by Dani Harper
Brooke studied his arm with grudging approval. “Your healer did a wonderful job, then. Burns are difficult to work with. You say you got this in a forge—what’s that? Like a blacksmith shop?”
“I am a smith.” If he gave some information, he might gain some in return. “Pledged to Gofannon, the god of all who work metal.”
The frown may have lessened somewhat from her fair face, but her demon was as impatient as ever. “Okay, so she’s a witch and you’re a blacksmith. Heartwarming story, but that still doesn’t tell us who the hell you are. Or what made you crash through her window. Were you spying on her? Because I swear I will kill you, man. How do we know you’re not some kind of a perv?”
“I have to agree with my friend,” said Brooke, before Aidan could continue. “If you’re going to spend time in my house buck naked, you need to be telling me your name, where you’re from, and what the hell you were doing on my roof. Last chance, mister.”
On some level, it was satisfying that his lack of clothing had annoyed her. In another time and place he might have teased her on purpose just to see if he could make little cherries of color appear on her cheekbones. Right now, his own patience had thinned out again, and his anger was going to tear through it at any moment. He was out of his element, confused, and strangely glad that someone besides himself was mightily annoyed about it. Plus, he was angry at himself—it had to be more than coincidence that Brooke and Annwyl resembled each other so closely, yet he was rapidly losing his battle to be wary.
He shook his head. “Names have power, as you well know,” he snapped. “I would have the name of your cythraul first, that he can work no mischief on me and mine.” At her blank look, he added: “Your demon. Give me his true name.”
“But I don’t have a—” Understanding dawned, and she looked aghast at the snake-eyed creature beside her. “George! Take out those damn contacts right now!”
Aidan’s eyebrows shot up as the two of them argued right in front of him, not as master and servant as he’d assumed, but more like brother and sister. The demon was much louder, but in the end, he finally gave in to her. Still complaining, he turned away and bent his head over his cupped palm. When he turned back, he had brown eyes—human brown eyes—and extended his hand so Aidan could see two tiny golden disks in it, as delicate as the scales of a fish. The young man then held up one of them so Aidan could see the light shine through it—and there was the snakelike pupil that had made him appear as a creature from hell.
Well, damn. Aidan blew out a breath, feeling more than a little foolish. With all the centuries of watching humanity as an unseen observer, he thought he recognized most fashions, even those of far-off countries as other peoples either visited Wales or adopted it as their home, and including the stranger trends that always seemed to be favored by the young. Apparently, I have much more to learn. Besides, he still didn’t quite know where he was—outside of Cymru, there was an entire world that was new to him. “It seems I am mistaken,” he said to the young man. “Truly, though, you would be a demon in a fight.” He rubbed his jaw for emphasis (but truth be told, Brooke’s unexpected punch had done more damage).
Somewhat placated, the younger man nodded. “Name’s George,” he said. “George Santiago-Callahan, from the great state of Washington. Species: one hundred percent human. And you have an effin’ tough jaw yourself, man.” He narrowed his now-brown eyes. “But that doesn’t mean we’re pals now.”
No, it didn’t, but at least Aidan was satisfied that he was dealing with creatures of the earthly plane—and there were none of those he feared. He introduced himself. “My name is Aidan ap Llanfor. My shop was near Aberhonddu in the simple country of Wales and a much simpler time. And where exactly is this Washing-tonne I now stand in? And when?”
If he’d thought his introduction would please or at least appease Brooke and George, he was mistaken. They exchanged shocked glances.
“I don’t think there’s a town called Wales in the States,” whispered Brooke.
“I don’t think so either, chica.” George finally cleared his throat and asked Aidan, “Dude, that’s not Wales as in Britain, is it?”
“Aye, it is. I stood upon the soil of my homeland only last night. This last mortal night, I mean to say. Time does not move the same in the faery realm.”
George’s human eyes goggled. “Jesus, every time I think we’re getting somewhere, you say something even weirder, man. Fairies? Really?” He put an arm around the woman’s shoulders. “He’s talking about fairies. Let me call the cops now. We’ve done our best to be patient and make nice, Brooke, but come on, the guy’s obviously trippin’.”
Brooke silenced him with a look and focused on Aidan. “Wales is a helluva long way from my house, mister. How on earth did you get here?”
“I sought to escape the realm and was pursued by the Wild Hunt. I fought with Lurien, their leader, and I know not which of us might have prevailed. All I remember was that I was suddenly pulled away into a tunnel of stars, then blackness. When I woke up, I was here. And I was human again,” he added. “I haven’t been inside this body in a thousand years.”
