by Zoe Chant
“Yes,” Tristan murmured. “Good thought.”
Poppy glanced over at him and smiled, and he smiled back, holding out his hand for her pack. While she added protective clothing, Tristan drew out the three scarf-wrapped stones, her bunny and the other stuff that had been wrapped in her fleece, and the plastic bag with her phone and photos.
He tucked all of it into her shoulder bag and handed it over, saying quietly, “Under your coat, hm? Let them see the pack on your back, but not this.”
Poppy nodded understanding and tucked the bag in under her loose fleece, tying it in place with the belt from her raincoat.
She’d just tucked her scarf into place when the car came to a stop; Tristan reached out to steady her with a hand on her shoulder. Sunderland and Peter were talking on radios to the police outside, throwing uneasy glances out the windows. Poppy didn’t see anything, but she didn’t think she’d be the first one to spot danger if it was here.
“No one’s spotted anything,” Peter said finally. “But we don’t have our own bird shifter in the air and there’s every chance they won’t move until we move.”
Poppy eyed the distance to the plane’s open door, where a uniformed man stood waiting. It wasn’t that far. How long could it take to run that? “I’m ready. Let’s just do this.”
Tristan squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll be with you.”
She looked him over—his bare face and hands and throat—and opened her mouth to say that he should have more protection, they should be more careful.
Tristan shook his head the tiniest bit and leaned in to give her a quick kiss—not last, it couldn’t be their last kiss. Then he opened the door, jumping out and pulling Poppy after him, and she was running with his hand on her arm, dimly aware of other people also pouring out of other vehicles all around them.
She kept her head down, her eyes on nothing but the ground she had to cover, and when her foot hit the metal stairway up to the plane’s door, she thought, Almost there, practically there.
And then she tripped—no, Tristan shoved her—and she heard a furious raptor-shriek from above her. She tried to flatten herself on the stairs as she heard the beating of wings, too close, and then...
Something roared, and she heard other wings, and before she could think at all Tristan was hauling her up to her feet and there were other hands as well, all but carrying her the rest of the way to the plane. They didn’t let go once she was inside, hustling her away from the door, and Poppy scrambled out of their grip to get to a window.
There was a bright red dragon out there, holding a struggling hawk in its claws. As Poppy watched, the dragon landed and police rushed in to secure the hawk; the dragon shifted back into human form—it was Peter, Peter had shifted and saved them.
And then a blur of black knocked Peter to the ground, and too many bodies piled on to see what happened to him.
She heard Tristan hiss through his teeth, and realized he was peering through the window beside her.
“What—Tristan—”
“That was Nikolai, I think. Hard to tell one black wolf from another at this distance, without much scent to help.”
Poppy looked back—people were still struggling, and Peter was on the bottom of that pileup. “What—is Peter, Tristan, is he going to—”
“He’s tough, the police are with him, he’ll be all right,” Tristan said, but he didn’t look away for another few seconds. When he did, his face was immediately creased with worry. “Oh, no—my own, I’m so sorry.”
Poppy shook her head. “What, no—”
“No,” Tristan said, turning his head. “Bertil! First aid kit.”
Then he pushed back the scarf covering her hair and said, “You’re bleeding, Poppy, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see. I should have covered your head better.”
Poppy shook her head and a wave of dizziness hit. Tristan’s hands were there, steadying her, pressing gently against a spot on her forehead. “Oh... oh that... stings?”
“Here, sit.” Tristan guided her to sit on something a lot softer than an airplane seat ought to be, his hand behind her head guiding her to tip it back.
“I’m gonna just...” Poppy said, struggling to form the words and not sure at all which language she was speaking. “Just... close my eyes for a second. Don’t worry, though.”
*~*~*
She never passed out, exactly. Poppy was aware of Tristan laying a blanket over her and holding her in place with an arm across her body when the plane took off. She heard him talking on the phone—heard the tinny voice on the other end—but couldn’t quite make herself understand anything more than the serious tones.
She was pretty sure they were speaking Valtyran, which was probably going to beat even the French she’d picked up as a preschooler when a family from Côte d’Ivoire lived in their co-op for the fastest she’d ever learned a language.
Getting help from a tiger spirit trapped in a carving probably meant that particular record was going to be marked with an asterisk, though. Still, it was going to come in handy, since it was looking like she would be in Valtyra for a long time now.
That would be strange, she thought, having one place to be her home—her home and Signy’s too. Family staying in one place together, imagine that.
Poppy snuggled against Tristan’s shoulder, thinking of that ocean vista photo Signy had sent her. Valtyra. Being a Guardian of the Stones, whatever that was, would mean something there; she would be someone who mattered there, someone with responsibilities, maybe. And whatever Tristan did as a not-especially-secret agent, it didn’t seem to take him out of the country much. So he had a good job, evidently, and he and Poppy would be regular people there, surrounded by other people who changed shapes and heard magic stones. They would both belong.
