Storm Crossed

by Dani Harper

  Red flame spun from Trahern’s fingers, and violet needles of light arrowed from his palms, taking down a dozen more warths in rapid succession. Yet more swarmed to replace them. Many of the spells embedded in his skin were weapons, needing only his unspoken intent to release them. What he truly needed, however, was another impenetrable circle of fire, and no ledrith existed for such a thing. Though he was a master, the spell required highly focused thought and word each and every time. Right now, the predators were too fast and too relentless in their attacks.

  Braith, too, was relentless. He had always been a superb swordsman, anticipating his opponent’s every move and countering them fiercely. As a grim, those same abilities made him a consummate war dog, terrifying in his killing efficiency. The pile of dead warths grew as Trahern and his brother fought side by side, their backs against the rocky outcropping.

  Above the chaos, a sudden drumbeat of sound signaled a cavalcade of horses fast approaching. Eirianwen’s mercenaries. Just as Trahern glanced above to find a better position to which he could levitate himself and his brother, a warth leapt down from the rock behind him, scoring his neck with a long, hooked claw.

  Trahern grabbed at the wound with one hand, feeling hot blood squish between his fingers. His other hand gripped the throat of the warth, its serrated teeth scissoring mere inches from his face and its fetid breath stinging his eyes. A deafening battle roar diverted the warth’s attention, and Braith slammed into the creature with his full body weight, knocking it away from Trahern. The great blue-gray grim savaged the predator at once, but as soon as he lifted his bloodied muzzle, a fresh pack of warths encircled them. These were a little warier than their predecessors, hanging back just long enough to finally give Trahern the opportunity he needed.

  Calling Braith to his side, he used almost all his remaining strength to summon a standing circle of black fire around them, the same lethal blaze he’d called upon at Court. The warths within the ring abruptly withered to ash. Those outside threw themselves against the magical barrier. Most died instantly, but one very nearly got through—until Braith tore off its head. Belatedly, Trahern realized his wound weakened him. Quickly, he wrapped magic around his injured throat like silver gauze and silently cursed himself that he hadn’t thought to do it sooner. If his strength waned, his magic would dwindle with it. How long could he keep the wall up? The flames had already shifted from oily black to purple, and even as he watched, it blushed with crimson. The fire would continue to fade as he did.

  You’ve lost a lot of blood, said Braith.

  You can’t bleed at all. You can still escape. Leave me and go—they will not kill me, only drag me back to our mother for judgment.

  Can you not translate us?

  He shook his head and wished he hadn’t as a trickle of fresh blood escaped his wound. The rock that surrounded them was the same that formed the palace foundations, rendering ineffective any spell that could whisk them away.

  “Hold!” an imperious voice shouted, and the warths left off their attack, reluctantly crouching in place. Trahern narrowed his eyes, straining to focus—and saw a large band of mounted soldiers in ragtag armor. Gray skin was visible behind their strange helms, and their eyes shone green. He didn’t recognize them at all, but his sorcerer’s sight could not mistake the crimson aura that surrounded their swords and spears. Iron weapons. Very few in the Nine Realms could approach such things, and the cut of an iron blade was a slow but sure poison to any Tylwyth Teg. Faint and dizzy, he held on to Braith with one hand to steady himself and pressed himself harder against the rock to bolster his remaining power. Last, he eased off his boots. The ground was cool beneath his bare feet, and he drew in energy like drawing fresh breath, pulling it up from the very bedrock, renewing him, aiding him for one last—

  A deep shadow abruptly fell across the forest, and thunder rolled from a formerly clear sky. The soldiers glanced around uneasily as their horses twitched and danced beneath them. The warths slunk silently away, and Trahern felt the hair on his head prickle and rise. Braith, get down!

  The entire world erupted into white light and noise beyond hearing as a bolt of lightning crashed to earth before him.

  Trahern wasn’t certain if he had lost consciousness or not, but it was an abysmally long time before he could see and hear again. Braith was on top of him, apparently trying to shield him. Move, he said in his mind.

  Are you well?

