by Dani Harper
At first, Aidan sought to rise even higher. He needed a steady wind to bear him away, but he found none that would help him. It seemed the greater the height, the more the winds bore east, and only east—if he lingered at this elevation, miles above the waves, his insubstantial self would be carried towards the Wild Hunt and certain death.
There was nothing to do but curse as he allowed himself to glide down to the restless ocean once more and then struggled to bear south and west on his own. Finally, he caught a breeze that would carry him along, but it was weak and his progress was slow. At this rate, Lurien would be able to overtake him with little effort, and mortal dawn was not close enough to aid him. He needed to do the unexpected one last time, create one more surprise, or all was lost.
Aidan murmured an ancient prayer he’d once learned from a fisherman. It was not a plea, for the gods who ruled in the depths of the sea had no pity, nor was it a promise, for they could not be bribed. Rather, it was a simple acknowledgment of their power and dominion. They would help him or kill him as they pleased. He passed seamlessly from the turbulent night air into the depths of the restless water itself, a tiny shadow merging with a great pool of darkness.
SEVEN
From his rocky hiding place far below the tossing waves, Aidan watched the Wild Hunt approach, riding upon the salt-sprayed air as if on solid ground. Thunder and lightning exploded overhead from the ugly, roiling clouds of the unnatural storm the Hunt had created. The hounds were ahead, of course, great red-eyed beasts, some white, some black, some mere shadows, and others with foaming jaws. They cast back and forth, ahead and behind, seeking a scent or perhaps the essence of Aidan’s soul. The riders had slowed their pace, their impatient mounts stamping their feet and frothing at the mouth as they fought their cruelly barbed bits.
Like most fae creatures, he could do without breathing for very long time, but he felt sorry for any sailors who might be at sea this night. The Hunt would be invisible to them, save for the very rare human who had the gift to perceive it. All they would see is the horrendous storm, and they would wonder both at its fury and at the suddenness with which it had blown up. Would any mortals drown this night because Lurien’s host rode outside the usual bounds?
From the depths, Aidan strained to see his enemies. The distance and the surging water distorted and colored his view as if he were looking through thick green glass. He knew what he expected to see, however.
When the Wild Hunt rode upon the land, they conscripted mortal horses from human pastures and stables, as fae horses were rare and few. Mortal men were swept up to ride the captive beasts—the greedy, the unjust, those who lied and cheated, those who stole and murdered, those who plotted and betrayed—however many the Hunt required were ridden down and forced to join. As a point of honor, the Tylwyth Teg would not steal. The horses would always be returned to their owners upon the next mortal morning—but many days might have passed in the faery realm. The hapless beasts would be worn and lathered, exhausted and often bleeding from the gouges of silver spurs. But they would be alive. Unlike the “borrowed” horses, the mortal men would not return, and their fate could only be guessed at.
That was how the Wild Hunt ran over the hills and valleys of Wales, and usually, they had no reason to leave Aidan’s fair homeland. Besides, what mortal horses could gallop in the air or keep their footing upon a storm-tossed ocean? The handful of Fair Ones who drove the Hunt could compel the beasts to do so, of course, but it would take up a great deal of magic and energy. And as for the mortal men who were usually pressed into service, they could not stay astride the wild-tempered fae horses even if there had been enough of the rare creatures to go around.
Knowing all these things, Aidan had calculated that the hunters who now pursued him over the Deep Waters must be Tylwyth Teg mounted on pure-blooded fae horses—and therefore very few in number.
Instead, a veritable horde passed solemnly overhead at a funereal pace. Here and there, the occasional fiery mount struck sparks from the air as it stamped impatiently, its fae rider wearing glowing leathers and wielding a whip of light that split the air with the deafening energy of lightning and magic combined.
