Portents

by Kelley Armstrong

  When I close my eyes, my Matildas parade before me. It is not a long procession. A mere half dozen over hundreds of years. They come, and I am waiting. They grow, and I watch, and then we both wait, even if they never realize it.

  Five of my Matildas were like understudies in a play, forever lingering in the wings, waiting for their time on stage. That time never came. The Tylwyth Teg and the Cŵn Annwn did not find them. Their Gwynn and their Arawn did not find them. And so they spent their lives in vague discontent, happy enough, but never shaking the feeling that there should be more. I could not help them with that. I would not know how, and it is not my job. My task is to protect, so they are ready when the time comes for them to step onstage.

  On a good night, I will dream of my Annabelle, two hundred years ago. Another life, another place. A girl who loved to sing and dance, and as much as I loved watching her do both, I knew what it portended. That while she was a Matilda, she was not the one I sought. She would do, though, and I was happy with her. She found her Gwynn, and she found her Tylwyth Teg, and she took her place on that stage, blazing brightly as she should. She shone, and I kept her safe, and that memory, of a girl long dead, warms me on the best nights. It does not warm me now.

  It has been three days since the spriggan dumped me in this basement. Three days of lapping foul water and eating fouler mice and pacing the dirt floor until my pads bleed. Yet whatever physical discomfort I suffer, it is nothing compared to the agony of knowing I have failed my girl.

  On the first night, I could tell myself there was still time to escape and protect her from the spriggan. Even on the second, I knew that he might not have made his move. But by the third, that hope vanished, leaving me in a heap on the floor, passing in and out of fevered, half-starved sleep.

  That is when the true nightmare comes. The memory that, in waking, I can forget. The life I can forget.

  Back at the beginning . . .

  “Enid?” My mistress’s voice slides down the corridor. “Enid? Have you seen—?”

  She stops as I walk in, my arms wrapped tight around a black cat. My mistress smiles, and the cat—Derog—leaps to her. I should not be disappointed. He is her cat, after all. Still, it stings, seeing him leap onto her lap, snuggle in and purr, as he never does for anyone but her.

  Matilda’s smile warms her eyes as she turns to me. “Thank you, Enid. You always take such good care of him.”

  I nod mutely. Derog is hers, and for that, I want to hate her. For so many things, I want to hate her. She is beautiful and clever, and I am not. She is a cunning woman, maker of magic, half-fae and half-Hunt, a princess in two palaces. I am a half-blood child with no powers, a scullery maid to the fae. Yet I cannot hate someone who does nothing to deserve it. I look for evil in Matilda, for malice and cruelty, and while I can see pride and stubbornness and strong will—and sometimes thoughtlessness—those don’t make her worthy of my hate.

  “I’m going on a Hunt with Arawn tonight. Yes, I know, I should get an early sleep,” she says, though I haven’t commented. “Rest up so my skin will glow and my hair will shine.” Her voice lilts with mockery, and I know she’s repeating what her maids have told her.

  “You love the Hunt,” I say. “That is what makes your skin glow and your hair shine. The night air and the excitement will be a far better balm than slumber.”

  She dips her chin, smiling, and I know she is pleased. I look away quickly before she sees my flash of shame. I am being dishonest. No, disingenuous—that is the word. I also look away before she sees a very different expression cross my face. Joy. Eagerness. Satisfaction. My lady will join Arawn on the Hunt tonight, and I know what that portends. I do, and she does not.

  I overheard the two princes in the stable. Gwynn apologizing to Arawn for wooing Matilda. Gwynn pleading for forgiveness.

  “You broke our pact. That comes with a penalty, Gwynn. You know it does.”

  “All right. Punish me—”

  “Oh, I intend to.” Brush clutched in one hand, Arawn stepped toward Gwynn. “If Mati comes to me the night before your wedding, she is mine.”

  “What? You intend to seduce—?”

  “She only needs to come to me. To hunt with me. If she chooses me on that night, she chooses me forever. That is the new pact.”

