The road curved gently with the land and was still visible where it followed the rise over the horizon. She could see her Mini, small in the distance, parked on the shoulder.
A figure on a motorcycle came over the rise. The sense of approaching Power grew stronger. Her muscles tightened as she watched it, straining for every detail.
The bike was a big one. Still too far away for her to say for sure, from the bulk and general shape, she guessed it was a Harley. The figure wore black jeans, boots, a black leather jacket, and a helmet with a faceless, featureless black front.
Tiny hairs at the back of her neck raised. It was clearly a masculine figure, with a large frame strong enough to control that massive bike, and the sulfurous Power it carried felt like a thunderclap.
It didn’t slow down or pause as it passed the Mini. Within moments it came to the area where she hid, still clutching the dog.
Then it slowed.
The deep roar of the motorcycle throttled down to a quiet growl as it slowly passed the spot where the magic rope had melted. As the figure on the bike came to where she had stepped off the road, that featureless black helmet turned left, then right. He looked as if he was searching for something.
The air felt compressed and sizzled with energy. If his Power had seemed like a thunderclap before, this close, the force of his presence bent the air around him.
Why had he slowed down? Was he looking for the dog?
Could he be Wyr? He couldn’t smell them, could he?
Sophie’s hands shook, and her heart plunged into a crazy race. She wasn’t ready to face combat again, not so soon and so unexpectedly.
Maybe he was not as he appeared. She whispered the null spell again, and for a brief moment the figure shimmered and changed.
She clocked details fast. The butt of a gun protruded from a holster aligned to the male’s long thigh. It could have been either a sawed-off shotgun, or maybe it was a semiautomatic. She didn’t know all the details of England’s license-to-carry laws, but this guy looked about as legal as a saber-toothed tiger.
And he had a sword strapped to his wide, powerful-looking back. The hilt lay positioned at one wide shoulder so he could reach behind his head and unsheathe it with a single hand.
A sword. The male she had seen in her vision had been carrying a bloodied sword. Was this the same guy? She couldn’t tell—he had virtually no identifying features visible—but the very thought made her break into a light sweat.
After a brief glimpse, his cloaking spell returned. Both gun and sword disappeared from sight.
What was he?
She couldn’t connect him to the man in her vision from the feel of his Power alone. Too much time had passed since she had made that first contact. She also didn’t find any similarity between his Power and the cruel enchantment that had laced the silvery rope, but she was on overload. All her internal systems flashed an emergency red, the primitive reaction blasting out of her hindbrain.
The motorcycle rider didn’t stop. Several yards on, his speed picked up again, and the dangerous, quiet purr turned into a mechanical roar once again. Within moments, he shot out of her sight.
She gave him a few minutes, to be sure he didn’t change his mind and turn around. Only then did she let go of the shadows she had pulled around her and stepped out of the brush.
An invisible fuselage of the rider’s presence hung in the air. Obeying an impulse, she gently set the dog on the ground and walked through that lingering trail of Power. For a fleeting moment, an intense, alien masculinity surrounded her, and she opened her senses wide to try to pull any information she could from it. Then it dissipated on a mild evening breeze.
Frustrated, she rubbed her tired face. As she looked over the ends of her fingers, the dog ambled up and vomited at her feet.
Together, they regarded the foamy puddle on the asphalt. When the dog looked up, she murmured, “I gave you too much water, too fast, didn’t I? Sorry, kiddo.”
She knelt, and he climbed back into her arms.
Within the space of a few moments, the dog was sound asleep. Stifling a groan, she hoisted her tired, aching body upright.
As she walked, she hugged him and whispered, “I’m going to make sure everything’s okay.”
And she only made promises she intended on keeping.
Although it did appear that her what the fuck list was growing at an exponential rate.
Chapter Four
Early in the evening, Nikolas’s mobile rang. When he checked the screen and saw Gawain’s name, he frowned. Phone calls were traceable by magical means, so they rarely talked, and when they did, they kept conversations brief.
