by Dani Harper
“Just as you might say ‘darling’ or ‘dearest,’” she affirmed. “Wales is where I was born, though most people there speak English.” Suddenly she wondered if it was a good idea to be telling him where she was from. How careful did she need to be? Telling Liam she’d been a grim had been a mistake, that was certain. But what about her human origins? She realized that she had no reasonable-sounding explanation to offer anyone as to how she’d come to be here.
There were other concerns, too. While she’d observed the march of progress during her many years as a death dog, she had little idea of how to actually function in this time or what was expected of her. Here she was clad in a green tunic of some sort and a pair of matching trousers—not only had she never worn such things in her life, but the fabric wasn’t much heavier than Liam’s shirt had been. Practical for freedom of movement, she could admit, and very comfortable. Undoubtedly such garments would be a grievous sin in her former life, yet women now commonly wore far, far less. Times had changed . . . Perhaps I can, too.
Of course, modern fashion was the least of her problems, Caris knew. She might be human again, but she felt like a fish out of water. The wisest course of action would be to keep quiet, look for cues, and learn all she could. To that end, she decided to encourage Jay to do the talking. “How did you come to learn the Welsh language? There are many in Cymru itself that never master the tongue.”
“Morgan’s husband, Rhys, and our friend, Aidan, are both from Wales too.”
Welshmen, here! She hid her surprise with difficulty. Would her fellow countrymen be quicker to discern that she didn’t even belong in this century, never mind this decade? What then? Questions tumbled over each other as her thoughts raced.
Unaware of Caris’s worries, Jay continued. “The interesting thing is that their dialects are not just different from yours; they’re really different from each other’s. I’m no expert on linguistics, though. I just picked up on a couple of words you said that sounded kind of familiar. Rhys calls Morgan cariad all the time.”
“That’s very sweet.” No one had ever called her that. Her da had affectionately called her bach when she was a child. It meant both “little one” and “dear,” and he used it occasionally even when she was grown. But cariad? That was for lovers to use. Without warning, she caught herself imagining Liam’s masculine lips forming the word, just as he was bending to kiss her.
Her cheeks flamed and she cleared her throat, as she refocused on the conversation. “It’s true, our language has a different lilt in each area, even different words for things,” she managed to get out. “’Tis a little country, yet some in the South say they cannot understand those in the North.”
Jay nodded. “It’s the same here. You put people from Brooklyn, California, and Texas in the same room, and you wouldn’t believe they’re from the same nation, even though the language is the same.” He laughed then. “Listen to their political views, and you’d be certain they’re not from the same country!”
She smiled at that, and a single conclusion emerged from her whirling thoughts: if she was going to get along in this new place, she was going to have to trust someone. Her instincts—if they still worked—seemed to be at ease with Liam’s friends. And I’d take my chances with any human over a fae, she thought.
But what about the ellyll? Strangely, she felt no danger from Ranyon either—he appeared to be a firm friend to Jay and Morgan. And if what she had learned as a grim was true, no ellyll had any reason to side with the Tylwyth Teg. So she would trust him, too, and hope she was right.
“What part of Wales are you from?” Jay asked.
“The Northwest. We had a sheep farm up in the mountains,” she said, without hesitation now. “Above the village of Beddgelert. It’s a bit isolated, so our way of speaking might sound different from your friends.”
Jay stood up and brushed himself off as he studied the herd. “Looks like we’ve got the worst of the wounds looked after. I can finish the rest if you want to get started with milking—that is, if you feel up to it. I wish we could use the machines, but there’s no power. And while I hate to waste it, we’ll have to dump the milk for now. There’s no way to keep it cold.”