  I would be better if I could breathe. Move!

  The great dog slid his bulk from Trahern’s chest, and he rolled over with a grunt, gratefully filling his lungs. His vision blurred and cleared, blurred and cleared, but he could make out that only a handful of the mercenaries remained, and most looked like they wanted to leave. He had to give the leader credit for nerve—but the man no longer looked at him at all.

  “In the name of Eirianwen of the House of Oak, we have come to arrest the fugitive Trahern,” the man shouted.

  “Her name means nothing here.” The new voice came from high above, and Trahern struggled to see. A burly stallion, as glossy and black as obsidian, stood upon the rocky outcrop behind him, and its tall rider was dressed in dark leathers. His hair was as black as his mount, falling to his waist in hundreds of braids and stirred by an unseen wind. Save for the dangerous glitter in his jet-colored eyes and the glow of the light whip resting on his thigh, it was like staring at Death itself.

  “He—he is a traitor, My Lord, sir. We have a right—”

  “As trespassers in the Nine Realms, you have no rights.” The great horse stepped down from the steep rocky outcropping as easily as if walking across a meadow. The mercenary captain paled visibly as Lurien, Lord of the Wild Hunt, placed himself squarely between the soldiers and their intended quarry. “Our laws state that betrayers and traitors are the rightful prey of the Wild Hunt,” said Lurien, then leaned forward in the saddle, his next words measured and menacing. “If he lives, he is mine. If he dies, he is also mine. Stay if you wish to join him.”

  The captain wheeled his horse and fled. What was left of his company followed hard behind until the forest was again silent and empty. Before Lurien could pivot his own mount, however, Trahern summoned the strength to make a last desperate effort. He must not find us weak, my brother!

  When the dark fae’s gaze fell upon them, Trahern was on his feet. Though he had to lean against a snarling Braith for support, he held a tightly contained vortex of power in his hand. Both the ledrith embedded in his skin and the whirling magic in his palm glowed with amber light that grew brighter with every heartbeat, readying for an outward blast of his own life force. In an impossible situation, such was the ultimate weapon of every trueborn sorcerer.

  “I will die before you can return us to the Court,” said Trahern calmly. “And I will take you with me if need be.”

  To his surprise, Lurien merely laughed and dismounted. In an eyeblink, he was in front of Trahern, with a gloved hand restraining Braith’s enormous muzzle. The great dog growled deep in his throat but appeared unable to move. Trahern’s lips moved to form the single word that would release the fatal power—and abruptly found himself on the ground with Lurien’s boot pressing his wrist into the dirt and his magic completely extinguished. “You are brave, sorcerer,” said the Lord of the Hunt. “But you are also wounded and weak. Perhaps we will discuss my death again when you are well.”

  “I will not let you take us back—” gasped Trahern.

  “We are not the Court’s dogs, to act upon their petty whims. Hast thou broken any laws?”

  “Nay. My brother and I”—he struggled for breath now—“keep the ways of Gwenhidw.”

  Lurien eyed Braith with a raised brow, releasing his hold on him. The dog immediately stretched himself full-length beside Trahern’s prone body as if to guard him. “This fledgling grim is your brother?”

  Trahern could only nod.

  “Then whatever offense you gave the House of Oak appears to have been amply paid for. As for the Hunt, you wil
l find that the squabbles of the Houses are of no interest to us.” Lurien tossed him a silver flask. “This will help. Drink all of it.”

  Hands shaking, Trahern clumsily uncorked the narrow-necked container and took a careful swallow. He’d expected absinthe or other wirodydd. Instead of burning his throat, however, the liquid was as a slurry of spring ice, cooling and enlivening. He drained its contents gladly, and his vision cleared in time to see Lurien raise his hand—

  A host of riders appeared among the trees like shadows sprung to life. Pale clouds swirling at their feet resolved into a large pack of pure-white hounds.

  “Bring their horses back,” he instructed, and a rider broke away from the rest at once. Lurien glanced down at Trahern with what looked like amusement. “Or should I say, my horses?”