Texts were safer. If Gawain was calling, it had to be important.
He answered. “What is it?”
Gawain said, “I caught the puck’s scent, along with a hint of the Queen’s magic.”
Like a blade being pulled for battle, Nikolas’s attention sharpened. Once a favorite of Oberon’s, the puck Robin had been missing for a very long time. No one knew if he had been caught Earth-side when the last of the crossover passageways had been blocked, or if he was still in Lyonesse—but if he was in Lyonesse, he had chosen to disappear, because no one had seen or heard from him in quite a long time. Nikolas had wondered if Robin’s talent for mischief might have turned out to be an ill thing for the knights of the Dark Court.
If Robin was Earth-side, and his allegiance had truly shifted to Isabeau, there was no telling what evil the sprite might indulge in.
He might have even been responsible for the unnatural fog that had rolled over the village park where Nikolas had been attacked. His magic was related to nature, and it fit. Nikolas didn’t want it to, but it did fit.
He said, “Tell me exactly where you caught his scent.”
“It was a few miles north of Westmarch on Old Friars Lane.” Gawain paused, and Nikolas heard the sound of a passing lorry in the background. “I’ve been combing through the town’s streets, but so far I haven’t picked up a hint of either the puck or the Queen—or the scent of any Hounds, for that matter.”
Old Friars Lane was what the road had been called centuries ago. As the years unfolded, often the ancient pathways had been renamed and modernized, but the Daoine Sidhe still kept to the old names, and Nicholas knew exactly where Gawain meant.
Old Friars Lane and the town of Westmarch bordered the site where the Dark Court had suffered one of the most bitter defeats in their history, in a battle that had lasted for five days and nights and had long since faded from the memories of most people.
The end had come when, with a surge of Power that had cracked the world, Morgan had shattered the crossover passageway that led to Lyonesse. Cut off from their homeland at that crucial access point, denied reinforcements and outnumbered, the Dark Court forces had fled.
That had been one of the first crossover passageways to Lyonesse that Morgan had either broken or blocked. Once many passageways had covered the border between England and Wales, and the people of the Dark Court had journeyed freely back and forth from their homeland.
Now those passageways that still existed were shrouded in webs of magic so dense and impenetrable Nikolas and his men could no longer find them. More disturbing, he knew from scrying with Annwyn that the people in Lyonesse couldn’t find the passageways either. The two lands were virtually cut off from each other.
What business did the puck have for being in that area, or the Queen, for that matter? What fresh mischief was Isabeau up to?
“I want to check out the stretch of road for myself,” he told Gawain. “I’m only forty minutes away, so I’ll be there shortly.”
The chance to capture the puck and possibly discover information on the Queen’s movements superseded any risk of banding together and possibly attracting a pack of Hounds. Besides, if a confrontation did occur, there was no one Nicholas trusted more to have at his back in a battle than Gawain.
The other male grunted an assent. “I found the spot ab
out a hundred meters south of a broken-down Mini, but the car might have been towed by now. Look for a cluster of three white oaks on the west side of the road, and you’ll find it. I’ll wait for you in town.”
After disconnecting, Nicholas moved quickly through the flat he had sublet for the month, gathering weapons and his black leather go-bag. He paused only to send out a group text.
Possible lead on the puck’s whereabouts. Watch for updates, and prepare to mobilize.
Rhys was the first to respond. Where did you find him?
We haven’t yet. Gawain caught his scent on Old Friars Lane. More news when I have it. After sending the quick reply, Nikolas pocketed his phone and left.
As he sped to the area, Nikolas thought of what he had gleaned from the mobile phones of the dead Hounds. On the day he had been attacked, one of the Hounds had received a call from a public call box. Then much as Nikolas had just done, that Hound had sent out a group text to three people, and they had responded quickly.
Each mobile Nikolas had collected had the same corresponding texts on it. He had killed all the participants involved in the attack.