Regrettably, he was probably right. Caris could see no goat kids, only yearlings that probably wouldn’t be interested. There were no calves, no pigs, nor any other creature—not even a farm cat in sight!—that could make use of the milk. And one look at the swollen udders of the does told her there would be a lot of it. She got down to business, choosing a site with a slight incline that would allow the milk to drain away from her work area. There was no rope at hand to restrain them with, but in their present condition, the animals might be happy to cooperate. Caris knelt on the ground and simply called the does to her. Some hesitated, but a big white one practically climbed into her lap, anxious to be relieved. Caris talked soothingly to her, massaging the tight udders so the milk would let down, then falling into an easy rhythm of right, left, right, left. The milk spurted onto the ground, where it ran in bright foaming streams among the grasses until it found a spot to pool that was several feet away. She’d barely finished before a smaller black-and-red doe was trying to bump the big white one out of the way and take her place.
“Here now, there’s room and time for all,” laughed Caris, and she milked the second goat, then the third. By the fourth, she’d happily lost herself in the familiar chore, taking joy in her ability to work with her hands again, and in the uniquely human satisfaction of simple work on a sunny day. It wasn’t long before she was singing, a distillation of contented pleasure and exquisite happiness beyond anything she’d dared dream of experiencing again. All that was missing was her . . .
Suddenly Morgan rounded the corner of the barn at a run, with Ranyon (still holding his chicken) following as quickly as his short, twiggy legs would allow. Her heart in her throat, Caris jumped to her feet at once, startling away the goat she’d been milking. “Duw annwyl! Is Liam all right?”
“You ought to know!” declared Morgan, pointing directly at her. “You tell me what you did to him, right now!”
EIGHT
As a rule, Liam wasn’t fond of hospitals. He’d spent far too much time sitting by his mother’s metal-railed bedside to ever be comfortable in a medical environment again. Yet he couldn’t help but appreciate that the staff was both kind and competent as they evaluated his condition. The CT scan had revealed no evidence of fracture, despite the howling pain in his skull. The neurologist had ascertained that there was no bleeding or clot in Liam’s brain.
Word of the day, he thought. Can you say hematoma? He doubted he could spell it, but if he ever felt better, he’d probably be cheerful about not having one.
The vertebrae of his neck were deemed sound, and he was freed from the cervical collar. Now he knew how old Homer had felt wearing a big plastic cone from the vet’s . . . That image led his train of thought back to the veterinarians at Steptoe Acres—he wondered what they’d found. Liam wouldn’t feel at ease, of course, until he could check on his livestock for himself, but at least he knew the animals were in good hands.
Caris is helping Morgan and Jay.
That thought seemed to come out of left field, and it certainly had no business bringing such a surge of pleasure with it. An overused Internet meme came to mind, something like “what has been seen, cannot be unseen.” And it was true. There was no way he’d ever be able to unsee such an attractive woman. Or stop his body from reacting to her curvy image in his head. Even now, his cock was starting to pay attention, headache or not. Guess that proves there’s no connection between a guy’s brain and his dick . . .
But even after Caris had covered herself up, something about the directness of her dark gaze and her fierce assertion of boundaries had made Liam’s interest sit up and take notice for the first time in years. She’s a spirited one, his Uncle Conall would say, and Aunt Ruby would probably take him to ta
sk for making the woman sound like a wild mustang.
But she’s not wild at all, thought Liam. Maybe it was the concussion talking, but in their first meeting, he had sensed both strength and steadiness in Caris. A pretty weird conclusion, considering that she had claimed to be a dog at the time . . . Yet something in her beckoned him, a generous earthiness that appealed to him on many levels.
I must be cracked, no matter what the damn scan said. I don’t even know her, and I don’t want to. I don’t want to be concerned about her, I don’t want to care about what happens to her, I don’t want to see her again, I . . .
I am such a frickin’ liar.
“I did nothing to Liam!” protested Caris. “I only pushed him away from me when he became too familiar.”
“Define familiar.” Morgan’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, even as Jay stared from Caris to her, and back again.
“He grabbed me and kissed me,” Caris admitted, and she actually looked embarrassed. “But it wasn’t his fault, not really. He was thinking I was a dream, you see. He’d already had that fearful lump on his head when he found me. All I did was remind him that I was as real as he is, and he need not be taking liberties. ’Twas not my intention to do him harm!”