  “Necessity . . . required that we . . . borrow them, My Lord,” he managed.

  “Indeed. I have declared that you belong to the Hunt, so you may borrow them a bit longer if you wish. I have need of riders.” He glanced at Braith. “And a grim might make an interesting field hound. If you give us your allegiance freely, Eirianwen will have no further power over either of you.”

  “She will not . . . be satisfied . . . until we are dead.”

  “Then she will have to remain unsatisfied, will she not? Not even the queen herself has power to take you from us—although you are free to withdraw at any time.” Trahern’s surprise must have shown on his face. “Despite the stories told to frighten children, only the guilty are bound to follow us forever,” explained Lurien. “I will warn you, however, that leaving the Hunt divests you of the power and protection of my name.”

  Braith nosed Trahern’s face. We cannot travel to the human world until you are well and I am stronger. Our mother would never expect us to run with the Wild Hunt—and it may prove to be an adventure!

  Even as a dog, his brother retained his impulsive nature. I’m sure you’ve also thought that Saffir will be able to find you that much more easily.

  I admit that such a thought entered my mind. It is a good plan, is it not?

  It appears to be our only plan. “We accept your terms with thanks,” said Trahern, wondering at the words even as they left his lips. May I not regret this decision!

  “A wise choice. Particularly since you already vowed allegiance to whomever might help you save your brother.”

  Trahern could only gape as he recalled his own desperate prayers in the cave of the grims. I said nothing aloud!

  Lurien only winked at him, then signaled one of his Hunters, a woman whose tousled white hair was barely the length of a finger. Trahern had never seen any Tylwyth Teg, male or female, with hair so shorn. “Hyleath, it seems that the matron of the House of Oak has taken great liberties in a palace that is not hers to command. More, she has purchased the loyalty of daemons who are arrogant enough to defy the peace of the queen’s own forest and defile it with iron weapons. See that Eirianwen is presented with a suitable offering that will send a clear message to both parties.”

  A feral grin crossed Hyleath’s sharp features. “Eighty heads, Lord Lurien?”

  “Your taste in gifts is impeccable as always.”

  “And the bodies?”

  “Toss them into the dry swamps of Corsydd, to sink below the grasses there. There they will remain until I have occasion to call the dead to join the Hunt.”

  Hyleath reared her mount and waved a light whip over her head. Vividly colored lightning leapt from it, and thunder crashed overhead loud enough that Trahern could feel it in his very bones. He watched in awe as most of the company raced away, horses and dogs alike climbing into the air as if it were solid ground until they galloped high over the tops of the trees.

  The few remaining riders automatically moved in behind their lord. One led Cryf and Cyflym. “You need a place to heal,” Lurien said to Trahern. “But I think the queen’s palace would be a poor choice at present, even in the den of the Hunt. Wren and Nodin will take you to a safer place, one that is not known to your mother and her network of spies. For now, it will be unknown to you as well.”

  Trahern didn’t see the Lord of the Wild Hunt move or hear any incantation fall from his lips. Nevertheless, he felt the impact of powerful magic like a stunning blow to his entire body. Before he could form a single word of protest, a tide of dizziness swept him away into a darkness that glittered with stars.

  FOUR

  Walla Walla, Eastern Washington, USA

  Present Day

  The ear-piercing screams would have done a pterodactyl proud as nine-year-old Fox entered total meltdown mode in the produce department of Naturally Yours Organics. As usual, the din won either disapproving glares or pained expressions of sympathy from other shoppers. Today the glares were in the majority. In a last-ditch effort to defuse the situation, Lissy sat down on the hardwood floor next to her son’s flailing body. “Just breathe, bud. Breathe in and out.” She kept her voice calm and matter-of-fact, even as she slid his beloved Squishy Bear close to him. Sometimes the soft toy was a life preserver in a storm of stimulation that he couldn’t process fast enough.

  Not today.