Like terrorists, Hounds tended to operate in cells or, more accurately, in packs. The alpha had received a phone call, mobilized his pack, and they had converged on the village where Nikolas had been.
Someone had known where Nikolas was going to be that afternoon, and they had informed a pack of Hounds. Could Robin have done such a thing? Had he been tracking the knights of the Dark Court, only to betray them one at a time? Was he the reason why their numbers had diminished so drastically over the last six months?
Nikolas hadn’t shared Oberon’s good opinion of the sprite. He’d never been overly fond of Robin, finding him capricious and unpredictable, but he also would have never believed Robin to be capable of such treachery.
Now he was no longer so sure. None of them were quite who they once were, when Oberon had been a strong, vital leader ruling over a thriving, prosperous court.
The Porsche ate the miles with a languid purr, and in the evening’s fading light, Nikolas came over a rise and looked out over the land. Patches of farmland traced a different pattern than they once had, but the dip and curve of the land itself hadn’t changed.
Ancient memories drifted through his mind. The thunder of Fae horses’ hooves pounding the ground and the clash of swords. The screams of pain, and the flares of deadly magic so bright and beautiful, warriors stopped to stare in awe as they died.
And then that final unsurpassable roar of Power, as Morgan unleashed what he had been holding in reserve.
The earth shook and cracked with a force that had thrown horses to the ground and brought everyone—the most Powerful nobles and foot soldiers of two kingdoms, the Light Court and the Dark, and the humans allied to either side, both friend and foe alike—to their knees.
As long as Nikolas lived, he would never forget that sound.
A human had done that. A human had brought some of the oldest and most Powerful of the Elder Races to their knees.
Or, at least, a creature that had once been human.
Nikolas didn’t see any sign of a Mini, but when he drew close to the cluster of white oak trees, he pulled to the side of the road, stepped out of the Porsche, and walked.
The sun’s light waned and shadows lengthened, and insects played a seesaw symphony in the underbrush. The gloaming was near, the time that was neither day nor night, when shadows left their anchors to mingle and whisper together before the moon’s pale light sent them scurrying home again.
As Nikolas strolled alongside the underbrush, the symphony fell silent, and it only began to play again when he had passed.
At first he didn’t pick up Robin’s scent, but he did sense a smear of darkness on the road that drew him. He reached the spot where a hiss of dark magic had expired and knelt on one knee to examine it. The darkness was both psychic and physical. The magic had burned into the asphalt.
Isabeau’s Power signature was quite distinct. When he passed his hand over the shadow, it bit his skin, the last toxic sting before the last of the magic dissipated completely. Glancing at his palm where a reddened welt raised, he dismissed the tiny injury and took a deep breath.
With the exception of Oberon, none of the Dark Court who had Wyr in their ancestry could change into their animal forms, but their Wyr blood did give them enhanced abilities. Gawain was the better tracker, and it must have been several hours since Robin passed this way, but once Nikolas had knelt down, he could finally scent the puck, along with the faint scent of a strange woman.
What was she? Clearly she wasn’t Isabeau herself, and she didn’t smell like Light Fae.
He laid his hand on the asphalt road and asked it to tell him what it knew of her. The oldest roads in this in-between land that bordered England and Wales, and Other lands and Earth, were more sentient than most realized.
The road woke and gave him the impression of dichotomies. Strength and fragility. Exhaustion and determination. And magic. So much magic.
And something else. There was something about her. Something distinct, perhaps even familiar. He strained to glean more information, but the road had ceased talking to him and had fallen asleep again.
“I wish to know what you are doing here,” he whispered to the unknown woman, drumming his fingers on the road. “And what you might have to do with a stray puck and an enemy Queen.”
Now that he had located Robin’s fading scent, he stood and followed it a few meters farther until it disappeared. Then there was only the woman’s scent for many meters. Unless Robin had managed to take flight somehow—and the puck could change his shape into many creatures, but he could not fly—the woman must have picked him up.