The small company of Fair Ones were driving a vast number of hollow-eyed horses, horses with lank manes and hides that were sunken and shriveled or bloated and split, animals that were merely stretched flesh over bone, and many that had no flesh left at all. They churned the air over the waters far, far above Aidan, with lanky puppetlike limbs that ought not to be able to move at all. The riders were even more horrifying—their faces drawn and eyeless, jaws grinning as they clutched their mounts with bony fingers.
Lurien had called the dead to ride with the Hunt.
As the ghastly procession passed slowly overhead, the storm the Hunt brought with them intensified. All light was blotted out except for the strobing blasts of lightning that struck the waters with explosive force. Had Aidan been mortal, he would have been permanently blinded, even through closed eyelids. As a fae creature, he still had to strain to see past the hammering bolts interspersed with electricity that skittered across the tossing waves in strange bright balls. The few moments between strikes held darkness so complete Aidan felt he was in the very pit of hell, not merely hidden among the rocky spires of the deep ocean floor.
Twin forks of lightning stabbed the surface high above, and a single dark horse cantered from the rear of the eerie procession, parting it like an obsidian knife. Proud of bearing, its black hooves struck sparks from the ozone-laden air, and the crackle of blue static could be seen in the crested mane that fell as a curtain to its knees, and in its high arched tail that alternately flew in the wild air like a banner or draped past its fetlocks. Any resemblance to a mortal mount, however magnificent a specimen, ended there.
The fae horse was Bayard, one of the few stallions left in the realm. Its coat was the ever-changing blue gray of the thunder clouds overhead, and its glowing eyes were the unnerving green of hail-bearing skies. Serrated tusks jutted from its lower jaws, marking it as a flesh eater, and its broad forehead boasted an upswept pair of wicked horns. As frightening as Bayard was, Aidan barely looked at the creature. His eyes were on the dark figure astride the beast’s broad back. Bayard’s rider used neither saddle nor bridle, and his long hair was wild to the wind. Dark hair, black like his riding leathers…Lurien, Lord of the Wild Hunt, was directly above Aidan’s hiding place.
Though not in physical form, Aidan found himself instinctively drawing further into the crevices of the rocks. Fronds of kelp waved around him and fish darted to and fro, intent on their business. The strange shapes of large predators loomed out of the darkness from time to time, but they were no threat to a grim. In this moment, nothing on this earth or below it was as threatening as the fae leader high above seeking the black dog’s trail along the ocean’s surface. Even Lurien’s unnatural mount cast about for a scent as if it were a wolf seeking prey. Aidan did not fear pain or death—if they found him, he would go down fighting. But all of his hopes to avenge his Annwyl would be dashed forever.
Strangely, both horse and rider radiated frustration. Had Aidan succeeded in surprising them by secreting himself beneath the waves? In the faery realm, only kelpies, nymphs, and undines frequented water, and only fresh rivers and streams. Was the salt sea the refuge he’d hoped for?
Perhaps the sea gods were in a good mood, or perhaps Gofannon, the god of blacksmiths, had struck a bargain with them. Whatever the reason, no one appeared to discern Aidan’s hiding place far below the white-capped waves. If he’d needed to breathe, Aidan might have sighed in relief as the Lord of the Wild Hunt and his terrible horde passed slowly by, circling wider and wider. Suddenly, every head turned and some nameless instinct gripped Aidan’s heart. Dawn approached—not here in this place, not yet, but far away in his homeland of Cymru. Night was slowly giving way to day in the Black Mountains of Wales.
Above, Lurien cursed in languages not uttered since the dawn of the world itself, and he
cracked his light-whip high over his head. The Hunt wheeled as one and galloped at breakneck speed for the faery kingdom. The storm rolled with them, its deafening thunder nearly continuous now and the wild energy splitting the air before them. Aidan waited until they were finally beyond his supernatural sight and hearing, waited until the night sky cleared and the lowering moon returned to light up the green depths before he floated slowly upwards. He collected himself and resumed his form, breaking the surface as a massive black dog…
And he was immediately snared by a snaking coil of light. On the other end was Lurien, who sat calmly astride his monstrous mount, holding the whip as easily as a string around a butterfly.