  “It’s okay, we’re going now.” She got to her feet and hefted Fox, all fifty-one struggling pounds of him, onto her hip. He was small for his age—what on earth would she do when he got bigger? Either rent a hand truck or get a hip replacement. Especially when he continued to thrash like a netted tuna all the way to the front of the store. Once she’d taken a few steps outside, however, he went completely limp, his shrill screams subsiding into strange, silent sobbing, punctuated only by the occasional hiccup. Lissy remembered plenty of occasions those first few years when she’d sobbed all the way to the car, too.

  She settled his rag-doll body into his booster seat, placed his bear and his favorite video game within reach, then half sat, half collapsed into the driver’s seat. The closing of the car door shut the world out with a satisfying clunch, and Lissy imagined a baseball umpire yelling, Safe! Taking a couple of deep breaths in the blissful quiet, she turned the key and switched on the air-conditioning. The car was parked in the shade, but temperatures climbed early at this time of year. Besides, cool air often relaxed Fox, no matter what time of year it was. She checked on her son in the rearview mirror. He lay unmoving, his blond head turned away from the window, face pale and his ever-serious blue eyes staring. He looked exhausted. Although he lost control much less often now, an episode still took a toll on him.

  Truth be told, it took a helluva toll on her, too. But Melissa Santiago-Callahan would never give up. The word quit just wasn’t in her vocabulary. Sometimes, though, she couldn’t help but wish that things were different—

  She had been close to finishing her doctorate in geophysics when she met Chief Warrant Officer Matt Lovell, on leave from Fort Carson.

  Funny, thoughtful, intelligent, and every bit as driven to succeed as she was, the tall helicopter pilot fell hard for her—and she for him. On the six-month anniversary of their first date, they were engaged. Two months after she said yes, he was deployed to Iraq. And one month later he was gone. Death came for him not in the skies that he loved so much but on the ground in an IED explosion.

  The shock to her heart was enormous. To go from such a high-intensity relationship to nothing in the space of a heartbeat was hard enough. But even as she swung between soul-searing pain and frozen numbness, Lissy discovered she was pregnant.

  And seven months later, Fox was born by emergency C-section.

  Despite his abrupt introduction to the world, her son was healthy and strong. Lissy was determined to be the very best parent possible, and if the universe was fair, it should have worked. She should have been able to shower Fox with love and have everything turn out fine. But by the time his third birthday rolled around, she realized that her beautiful son was different from other children—

  A light tapping at the window made her jump. An old man with a torn sweater and no teeth waved at her. She hesitated until she spotted
the authentic army insignia on his worn ball cap, then opened the window an inch.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Sorry if I scared ya. Didn’t mean to scare ya. Just wondered if ya had any change. Pension just don’t pay fer much these days.” His creased face lit up as she pressed a five-dollar bill through the opening in the window. “Thank ya, honey. Thank ya, thanks a lot. Bless ya!”

  “You’re welcome. Good luck!”

  As he shuffled away, Lissy turned to look at Fox. He wasn’t asleep, but he hadn’t moved a hair. If he’d heard the exchange between his mom and the old man, he didn’t show it. Mentally she scolded herself for wandering down Memory Lane. Focusing on anything but the present drained her energy, distracted her. And right now, she had a meltdown to analyze.

  Okay, okay, let’s go through the checklist. Surprises and spontaneity were not happy things for her son. Because of that, she scheduled their shopping like she did everything else in Fox’s life, and Saturday-morning trips to buy groceries were part of a dependable routine. There were fewer people to contend with at 8:00 a.m., and Fox was usually fresh from a night’s sleep plus his favorite breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, with exactly four ounces of orange juice in the blue glass. He probably wasn’t concerned with the amount as much as he desperately needed the orange juice to line up with the design of the glass . . .

  Of necessity, Lissy patronized very few businesses, and Naturally Yours Organics was by far her favorite. The store never played music or made startling loudspeaker announcements, nor did it have the overbright lighting of most stores. The aisles were spacious and uncluttered, with freestanding displays. There was less metal and plastic, too: the walls and shelves were wooden like the worn oak floor. Many foods were in bulk barrels or glass jars. All was friendly, old-fashioned, warm, and welcoming, and Fox had been here countless times before.