  Gwynn’s temper flashed as he stepped back. “I will never agree—”

  “Too late. You broke a pact. As the wronged party, I can claim a new one. I just did. It stands. A pact and a curse. Now run home, Gwynn, and see if you can keep your bride by your side for a single night.”

  And so Arawn has set his plan in motion. He’s invited Matilda to join him on a Hunt the night before her wedding, and she has no idea what she’s truly agreeing to. I should tell her. Warn her. Instead, I hold my tongue as shame and delight swirl through me.

  This isn’t betraying my mistress. Not truly. Arawn is the proper choice for her. He is beautiful and charming and witty, and he adores her.

  As for Gwynn, I do not understand him. I certainly do not understand Matilda’s attraction to him. He is handsome enough, but brooding, distant, even cold. The prince of the fae should be lightness and warmth, and Gwynn is not. The prince of the Hunt should be darkness and night-chill, and Arawn is not. It is clear to me who I would choose, and therefore I know what is best for my Matilda.

  I brush her hair, and we talk, and when I leave, she scoops up Derog and hands him to me. I cuddle him in my arms as I walk away.

  Later that night . . .

  Even in my matagot-muddled memories, that night has gauze pulled over it. Nothing matters until the end, a white-hot blur of images.

  Matilda going to Arawn, unaware of his pact with Gwynn. Riding to him and then turning as she faded. As we must fade from her sight. The fae kingdom closing to her forever.

  I am perched on the roof with Derog, watching her go to Arawn, and I see her fading from us, and I clutch the cat tight, suddenly cold with fear.

  I hear Matilda shout. See her wheel her horse and ride back. Then comes a louder shout. Gwynn, riding hard and fast as he calls to her.

  A fiery rift opens between them, and Gwynn pulls his horse up short. He shouts for Matilda to stop. To stay where she is. He knows what that means—she will be lost to him forever—but he tells her to stay with Arawn. He screams it at the top of his lungs.

  In that moment, I realize my mistake. Arawn was willing to endanger Matilda’s life to have her. Gwynn is willing to give her up to Arawn if it will save her.

  I’m already scrambling from the roof, Derog still in my arms. I start to run to my lady, but I don’t even make it across the castle grounds before the fire engulfs her. I hear my own cries as I run to her. I know it is too late, but I still run.

  Finally, I reach the edge of the abyss. Clutching Derog to my chest, I scream into it for my lady. I scream that I was wrong, that I should have protected her, that I would do anything to bring her back.

  Then the ground gives way beneath me, and I fall into the abyss, Derog with me. I plummet into the flames, and—

  And I wake in a meadow, uncurling myself from sleep. Then I rise onto four black legs, tail swishing around me.

  “Next time,” a voice whispers, as if in the wind. “You’ll do better next time.”

  And so I became a spirit cat. Matagot is the French word—there is no corresponding one in Welsh. I failed my mistress, and I died with Derog, and I took his form to become a matagot. Ever since, Matilda has been reborn, over and over . . . and so have I.

  I failed her once. And now, as I sleep fitfully in this basement, I have failed her again.

  I’m dreaming of Matilda. The first Matilda, the one I keep chasing through life after life. They aren’t all my first mistress, not in the same way I am—in my soul—the scullery maid, Enid. Even then, how much of Enid remains, I do not know. Little, really. When I wake, I forget her in all but odd twitches of memory and my keen understanding of humans.

  But Matilda is not reborn the way I am. Oth
er girls stand in her stead, to play her role again. To search for their Gwynn, and yes, sometimes their Arawn, although my hackles rise at the memory of him. More than that, though, the Matildas search for the Tylwyth Teg and the Cŵn Annwn, so they may resume her role as a cunning woman, aid to the fae or the Hunt.

  In my girls, I sometimes catch a glimpse of the true Matilda, as if they are distant descendants. Only once has a girl felt like my impetuous Matilda. Only once has a boy felt like my misunderstood Gwynn. That time is now. In Olivia. In Gabriel. I found my girl—my true girl—and I watched her find the Tylwyth Teg and her Gwynn, and I saw the true end in sight. I saw my mission accomplished.