Still, it was hard to imagine settling down and staying in one place. Tristan had to be better at it than she was; he’d grown up in Valtyra, in just one place. Maybe he would take her home to meet his family, and she would fit in among them and understand what it meant to be a part of something, to fit somewhere.
Shortly after Tristan put his phone away, the plane started its descent—wherever Valtyra was, it wasn’t far at all from London, unless Poppy had lost more time than she thought she had. Near Denmark, presumably.
Poppy frowned, trying to think of where, in or near Denmark, you would hide a whole extra secret country of shapeshifting people. And mountains. Denmark didn’t have any mountains that Poppy remembered, although it did have islands...
“Where are we?” Poppy asked, when the plane was on the ground and they were taxiing.
Tristan gave her a really worried look and reached out to gently touch her head. “We’re... we’re home, in my country. Valtyra. Do you remember—”
Poppy squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed them. The growl of the plane’s engines was making it hard to hear, or to concentrate, and she was starting to get a headache, though it didn’t seem to center at the cut on her forehead. “No, I know that, I meant... where is Valtyra actually located? I don’t think I’ve ever seen it on a map.”
“Oh! No, it’s generally omitted. It’s an island in the North Sea.”
Poppy nodded, looking around. The view out the windows mostly looked like... airport, though a fairly small one. The usual empty land, for safety, seemed to give way pretty quickly to fields, at least on this side. When they made a turn, she caught a glimpse of a city.
None of it looked quite right, somehow. None of it looked like what she was looking for.
The plane was nearly motionless now, but the growl was getting louder. Poppy looked down at herself. Tristan had taken her raincoat off her at some point, but she was still wearing her fleece.
The bag was still under it, against her chest, holding the stones. And her bunny, but she didn’t think her bunny was the culprit here.
“Tristan,” she said, trying to keep her voice level the way he usually did. “I think the tiger is awake. And it wants to go home.”
T
ristan’s eyes went wide, his lips parting—she would have thought something of him showing what he was thinking so easily, if she had room to think of anything but the tiger, and the words behind the growl, still not quite intelligible. The sense of them seemed clearer with every beat of her heart: home, home, home.
“Do you know where?” Poppy asked.
She thought she could find it if she had to—if she had to walk, the tiger would guide her. But this would be a lot faster if she didn’t have to stop and listen to its directions.
And she wasn’t sure she wanted to spend that much time listening to what it was saying.
“Yeah,” Tristan said, bursting into motion all at once. “Yeah, I’ll get a car, we’ll go. I know the way.”
Poppy closed her eyes and trusted him to handle it.
*~*~*
Poppy rode in the passenger seat of the SUV while Tristan drove, the wrapped stones cradled in her lap. She had put everything else back in her pack, but she couldn’t let go of the stones. She didn’t dare unwrap them, but they seemed... calmer, being held close to her.
She tried to watch the scenery, tried to listen to the occasional questions Tristan asked her, but she couldn’t think. And then they came around a curve at the top of a slope, and instead of forest and fields and small towns, she was looking out at the sun shining on the sea.
The growl of the tiger seemed to settle into something like a purr, and the pounding of home, home, home in her head seemed to become less a demand and more like recognition.
“Are we close?”
Tristan looked over her, and she could see every bit of his relief on his face, a painfully obvious expression.
“Yeah, we’re just starting up the mountain. Their mountain.”
Poppy breathed a sigh of relief and sat up straighter as Tristan returned his attention to the mountain road, which was now climbing a steep grade. She could look down and see the green margin of land between them and the ocean, but most of the view was water.
They climbed higher and higher in a series of switchbacks; after two or three of those their speed dropped as the paved road gave way to dirt. A couple of miles further the road just ended, a low stone wall ringing the end of the road.
“This is where we park,” Tristan explained. “We’re on foot from here.”
Poppy could see some tire tracks in the dust, though there were no other cars parked in the little area. She couldn’t remember seeing another car on the road in the last few miles, either.
Poppy just nodded. She could feel the tiger getting excited again, eager to cover the last distance home, but it didn’t seem quite so impatient.
Soon, she silently promised. We’re almost there.
They got out of the car, and Tristan stripped off his suit coat and his shoes and socks. He opened his suitcase and packed some of its contents into a makeshift pack improvised from another button-down shirt, slinging it over one shoulder while Poppy made a sling of a scarf to keep the stones held against her chest like a baby, so she’d have her hands free for the trail.
It was a narrow, grassy track, obviously not much used, but someone had kept it clear of trees and low branches, and there were light-colored stones lining the outside edge whenever they came near a drop-off.
At one of those, Tristan hesitated, looking out, not at the sea, but the next mountain to the north. Poppy curled one arm around the stones to shush them and took his hand with the other, looking in the same direction and wondering what he saw.
Tristan moved behind her and held his other arm over her shoulder, guiding her eye as he pointed. “There. You see the red roofs?”
Poppy squinted and nodded, staring at the speckle of color in the gray-and-white height. The little town looked incredibly isolated, far distant from any other buildings.
“That’s where I grew up. I don’t mean to ever see it again from closer than this.” Tristan said simply. “Neither of us would be welcome.”