“A good hunt, Aidan ap Llanfor. A very good hunt. The best I’ve had in time out of mind. I doubted you at first, you know, but you have proved yourself to be very worthy prey indeed.” He backed his horse steadily, keeping the whip taut around the grim’s throat. “It’s truly a shame you did not escape. I was rather hoping you would, and then perhaps we could do this again. In tribute to your effort, however, I will give you a quick death rather than deliver you to Celynnen. She does not deserve you.”
Aidan wasn’t interested in conversing. He thrashed and snarled and strained against the whip, trying in vain to escape its burning coils. Then, in a fraction of a fae moment, he ceased to pull against his captor and launched his powerful body straight at Lurien. Aidan’s action broke the tension in the coils of light, his momentum and size knocked the dark fae from his mount, and his long, sharp teeth seized the hand that held the whip. Lurien roared in pain yet did not let go, but he could do nothing while flailing in the salt water. The Lord of the Wild Hunt was forced to use magic to lift himself from the waves, to stand steady as if on dry land—no small feat with his whip hand trapped clear up to the elbow in the jaws of a giant grim. Muttering curses, the dark fae managed to draw his silver sword with his good hand, and he swung with all his formidable strength.
The faery-forged blade bit deep into the black body, severing it almost in two. Blue fae blood fountained all around as the grim’s jaws abruptly released the savaged hand. The Lord of the Wild Hunt swiped the blood from his face with the back of his fine leather sleeve, only to roar again, this time with rage and surprise.
The grim had vanished without a trace—and Lurien had just slain his horse.
Brooke surveyed her preparations. She had used pure white chalk to draw the circle this time, sprinkled with dried dogwood blossoms. Her cherrywood altar was customarily positioned east of her spell circles; now, it stood within the circle, at its very center. (Thankfully, it was round, or she’d be bruising her shins on the corners of the small table.) Cherrywood was said to be ideal for practicing animal magic, but so far, her cats had been completely unimpressed—unless you counted Rory sleeping on the table occasionally. Still, it couldn’t hurt to try.
Gone were the sunflowers, the amethyst candles, the bowl of salt, and the velvet covering. At Mel’s Gas and Grocery, she’d discovered anew that there were no coincidences: the first thing she’d found was a vinyl sheet with dogs on it. The design was on the silly side, but the principle was solid. She was summoning a dog, and she needed anything that would magnify her intent. The canine-decorated vinyl was intended for picnic tables, but she’d reshaped and repurposed it as an altar cloth. George would tease the life out of her if he ever saw it, and even more so if he caught sight of the corny things she’d arranged on top of the cloth—a grouping of rawhide bones, a tidy pile of dog biscuits shaped like fire hydrants, an open can of the most-flavorful-looking dog food on Mel’s shelves, and a selection of squeaky toys, all encircled by a bright green leash. Pictures of dogs clipped from magazines were carefully pinned to a trio of large pillar candles on the table. It might have been tempting to laugh at the entire setup—except among the candles, Brooke had placed one of her own treasures, a small stone statue of Hecate. The ancient goddess was poised, with her hand resting on the head of a large, dark hound. Hecate was the mistress of animals and patron of witchcraft and magic—and dogs, above all, were sacred to her.
Once her physical and spiritual preparations were complete, Brooke felt her focus strengthened. She pictured her intent as a narrow beam of brilliant light in her mind and held on to that sensation as she removed her kimono and tucked it neatly out of sight beneath the altar. Naked once more, Brooke paid reverence to the four directions and the five elements. She was one with her purpose, one with the earth, one with the energies that began to swirl around her. Eyes closed, placing one foot carefully in front of the other as if walking a tightrope, she circled the round altar three times three. The words that fell from her lips were not from any memorized spell, but instead they came naturally from her heart, from the very core of her being. Entreating El Guardia to aid her in freeing her magic, asking for the great dog’s protecting presence as she worked her spells, seeking his help in serving others with the power that had chosen her…
There was a vibration beneath her feet. For a split second Brooke thought it was merely a manifestation of power, until the entire building began to shake. Her eyes flew open as she struggled to hold on to her focus and her intention. Her mouth fell open as well when the simple chalk circle began to glow. Without warning, it erupted into a pulsing wall of golden light from oaken floor to high tin ceiling. She looked up to see that the square skylight was neatly enclosed within the circle and that the moon was aligned directly in the middle of the square.
