by Cate Corvin
“Okay there, Briallen?”
It was so unusual to hear my real name from Gwyn’s mouth, spoken with that grave tone. He touched my hand gently. I appreciated that he didn’t try to hold it in full view of the Garda and Robin, knowing it would make me look weak.
But I took some strength from that little touch. The Ghosthand was long gone, and with both Gwyn and Robin here, nothing could touch me.
“I’m okay,” I whispered. “I just have to adapt.”
Jack’s pale eyes flicked up to me as I stepped around him and Robin, careful to stay on the grass already trampled by the Garda who’d come before us.
I approached the oak tree, looking over its rough bark for a spot untouched by blood or ash. It was already warm from the sun under my palm as I splayed my fingers across its tough bark.
Friend of the roots, what did you feel here?
The oak tree shuddered, its leaves rustling in an intangible wind. I was dimly aware of the Garda falling silent, the weight of Robin and Jack’s eyes on my back.
The oak tree was old and sleepy. It didn’t speak to me in words but gave me the impressions it had felt: how comfortable its soft earth was, the warmth of its roots reaching to the Unseelie land below… and then the screams of surprise, shivering through the night.
The heat of a burning body on its trunk. The salty-copper taste of blood soaking into its soil, tainting the ground.
It had felt moonlight on its leaves and death in its roots.
I pulled my hand away from the tree, feeling sick to my stomach. Thank you, friend.
A hand steadied me as I straightened up. “What did it say?” Robin asked, his brow furrowed.
I shook my head. “Not much we can’t tell from this, unfortunately. The older the tree, the less interest they have in the living world. All I could tell is that it was at night, and there was a lot of bloodshed before the victim was burned. The tree tasted it.”
But Robin didn’t look disappointed. He squeezed my hand and released me. “Thank you, Miss Appletree.”
One of the Garda was at his shoulder, writing down everything I said. “It corroborates one thing: the Ghosthand has been slicing or beating his victims before burning them, lately.” The female Garda’s pale lavender face was both drawn and familiar: she’d been there the night I found the other corpse. “Not only is he moving outside his usual window, but he’s become far more violent about the manner of death.”
I started to retreat to Gwyn, carefully stepping around the body, but paused. Something silver was shining on the victim’s scorched left hand, slightly warped, but the pattern was still visible.
I knelt down closer, drawing in a sharp breath.
I regretted that breath, filling my lungs with the scent of blood and burned meat, but my stomach was flipping for another reason. “Boss.”
Robin was at my side in an instant, and a rustle of cloth and the scent of juniper cologne told me Jack had followed as well.
They surrounded me as I pointed to the ring. “Turn it, please?”
Jack was already wearing powder-blue gloves. He reached for the hand, gently turning the ring, and I felt even sicker at the black smudges already on his fingertips.
But the wavy pattern on the ring was unmistakable; I’d seen it only last week, on a hand that had given me a drugged drink.
“I know this man,” I whispered. “This is Fionn.”
Robin tensed when he recognized the name, but my eyes were already drifting up to the singed hair. If it was less frazzled, uncoated in dried blood… yes, the shade would be a deep emerald green. His face was unrecognizable.
My boss was speaking in low, rapid tones to the lavender Garda when I stood up, feeling dizzy. I heard the name ‘Fionn Daire’ and tried to listen, but my mind was fuzzy.
Only two weeks ago, Fionn had tried to date rape me. Now he was destroyed beyond measure.
There was a tiny pinch of bitter satisfaction in my heart.
Someone led me away from the body, back to the privacy of the oak tree. I blinked up into eyes of pale ice that didn’t seem so cold anymore.
“How did you know this man, Briallen?” Jack asked, his tone gentler than I’d ever heard it.
Gwyn stood on my other side, blocking off a reporter who was trying to hold a mic over the silver gate. He flicked his hand, and the mic went tearing off into the street, where a bus ran it over and crushed it into sparkling bits of plastic.
The reporter swore and vanished.