Morgan was baffled. He kissed you? Why would he be putting moves on a complete stranger? And whatever would make him think you were just a dream? “Let’s just cut to the chase. Why would Liam be hanging around with a grim? Or, more to the point, why would a grim be visiting Liam at all? Is he in danger?”
“I wasn’t sent to him, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s not his time to pass over. The man found me in his field after the storm, and that’s the whole of it.”
“You think she’s a grim?” Jay slowly sidled a couple of steps away from the woman, and whispered to Morgan: “Nobody told me there were girl grims! Are you sure she’s a death dog?”
“Think about it. She was dressed in nothing but Liam’s shirt when we got here. Remind you of anybody we know? Like the naked warrior I found on my lawn? Or how about the naked blacksmith that showed up in Brooke’s spell room?”
He shrugged. “Okay, so Rhys and Aidan didn’t exactly have a wardrobe after their spells were broken. But that doesn’t mean everybody in the buff is a former grim. I just figured Caris and Liam were, you know, a couple.”
“Me too—until he told me that he’d never met this woman before in his life.”
“Maybe he got hit harder than we thought. Because if he could forget someone like her, he’s got way more issues than you told me about.”
“’Tis true that he doesn’t know me,” declared Caris. “But I know this about Liam Cole: he’s a good man. He was kind without reason to a strange dog that was wounded and dying, and he gave me the very shirt off his own back, though he was injured himself.”
Her words brought Morgan up short. Kindness. Rhys had spoken of it as an antidote to some faery magics, and most particularly to his own condition: he had been a grim when Morgan found him. Unaware of his otherworldly origins, she had loved and cared for the great black dog as her own dear pet—and Rhys had been restored to his human form because of her actions. Has history repeated itself? Or is someone trying to fool us? “You still haven’t said it outright, but the dog was really you, right? Liam didn’t know you were a grim, but we do—we found your silver collar. So I want to know right now why you’re here. Are you spying for the fae?”
Caris was quite a bit shorter than Morgan, yet there was a solemn dignity in her bearing—and a flash of indignation in her eyes. “I have not denied that I was a grim. As for spying for the fae, why ever would I help them? Think you that I chose to be Death’s herald? That anyone does? I won’t be condemned for what was done to me, for all that was taken from me. And I will not go back to the Nine Realms.”
“Hey, hold on a sec,” said Jay gently. “We’re the good guys here, right Morgan?”
Good guys still have to be careful. “Nobody is sending anyone to the faery world unless they belong there,” assured Morgan. “I’m sorry to be such a hard ass about it, Caris, but we have to know the truth. The fae are dangerous, and they’ve caused a lot of trouble here. We can’t trust just anyone, especially someone who’s been in contact with them.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t be trusting you then, since you have an ellyll for a friend,” said the woman, folding her arms as if daring them to deny it.
Jay goggled, but Morgan wasn’t surprised. There were only three ways that a mortal could see Ranyon. He could allow it, as in the case of Jay and his wife, Starr. Or a human might have a rare psychic gift, like old Leo Waterson. Or the person had been to the fae kingdom. As former grims, Rhys and Aidan could see the little ellyll—and any other fae beings.
And so could Caris Dillwyn.
“I protect my friends too, dontcha know.” Ranyon’s declaration sounded a bit breathless as he finally joined the group, no doubt because he was still carrying the big spotted hen. “And I’ll just be testing this tale of yours. Here”—he passed the bird to Jay—“hold this lovely great biddy for me, will ya?”
Ranyon reached under his blue T-shirt with both hands and appeared to be searching for something. Morgan wasn’t sure what lay beneath the leaves that grew thickly all over his body—Pockets? A kangaroo pouch? A chest of drawers? He always seemed to carry an unbelievable assortment of copper wire, old clock gears, buttons, feathers, pebbles—and once, a half dozen eggs! Any time he was overexcited, items were sure to tumble to the ground, and Morgan would bet that there was presently a trail of odd things leading like bread crumbs all the way back to the other side of the barn.