Poppy turned under his arm, looking up at him. Tristan kept squinting across the distance to his former home, then finally looked down at her.
His expression softened, and he kissed her gently.
“I love you,” he said quietly. “You are my world now. And even if you were not—even if I had never found you, if I had no mate in all the world or a very different one—you must believe, I still would have hated everything my family ever tried to teach me about how shifters must keep apart from humans.”
“Oh.” Poppy reached up, running her fingers over his cheek. “That kind of small town, huh?”
She’d never been the odd one out for being human before, but she’d traveled enough to be visibly a stranger in other ways—and she knew Tristan would have stood out sharply in plenty of places where she had lived.
“Yes,” Tristan said simply. “So I left, and I don’t mean to go back. I’m sorry I don’t have a big happy family to offer you, but...”
“I’ve got a little happy family,” Poppy put in. “My mom and dad are great, and so’s Signy, and—we’ll build our own, that’s all.”
Tristan nodded, and they turned away from the view together and kept climbing, hand in hand.
She was reminded, though, to ask. “Do you know—is Peter okay?”
Tristan nodded. “Nikolai—they confirmed it was Nikolai—got a few bites in, but Peter’s going to be all right, and they successfully arrested Nikolai and that hawk shifter. And Magnus approved officially seconding Peter to the investigation over there, so he’ll be pleased about that.”
Poppy nodded and squeezed Tristan’s hand, unsure how to tell Tristan that she thought he had done the right thing for Peter when she knew so little about everything that had happened. They walked in silence after that.
Poppy was just starting to be aware of the altitude thinning the air when the path turned inward from the edge of the mountain, flattening out as it led through a narrow cleft. Tristan pushed her to go ahead of him, and she kept her grip on his hand as they walked single file, stone walls close around them, for a dozen yards or so.
The sky was still bright above them, and Poppy could feel the tiger leaning forward somehow. But she felt something else, from the rock walls or the path itself. It was welcoming somehow, as though they were already in the front hall of a house where their own bed awaited them.
It’s not just where the stones belong. We’re coming home too, she thought, and half-ran the last few yards, with Tristan jogging along behind her, to where the path opened out again.
Poppy stopped and stared at the sight before her. The mountainside continued to rise to her left, but the wall of rock curved away as if someone had scooped out a piece to make this sheltered, green valley high on the mountain. Water streamed down the higher rock in a few places, tumbling into streams that fed a lake, and dotted around the lake were small stone buildings, slate-roofed, with tended trees and flowers around them.
Five of the cottages were closed up tight, windows shuttered, with an air of emptiness around them—Poppy was reminded of the bear stone, correct in its physical form, but lifeless. But two, next door to each other on the far side of the lake, were obviously occupied. Their front doors were brightly painted—one green, one blue—and they had thriving garden patches nearby.
As Poppy watched, the blue door opened, and the distant figure of a white-haired woman waved to them, then beckoned in a gesture clear even from the other side of the lake.
Poppy looked back at Tristan, who squeezed her hand and smiled encouragingly. Tristan stepped up beside her, and they started along the path together. It curved around between the natural wall of the mountain and the cottages, with footbridges over the streams that ran down to the lake.
Closer up, Poppy could see that something was not quite right here. Some of the slate tiles were missing from the roof of the nearest house, and cracks showed in the stone walls. The first footbridge, too, was suspiciously new-looking, as though it had recently had to be rebuilt. And some of the trees showed scars where
branches had been torn away—the bright inside of the trees still showed through, not much weathered, as though it had happened this summer.
“Are there many storms, up here?” Poppy asked, looking around.
“No,” Tristan said, sounding a bit grim. “We are on the lee side of the mountain. Strong storms shouldn’t reach this place.”
Poppy looked down at the tiger, which seemed to have gone silent, though it ought to have been ever more eager to get all the way home.
It wasn’t until they were crossing one of the bridges that Poppy noticed another narrow crack in the stone wall, right beside one of the waterfalls. The crevice was shadowed, but Poppy could see stone steps rising up between the sheer stone walls, climbing higher still up the mountain.
Into its heart, Poppy thought, and curled her arm tightly around the stones she carried on her chest.
“Poppy?”
Poppy looked back at Tristan and found that he was still standing on the path, just past the bridge, but she had taken two steps off it, toward that hidden stair.
“Do we need to go now?” Tristan asked her. “Or can we go and speak to the lady of this place, first?”
Poppy looked toward the stair again. It was where she would need to take the stones, of course, and Tristan had known it without her even having to say.
But the stones themselves were still silent, and once Poppy wasn’t staring at that path, she could think again.
“No,” Poppy said, tearing her gaze away to look toward the cottages and the lake again, and the vista of sky and sea beyond the lip of the valley. “No, we should speak to her first. These sorts of things always end badly if you start by being rude to an old lady, don’t they?”
Tristan squeezed her hand, tugging her back onto the path and curling his arm firmly around her. “That’s the way I’ve always heard it, yes.”