Both Jack and Gwyn exchanged a brief look of amusement that vanished as soon as I started talking.
“A week or so ago, I went out to the clubs.” It was impossible to keep the burning rage out of my voice, remembering Fionn and how proprietary he had been, so convinced that vapid Cress Willowtree was a nymph he could use up and throw away with no repercussion. “He drugged my drink. Robin got me out before… before anything else could happen.”
A flash of pure rage crossed Jack’s face, there and gone so quickly it was like it had never existed. “Was this on the job?”
I nodded, then gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Don’t pry for more than that.”
Jack shook his head. Salt-white hair brushed his high, sharp cheekbones.
My eyes couldn’t help but drift back to Fionn’s corpse. “I’m glad he’s dead.” I didn’t realize I’d spoken it out loud until something touched my cheek and was gone.
“Perhaps the Ghosthand has done us a favor for once,” Jack said with a tight smile. He opened his mouth to say something else, still looking at me with that odd light in his eyes, when a shrill voice cut above the muttering Garda.
“Jack! Jack Frost, would you be willing to have a word with the SPR? We would love to get an Unseelie perspective on the most recent killing.”
It was Oriande Snowdrop, her perfect face tense with the desire to have the first inside scoop, autumnal hair perfectly coiffed and wearing a suit of gleaming indigo silk.
She was practically clambering over the wall of Garda, a microphone gripped in a pink-manicured hand. Behind her, the Seelie Public Relations van idled at the curb.
Jack glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at me and rolled his eyes. “I need to placate the harpy,” he said quietly. “Briallen, if you ever need anything… you can talk to me. Remember that.”
With that, the Unseelie Queen’s Left Hand turned to the reporter with a cold smile, practically dripping frost with every step.
Gwyn slid a comforting arm around my shoulders. This time I was grateful for it; having seen Fionn’s face alive and vibrant only days ago, now a burned ruin, had formed a sinking pit in the middle of my abdomen.
The fear of the Ghosthand was so much more real having seen the victims up close. I’d heard Fionn screaming through the oak tree’s memories, tasted his blood…
Gwyn released me as I darted around the tree, shielded by trunk and shrubbery, and was quietly sick.
“There’s no shame in this,” he said, holding back my hair. He stroked my back, his fingers tracing my spine. “No matter how many times you see it.”
I wiped my mouth, cheeks burning with shame. “How many times have you seen it, Gwyn?”
He was quiet for a moment. “We ride with death,” he finally said. “It’s become an old friend.”
I sat back on my heels. “Do you still puke when you see dead bodies?”
“Not anymore.” He kept stroking my back. “But I did the first couple times.”
The next breath I drew in shuddered, but calmed me. “Sisse tells me it will get easier. Someday the sight of a corpse will be second nature.” My forehead was beaded with cold sweat. “If I want to do this, I have to get used to it. Puking in bushes doesn’t help catch anyone.”
Gwyn’s hand rested on my shoulder. “There’s a difference between forcing your heart to harden and understanding that death is part of the cycle of life. Don’t force it, or you end up like some of the Hunters: cold and dead inside, with no feeling left at all.”
&
nbsp; “But what does it say about me, that I’m happy he’s dead?” I asked, keeping my voice quiet despite the vicious anger in it. “And I’m glad it hurt. I know he’s raped other girls.”
The Hunter at my back squeezed my shoulder gently. “It says nothing about you, except that you can feel. And that the gods were watching and found nothing worth saving in him.”
His low voice was so hard a shiver went down my spine. Was that the voice the lost souls heard before judgment, before he ripped them out of life and dragged them to the Otherworld?
“Gwyn, did the Wild Hunt harvest his soul?”
He frowned, looking around the tree at a bit of ash clinging to a blade of grass. “We didn’t. Which means there was no soul here to take.”
I frowned. Fionn was a disgusting excuse for a Fae, but… no soul?
I stood up and dusted myself off, and Robin separated from the Garda and approached, his black coat flapping behind him.