Nikolas tracked Robin’s scent backward to the place where it left the road and disappeared into a hole in the bordering hedge. Robin had cut across the land until he reached the road. Then Nikolas turned to trace the woman’s scent back along the road and came to a place where tire tracks disturbed the tall grasses on the narrow shoulder.
There had been a Mini, Gawain had said, and the woman must have been driving it. When it broke down, she walked into town.
And she had encountered a wandering puck along the way.
The rest of the tale would not be told here. He walked back to the Porsche and drove into Westmarch.
The town was younger than that ancient, cataclysmic battle but older than most. Worn cobblestone streets cut across one another in a crooked pattern. The shops had closed some time earlier, all except for a single newsagent’s, a liquor store at one end of the high street, and a large, sprawling pub nestled in the center of the town, named Dark Knight.
The pub’s wooden sign had a painting of a knight, bearing a shield with Oberon’s crest—a white lion rampant against crimson crossed swords on a black background. Some people had long memories in these places.
When Nikolas came to the pub’s parking lot, he saw Gawain’s Harley-Davidson parked between other vehicles. A Mini was tucked out of the way at the back of the lot. He pulled in and switched off the engine.
Briefly he checked his phone. Gawain had texted him fifteen minutes ago. Waiting for you in the pub. Robin’s been here. I can smell him.
So as he had suspected, the puck and the woman had indeed come into town together. That was a tale Nikolas quite wanted to hear.
And if the Mini was any indication, at least the woman was still here.
He texted Gawain, Guard the front door. I’m going to test a theory and come in the back way.
You got it, Gawain replied.
* * *
Sophie couldn’t make it until the evening.
No matter how she fought to stay awake, an inexorable black tide washed over her, and she fell into a deep pit of unconsciousness.
She dreamed she lived in a cage.
She stared between the bars at a woman who was both beautiful and terrible to look at, with long, shining golden hair and wide, cornflower blue eyes
, and a lovely, young face that was a cross between a flower and a nightmare.
The woman’s gigantic face came closer, and the nightmare was the rage in the woman’s eyes.
I warned you to watch your tongue, Imp, the woman said. So. You will watch your tongue.
Then others came and put their giant, hurting hands on her. No matter how she struggled, she couldn’t break free of their grip. They had too much strength, too much magic. They forced her mouth open, took hold of her tongue in iron tongs, and ripped it out. She screamed and screamed, a wordless wail of bloody agony. As she watched, they threw the piece of her flesh into a fire.
With an appetizing smell of roasting meat, the tongue turned black as it burned.
Sophie woke with a muffled shout. Heart pounding, she stared around the shadowed, unfamiliar room. For a moment she felt completely displaced. Where were the bars of her cage?
Then a snore beside her on the bed snapped her fully back into reality.
She was in her room at the pub, lying fully clothed on top of the covers. The newly shorn and washed dog lay sleeping at her side.
When she had arrived, Arran, the owner of the pub, had sent his son, who owned a rusted Land Rover with a tow bar, to retrieve the Mini. According to the son, when he had turned the keys in the engine, the Mini had started perfectly.
Of course it had, the fucking fucker.
Arran’s son had towed it into town and parked it at the back of the pub. When she had tried to apologize for the inconvenience and pay for the tow, neither Arran nor his son would accept her money.
Arran had told her good-naturedly enough, “Not to worry. Odd things happen around here sometimes. Living here, ye get used to it.”
“Good to know,” she muttered. The Mini inspired her with hope. Maybe her cell phone wasn’t as dead as she had thought. Pulling it out of her pocket, she checked the power. Sure enough, the screen lit up.
So she had settled into her room, borrowed sewing scissors from Arran’s wife, Maggie, who had clucked sympathetically over the dog’s condition, and had cut away all the matted hair. Underneath, he looked as starved as she had suspected, with protruding ribs, a concave belly, and hip bones visible under his skin. The area around his neck was thick with deep, half-healed blisters that were half her thumb’s length in size.