, he would also gain more followers to carry out his plans.

  The thought of those plans brought a fresh rush of energy, almost sexual in nature, and the stones heated to the point of pain. Mentally, he beat down the flames. Not yet, not yet. It is not time! If he was to achieve his ultimate goal, he must take every precaution, make every preparation—including the careful accumulation of every possible tool and weapon.

  Fortunately, he had a very important weapon already at hand, hidden in the form of a voiceless female grim.

  On the way to the stone kennels beneath the palace, Caris usually gave the Court as wide a berth as possible, mindful of those grims who ended up completely bewitched by the Fair Ones, following them like supplicating shadows. She would not adore her coldhearted captors. Not now and not ever.

  Today, however, raised voices spilled from the throne room, and Caris paused in spite of herself. The voices of the Tylwyth Teg were hauntingly alluring but generally devoid of emotion. Even their bell-like laughter was mirthless, reminding Caris of ice crystals in a glacial stream. But this was different—never had she heard such agitation and excitement among the fae.

  Instinctively placing her black paws with care so that no toenail clicked on the polished agate floor, Caris entered the massive ancient room. The crowd was far larger than she’d first thought. Still, even with so many gathered within its mighty walls, the size and splendor of the throne room overwhelmed the senses. The impossibly high ceiling had been created from a single great translucent gemstone, varying from the deepest purple where the dome met the exquisitely carved agate columns that bore it, through shades of mauve and sea green until, in the exact center, the stone became as transparent as a great glass bubble. Through it, the mysterious sky of the faery kingdom could be seen clearly.

  At the moment, she half wished the bubble would break and release some of the noise from the building. Usually, the barest murmur bounced about the polished walls of agate, jasper, and crystal until a whisper was as loud as a shout—and no one was whispering now. If grims could get headaches, I’d have one now for certain. Caris slipped in and out along the edges of the throng, finally shrinking shadowlike against a wall to watch and listen from behind a pillar of striped stone.

  While the Tylwyth Teg were the ruling class, they were not the only fae present. The Nine Realms hidden beneath Wales were populated by countless creatures—and some were as horrifying as the Tylwyth Teg were comely. A grim was scary enough in its own right, yet Caris couldn’t suppress a shiver as her gaze traveled over the endless shapes and sizes of faery beings. Some looked like trees, some like rocks, and some resembled animals that should exist in only the worst of nightmares. Even creatures that didn’t usually venture onto dry land were present. Kelpies, the great water horses that drowned unwary humans, stamped and sent flecks of seaweed flying into the crowd. Tree nymphs—no less dangerous for their exotic beauty—quarreled and pulled at each other’s hair. Dark and light, massive and tiny—the variety of faeries seemed endless.

  And so did their animosity toward each other. There was no harmony here. Almost all
the tribes or factions kept to themselves, crowded into defensive clusters, with each group keeping a wary eye on the ones around it. The only thing any of them had in common was the making of loud demands.

  Caris ceased studying the assembly and focused instead on a faraway dais of mottled green jasper. From its layered heights rose the Glass Throne. During her time in the realms, she’d overheard countless conversations. Most of the fae spoke freely to one another if a grim was present—after all, though they understood a thousand languages, grims couldn’t utter a word—and because of that, Caris knew the enormous throne was not glass at all but a fanned array of natural crystals the size of timbers. A fae song had caused them to burst forth from the surrounding rock when the earth was yet young, and the music encouraged them to take on their unique shape. Such a song that must have been!

  As always, however, the spectacular throne stood empty. Since the murder of King Arthfael at the hands of traitors long ago, the queen seldom graced the chattering Court with her presence. Some said her heart had shattered with her beloved’s death. Some said she feared for her own life. A few said she simply had no interest in the posturing and gossip that seemed to be part and parcel of Court life. Whatever the reason for the monarch’s absence, Caris had never seen her.

  She recognized Lurien, however, standing to the right of the great seat. Unlike most of the Fair Ones, his hair was as black as the riding leathers he wore, and swung to his waist in hundreds of whip-thin braids. He was the true Lord of the Wild Hunt. Of late, however, Lurien was more often seen acting in the office of the queen’s Llaw Dde, her Right Hand, than leading the Hunt. And it was as the llaw dde that he raised his hands for silence and addressed the assembly.