However, Ranyon’s treasures were far more than a fanciful collection. The ellyll could whip up a charm or a spell at a moment’s notice—and he did so now. Wrapping a stem of foxtail grass around a nugget of rich blue stone, he turned to Caris. “Now, then, there’s nothing ya need worry about if you’re speakin’ true. Give me yer hand, and we’ll be settling this beyond doubt.”
To her credit, the young woman didn’t hesitate. She thrust out her arm, and Ranyon placed the stone into her upturned palm. As he did so, something invisible crackled in the air around it like sparks from a fire. The ellyll leaned his head toward the stone, listening intently. After a long moment, he straightened up, carefully adjusting his Blue Jays cap as if adjusting his thoughts as well.
“There’s not a bit o’ guile in her,” he declared at last. “And it’s plain she holds no ill toward yer friend, Liam.”
Morgan had to ask. “So does that mean . . . ?”
“Aye, she was a grim, and now she’s not,” said Ranyon, as casually as if he’d been talking about someone having gotten over a cold.
“Holy cow,” said Jay, sitting down on the ground, forgetting all about the chicken he was supposed to be holding. Instead of running away, however, the newly freed hen sat down beside him, as if it were astonished too. “Lightning really does strike twice—er, I guess that’s thrice.”
The ellyll held up a twiggy hand at that and shook his head, making the charms around his neck jingle. “Not quite the way yer thinkin’.” He glanced up at Caris. “I’ll wager that while Liam was kindhearted toward this good lady, ’twas not enough by itself to shatter the spell. Kindness is powerful magic, but it’s slow. It takes far more than a single mortal day to do its work.”
“Then how could the collar be broken?” asked Jay. “I’ve seen firsthand just how tough faery-forged silver is. Nothing human can even scratch it.”
“True enough, unless something of great power weakened it first.”
All of them looked at Caris then.
“A light whip,” she said, quietly. “I tried to leave the Hunt, tried to get away. That’s when the prince lost his vile temper and struck me with the light whip.”
Ranyon clapped both his twiggy hands over his heart as he fell flat on his back without a sound. The chic
ken came over and eyed him curiously. “And yer not dead as a doornail?” he gasped out.
“I thought I was. He thought so too, or he wouldn’t have left me behind. The Tylwyth Teg do not let go of their toys. Ever.”
The certainty in Caris’s expression sent a chill down Morgan’s spine. “But Rhys and Aidan . . .” she began.
The ellyll shook his head. “The queen herself intervened fer yer good husband, dear lady. And the fae that trapped Aidan was slain. Otherwise both men would yet be prisoners of the Fair Ones,” he said solemnly. He turned a thoughtful eye to Caris. “’Twas surely the collar that saved your life. And the breaking of the collar freed you from your fate as a grim.”
“Aye, I think that must be right.”
“What’s a light whip? Anything like a light saber?” asked Jay.
Morgan thought her friend sounded just a bit on the hopeful side. He wouldn’t be so thrilled if he saw one in action. As for herself, she hoped she never saw one again. Each light whip held a ton of magical energy, all squeezed into a narrow, ropelike form. The weapon—for it was one—was powerful enough not only to summon but also to control the entire Wild Hunt, and to make every fae creature in it obey without question. She looked at Caris with new eyes. How had the young woman managed to fight such a terrifying compulsion?
“It’s like a bolt o’ lightning in yer hand!” Ranyon was telling Jay. “And few there be that can wield it aright. The light whip can slay the careless bearer as well as those he bends to his will.”
Before the boys could start comparing the pros and cons of magical weaponry—and ever since Ranyon had been introduced to Star Wars, such discussions had become a regular occurrence—Morgan wanted to get the truly important information. “Exactly which prince are we talking about, Caris?”
“The prince who stole me away from my life, who turned me into a voiceless animal, is Maelgwn of the House of Ash.” She spat out the name as if describing a snake. “And it’s a pity that it pleased him to lead a hunt on that day. Lord Lurien might have been more lenient had I refused to follow him.”