  “Next time,” that spirit voice had whispered.

  I would do better next time. Only I hadn’t. I’d been grabbed by a mere spriggan and thrown into a basement—a human basement, not even a fae one locked by magic.

  Now I chase Matilda in my dreams. I see her on the streets of Cainsville. I see her searching for me, calling for me. I want to go to her, but instead, I’m running away. I’m running back to that house. That terrible house where I’m held captive. She’s chasing me, calling for me, and I run back—

  “TC?”

  I snap awake. I’m in the basement, my old bones aching from the damp. I rise carefully, knowing I’ve been dreaming, my fantasy of Matilda merging with my memories of Olivia.

  Then it comes again. “TC?”

  I yowl as loud as I can. Her footsteps pound outside. Running footsteps. They tramp up the front steps of the house. I continue my yowling as she mutters and searches and, finally, peers through the filthy window.

  She spots me and leans back on her haunches.

  “What?” she says, her voice muffled by the window. “Ten minutes ago you run away from me, then you jump through a window to hide, find yourself trapped and decide maybe I’m not so bad after all? I should leave you down there.”

  I howl with all my might, telling her I did not just leap down here. Somehow, she saw me, my dream made manifest. When I dreamed of Matilda, it was, in fact, Olivia, and I led her here.

  It seems to take forever, but finally, her footfalls sound on the basement stairs. I meow to tell her where I am. She pushes open the door, and it takes all my dignity not to fly at her, mewling like a kitten.

  She looks around. “You were trapped down here,” she murmurs. “That wasn’t you I saw.”

  She crouches, and I rub against her. She lifts me with care, the way Pamela used to, as if making sure I won’t fight. I settle into her arms and purr.

  “That happy to see me, huh?” she says. “Something tells me you won’t take off for a jaunt anytime soon.” She scratches behind my ears. “Let’s get you home. I think I’ve got a can of tuna in the cupboard.”

  She’s right. I will not be as careless again. My Matilda is fine, and I have learned my lesson.

  This time, I really will do better.

  I swear it.

  Lady of the Lake

  Prologue

  Humans at her swimming hole. There should not be humans at her swimming hole. Did they not know the place was haunted? Cursed? She’d spent nearly a century weaving the legend. Each scenario meticulously crafted—a spine-tingling cry in the forest, a hard tug on a swimmer’s leg, picnic baskets vanished, clothing rent as if by some wild beast.

  Hard work. Frustrating work. Endless work it had seemed at the time. Sometimes they would run back to their village, trembling in horror. Other times, they’d laugh it off as too much strong ale and imagination. Worse, some would come in hopes of those eerie cries and leg tugs and vanished belongings. But she’d kept at it. One hundred years of effort.

  And now?

  Now there were humans at her swimming hole. Not simply passing but lingering. Which never happened.

  It wasn’t just the stories that kept them away. Those only frightened the locals who heard them. Visitors came, too, wandering past. Yet they’d never stay more than a moment or two, overcome by a sense of unease. A sick feeling in the gut. A voice deep in their heads, whispering to run. Then screaming it. When they reached town, they’d hear of the haunted swimming hole and say, “Yes! I was there,” and tell their stories, adding to the legend.

  Yet here were two humans, on the rocks above her swimming hole, laughing and talking, not the least bit fazed.

  She crept through the trees and then scaled one for a better look.

  They’d come on a motorcycle. A loud one that had warned her of their arrival even before they pulled off the highway a mile over. Then they’d hiked and found her hole.

  She could hear a woman talking, but from her hiding spot in the tree, she could see only her back as she stood on the diving rock over the swimming hole.

  The man sat in front of his companion. Resting on the ground, leaning against a tree, his legs pulled up. He wore blue jeans and a T-shirt. His hair was a lighter blond than the girl’s. When he pushed it back, she saw his face. A very pretty face on a very pretty boy. That would be enough to catch her interest. She had a weakness for pretty human boys. But this one . . .

  There was more to this one. Something that made her feel . . .