Then, an enormous shadow blotted out the moon just before crashing through that skylight like a dark comet. Brooke got a brief glimpse of black fur, white teeth, and glowing eyes, all framed for a split second in a glittering diamond shower of shattered glass.
There was no time to scream.
The power that preceded the creature knocked her flying from the circle with tremendous force. Brooke struck the wall of her living quarters, slid down it, and knew nothing more.
EIGHT
The incessant pounding slowly brought Brooke out of the depths of unconsciousness. As she drifted upwards to awareness, she realized that the pounding had a voice, too.
“Goddammit, open this effin’ door!” It was George and he sounded absolutely furious—no, it was anger driven by worry, she decided.
What did G have to be worried about? Her eyes fluttered open but wouldn’t focus. It was bright, too bright. It couldn’t be morning, could it? Her hearing seemed to work just fine. The door in question was across the room at the top of the stairs, the door she passed through every night after she locked up the shop below. She didn’t lock this particular door—there was no key for it, and she didn’t want to replace the beautiful brass hardware—and so she spelled it before she went to bed. The ornate doorknob was rattling, there was another flurry of pounding on the door, and finally there was a huge crash followed by a great deal of swearing. The solid oak held, however, and so did her spell.
“Brooke, I swear to you, I will call the effin’ cops. I will call the fire department. I will call my mother to come down here if you do not open up!”
If George was threatening to bring in the big guns in the form of Olivia Santiago-Callahan, the situation must be dire. Brooke turned her head towards the frantic sounds, feeling her stomach lurch as the door slowly swam into focus. A few words came to mind, as if floating up from an abyss, and she mouthed them silently—
The door unlatched and George came hurtling through the entryway, all windmilling arms and wide eyes as he struggled to remain on his feet. Somehow his amazing balance enabled him to recover. That’s when he spotted Brooke and was at her side in a heartbeat. Or maybe it was ten heartbeats, or ten minutes, or ten whatevers—her sense of time was totally messed up.
“Dios mío, look at you! Who the fuck did this to you?” George ripped off his hoodie, then his T-shirt too, and tucked them over her with surprising gentleness even as he threatened to tear off her attacker’s balls with his bare hands.
Belatedly, Brooke realized she was
still sky clad—which sounded pretty but still meant “bare-assed naked.” “Crap,” she managed, her voice dry and raspy.
“Don’t try to talk. Who did this to you? Just rest, I’ll get you some water. What the fuck happened in here?”
She sucked in a full breath, and her brain finally came fully back on line. “You can’t ask me questions if you don’t want me to talk, G. It was just a spell.” She waved him back and tried to move. He protested but nonetheless helped her to a sitting position against the wall of her living quarters. She realized she wasn’t even an arm’s length from her door—and that Rory had his black paw under it almost to the shoulder, feeling around frantically as he made kittenlike mewls. Poor thing, he was probably worried about her. She reached out and patted his paw with what she hoped was reassurance but yelped as the paw instantly flipped over to hook the side of her hand with needlelike claws. “Ow!” She yanked her hand back. “You little dork, this is no time for playing!”
Growling sounds from somewhere above her meant that Jade was perched, vulturelike, on the top of the apartment wall—looking into the spell room. No, make that staring down at her owner. Brooke could almost feel the force of Jade’s you-haven’t-fed-me gaze boring into her skull. She couldn’t guess where Bouncer was. His silence probably meant he was busy trying to solve the problem of how to open the fridge. Any day now she was sure he’d succeed.