“Are you feeling well, Miss Appletree?” He sounded concerned, but that cool wall of distance was back between us again.
“I’m fine,” I said shortly. It was like last night had never happened.
I wished I was as good as he was at separating emotions from reality. Or one night from the next morning.
He stepped closer, reaching out to touch my arm, and dropping his hand before it made contact. “The Garda will be looking into Fionn’s movements, and I’m going to need to accompany them. We’ll need this information later.”
I knew what he was trying to tell me. Was it coincidence that the Ghosthand had found Fionn? What would he have been doing wandering around the Mainway at night, if not working for Brightkin?
I nodded, feeling chilly despite the warm sun.
He hesitated, warmth in his eyes as he looked at me, but I could see the moment the shutter slammed down, bringing it back from personal to professional. “Take today off, Miss Appletree, and I mean it. We’ll reconvene in a day for a briefing. Get her out of here if you can, Hunter. Don’t let the press follow you.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything, and Gwyn’s arm was around my shoulder again as Robin turned and walked away.
Of course, I wasn’t really part of the Ghosthand investigation, considering I’d barely proved myself yet, but it still felt a lot like being left behind.
“Come on, Bananatree.” Gwyn smiled a little at me, and he led me towards the line of Garda.
As soon as the police separated to let us through, the reporters spilled in. Bright flashes of light went off in my face until Gwyn yanked a camera out of a photog’s hand and threw it over his shoulder.
They all backed up, but that didn’t stop them from shouting questions.
“Were you the Fae who found the last victim?”
“Is it true you knew the Gentry? What was his name?”
I tuned them out, trying to look at the Mainway ahead.
Oriande Snowdrop was standing next to Jack on the sidewalk, holding out her mic. A brilliant smile plastered on her face despite the fact that she was shivering so hard she looked like she was having a small seizure.
Jack was talking, his hands shoved in his pockets, and he had a small, cruel smile on his face at Oriande’s obvious discomfort.
“—Queen Nicnevin has allocated all the sources at her disposal towards the capture of the Ghosthand Killer, and she’s strongly advocating for the death penalty once they’re caught.”
Another reporter with lumpy gray skin tried to follow me. “What’s your name and connection with Robin Goodfellow?”
Gwyn turned on the reporter with a feral snarl, and the lumpy creature backed away. I resisted the urge to wrap my arms around myself. I had to look professional. Everything I did reflected on the job I wanted.
“Want me to take you away from here?” Gwyn asked.
I nodded. “Show me a bike, and I’ll get on it.”
He smiled down at me, pulled me to the curb, and whistled.
19
His whistle echoed down the street like music, growing in pitch until I could no longer hear it.
I thought maybe he’d lost his mind a little, until a riderless bike came ripping around the corner and screaming down the Mainway, pulling up next to us a deep, rumbling purr.
It was Gwyn’s bike, all right; glossy black like the carapace of a beetle, the horns gleaming ivory over the handles.
He pulled one of the leather bags open and pulled out a sleek black helmet. I took it and stopped dead when I saw what was on the side.
“Gwyn.”
“Yes?” He looked back at me, the picture of innocence.
“Did you get this helmet specifically for me?” I held it up, displaying the side of it covered in banana stickers. Yellow bananas, neon bananas, even a glittery holographic banana.
Gwyn buckled the bag and stood up, with an expression like a perfect angel. “That’s just my spare. I already told you I had a weakness for those banana-loving dryads.”
I gave him a look and pulled the helmet on.
Gwyn snickered.
“You’re a very, very bad man,” I told him again. “Let’s bring the total up to at least twenty-five percent bad for this one.”
He didn’t bother with a helmet. Gwyn got on the bike, straddling it with his long legs and grinning at me. “Let’s go, Bananas.”
It was a big bike, but then, Gwyn was a very big Fae. I hoisted myself behind him and found that there was no possible way to hold onto him without being completely pressed against his broad, muscular back.