  Intrigued? Uneasy? Both at once. Something about him that both pulled her closer and warned her back. Like the swimming hole itself when she had first found it.

  She shifted for a better look at the boy. He was a boy. A young man. And yet he did not feel young.

  A glamour then? Could these be fae disguised as human?

  She narrowed her eyes, looking for the telltale shimmer, but she saw none. Yet they did exude a faint glow.

  Fae blood, then. But that would not explain the contradictory aura the boy gave off, of dangerous attraction, of youthful maturity.

  She climbed down and slid through the trees, pulling her own glamour tighter in case they glanced over. But they were too engrossed in each other and in their conversation. The girl bounced on the rocks, shedding clothing as the boy said something, and she laughed, and the boy lit up with that laugh, his pretty face glowing.

  There’s more here. Much more.

  She slipped a little closer and—

  The boy turned sharply, not toward her but tracking a soft sound in the forest. Hearing it, her heart began to pound. She shimmered between her glamour and her true form, her nails sharpening to claws, ready for attack if he rose and headed in that direction. Yet even as she thought that, she felt . . .

  Fear.

  No, not fear.

  Terror.

  Attack this boy and—

  Her heart pounded, that nameless terror whipping through her. She smelled the thick loam of another forest, heard the pounding of hooves, caught the scent of dogs, and she gasped.

  No, that was not the answer. Could not be. This was a boy. Just a boy.

  That smell came again. That pounding of hooves, once achingly familiar, once enough to make her and her sisters raise their heads from the water, alight in anticipation.

  The Hunt comes. The souls come. Souls to be dragged to the Otherworld, souls of those harvested before their time, those who deserved their fate. She and her sisters would—

  No. That was another time. Another place. Both long gone.

  Even the thought of harming this boy sent an irrational blaze of absolute fear through her, but if she let him investigate the source of that sound, if he found what she had stolen . . .

  Hers. It was hers.

  Her treasure had gone silent. The girl said something, and the boy turned back with a reply that made her laugh again. Then the girl spun and dove into the water far below. The boy watched her go, grinned, his face alight with the glow that said the girl was no mere trifle. He loved her.

  Which meant the fae knew exactly how to get them both out of her forest.

  She pulled her glamour tighter and crept toward the swimming hole.

  Ricky

  Ricky watched Liv bounce on the rock high over the swimming hole.

  “You’d better not be planning to dive
off that,” he said.

  “Fully dressed? Of course not.” She shimmied her hips as she pulled up her T-shirt.

  “Tease,” he growled.

  Her brows arched. “Never. All you gotta do is say the word. No penalty incurred. Just declare me the victor, and anything you want? Yours.”

  “Remind me why we’re playing this game?”

  “Too much sex.”

  He rubbed his ear. “Say that again? I could swear you used the words ‘too much’ and ‘sex’ in the same sentence, but for you, that’s an oxymoron.”

  “Normally, yes. But it has been a lot, and it’s affecting our travel progress. We have one week to ride the Cabot Trail. It’s been four days . . . and we’re not even at the halfway point. The problem is sex, as much as I hate to say it.”

  “No, you love to say it. Because you love teasing me.”

  “You agreed to the game.”

  “I was drunk.”

  Yeah, okay, that was a lousy excuse. The truth was that he’d agreed because he’d been so sure how this game would play out. Liv would last about six hours before surrendering. Then he’d tease her for another six, building up the tension until he finally capitulated and then . . . Fuck, yeah.

  Which proved that maybe he had been a little drunk. Sober, he’d have realized that there was no way Liv would lose a game so easily, and he’d be the one getting teased. Which was not necessarily a bad thing. He watched as she pulled off her T-shirt and let it fall into the bushes below. No, it was not a bad thing at all. And as she’d said, there was no penalty for being the first to fold. He just didn’t like to lose. No more than she did. Which could make things hard. He glanced down at his crotch. Yep, definitely hard.

  “So, are you joining me for a swim?” Liv said.

  As he watched, she popped the button on her jeans and pushed them down over her hips. Then she stepped out of her jeans, kicked them aside and did a little striptease wiggle.