“Gonna have to get closer than that,” he said over his shoulder. “Real close. And wrap your arms around me.”
I scooted closer. You couldn’t have slid a piece of sylph-woven gossamer paper between us.
But the lovely thing about Gwyn was that he made me forget. His intoxicating smell drove away the oak tree’s memory of earth and blood, the warmth of him washing away the chill of death from my bones.
“Arms,” he said in a deep singsong. “Hold me tight.”
I wrapped my arms around his barrel-like chest, trying not to think about the density of the muscle under my palms.
Of course, the more I tried not to think about it, the more I thought about it. It was like telling someone to not imagine a purple elephant.
A ring of little purple elephants danced around in my head.
“That’s more like it.”
I was gripping him so tight I felt the rumble of his voice through his chest. The helmet was a little awkward, but I turned my head to the side and pressed it against his back as the motorcycle began rumbling under us.
Oriande stopped talking, shooting us an evil glare as the roar drowned her out. Jack looked amused.
Behind them, I saw Robin talking to a Garda. He glanced up, his expression darkening, but there was a group of reporters rushing towards us.
Gwyn took off. I bit back a shriek as we roared away, nearly splattering right through a pixie hovering in midair and armed with several recorders.
The Hunter just laughed as it ducked aside in a panic. He pulled onto the Mainway, breezed past several cars, and called over his shoulder to me, “Seriously, hold on really fucking tight, Bananas!”
“I can’t hold on any tighter!” I yelled, but my voice was torn away by the wind.
The wind that whipped us as the bike’s tires left the ground.
The Mainway fell away beneath us, and I was pretty sure I left my stomach somewhere down there as well. The buildings of Avilion threw off sparks of morning sun as we rose above them.
He turned the bike, circling the brilliant spires of the Seelie Palace. I dared to look down, my arms already hurting from how tight I was clutching Gwyn.
Several of the servant Fae were looking up, and the Garda were collecting on the palace walls.
“We can’t get too close,” Gwyn called back to me. “The Garda get their panties in a twist.”
“Yeah, I can’t imagine why.” I had to yell for him to hear me, but
I didn’t care. My eyes were glued to the sight of Avilion laid beneath me like a map, the Eridanus River glittering in the distance.
From above, the Seelie Palace looked almost like an enormous flower, painted in scarlet, gold, and emerald green. He turned us south, and my breath caught as we passed over the Mainway and business district towards Mothwing Falls.
From above, the Falls seemed like a garden. Every brick building was painted in different hues, with plants creeping over the buildings. Some houses had trees growing on top of them, their roots encasing them entirely.
I loved my home, but Avilion was even prettier from the sky.
He took us over the river, and Sobek Street stood out from the rest of the shining city. The dark strip of land sat next to Acionna Harbor, and… were we descending?
“You’ve seen yours.” Gwyn shifted gears. “Now you get to see mine.”
The bike plunged out of the sky.
I was pretty sure I was screaming. Maybe. It was hard to tell with the wind ripping through my hair and the fact that my butt actually rose up off the seat.
I practically scrambled to keep myself attached to Gwyn like a barnacle, shrieking all the way.
“We’re going to crash into the street, you crazy son of a—!”
We plummeted towards the black concrete below. There was a single steel manhole cover in the street, embossed with a crescent moon and vines, and it slowly slid aside to reveal a dark hole to nowhere.
“No, we’re not.” He laughed again, clearly enjoying this insanity.
I curled up against Gwyn, hyperventilating in my helmet, wind-whipped tears leaking out of the corners of my eyes.
The light vanished entirely.
I cracked my eyes open. The walls of the tunnel were just big enough to ride through, walls made of vines and shimmering stone.
We drove through another mist and I felt a lurch all around me, like the world had turned inside out, and my ears popped.
The bike burst through another tunnel and soared into the sky. “Welcome to the flip side!” Gwyn shouted.
I gaped at it, my heart hammering from more than just the near-death experience. We’d left Avilion behind in the midst of a morning sunrise.