“Of course you haven’t!” George threw up his hands and walked away, muttering rapidly. He punched an oak window frame and the last of the glass fell from it into the street below.
Brooke sighed in exasperation but didn’t take her gaze from Aidan’s face. “So is that why this body of yours is in such perfect shape? Because it’s in damn excellent condition for being ten centuries old.”
The whole story sounded fantastical, even to him. “Perhaps,” he said irritably, then added, “Do you like what you see, Brooke Halloran? Did you like how it felt?” What the hell was he doing? It wasn’t in his nature to be so blatant or so crass. An ale-headed lad seeking to impress a barmaid into smacking him had more manners than he was presently exhibiting. In fact, normally, he would have covered himself immediately in the presence of a woman—but nothing was normal at the moment, and it hadn’t been for a long, long time.
And so here he stood, annoyed, still half naked, and daring Brooke, and he didn’t know why—nor did he know precisely what he was daring her to do. Perhaps some childish part of him just wanted some petty retaliation for the fact that she was not his beloved, wanted to kick back against the pain she was causing him just by existing. Every particle of his being had reacted at that first sight of her, thinking she was his Annwyl, and it was a cruel joke that she wasn’t. Grief scored his heart with razor claws, and as wrong as he knew it to be, Aidan wished he wasn’t the only one hurting.
Apparently, however, Brooke was neither interested in swooning over his physique or slapping him for his rudeness. Her gaze didn’t wander in the slightest, and exactly why did he feel as transparent as glass before those discerning blue-green eyes? Were he to lie, she would undoubtedly know it. And he was certain she wouldn’t require one bit of magic to detect an untruth.
“Okay, let’s recap here, shall we?” She held up her hand and started counting off her fingers. “One, you traveled all the way from Wales to here, which is about five thousand miles or so, within the last twenty-four hours. Two, the faeries, as you call them, have been chasing you because you’re some sort of escaped prisoner. Three, you don’t know how you got here and I’m guessing no airplane was involved. Do you know where you are, by the way?”
He shook his head.
“Okay, then. Four, you have no idea where here is. And five, your human body has been in storage for centuries and you just now got it back.
“Am I right so far?”
“Aye.” It was all true, every bit of it, but he had no way to prove it, and that simply ramped up his frustration to dangerous levels. He found himself wanting to punch something, again and again, until his knuckles bled. Aidan clenched his jaw and his fists, struggling to get his burgeoning anger under control. Especially when Brooke’s companion chose that moment to rejoin them. George’s hands were in his pockets, and he kicked at the glass as he s
huffled through it. The casualness was an act, however. His gaze was sharp and full of purpose. “I think I have the perfect question for you, man. If you haven’t been human for a thousand years, then just what the hell have you been?”
Demon or not, Aidan wasn’t inclined to respond to his question. But it was Brooke’s face in front of his own, and he could do nothing but give her the truth. Whether it was for Annwyl’s sake or something else, he didn’t know, but he gave her the answer.
“The Fair Ones forced me to be a herald of death for the past thousand years. A grim. In Wales, it’s called a barghest or a gwyllgi.”
Behind them, George snorted. “What kind of a monster is that? Sounds like an elf or a gremlin, or hell, it could be a cute fluffy bunny for God’s sake.”
“There’s nothing cute about a grim,” said Aidan. “It’s a great black—”
“Dog!” Brooke’s face lost all color and she sank back to lean on the wall, with her hands on her forehead. “Holy crap, George,” she said. “The dogs. The dogs in the cards, all those readings. That’s what the Universe has been trying to tell me. Even the Death card had a…” She opened her eyes wide and pointed at Aidan. “That’s why Death had a dog! It’s you. You’re his messenger!”
She slowly turned her hand and pointed to herself then, resting her finger between her breasts.
“And I called you here. I thought I was summoning El Guardia, a spirit dog, to my circle and somehow I got you instead.”
George looked downright shaken. “What have you done, chica? What have you done? I would never have told you about El Guardia if I thought you’d try to call him up. This is not like dialing a wrong number. You could have been hurt. You could have been killed.”
Her friend hugged her tight and kissed the top of her head, but Aidan could swear he was drawing as much comfort as he was trying to give. That wasn’t surprising. Aidan didn’t have the slightest idea what or who the dog spirit was that Brooke had been trying to summon, only that the creature sounded unpleasant—but he was surprised to catch himself wishing he were the one putting arms around her. And he’d kiss a lot more of her…
Damn it all to hell. He would have to be much more careful, more cautious with his emotions. Right now it was no doubt the shock of everything that had happened, the flood of memories and emotions, Brooke’s uncanny resemblance to his betrothed, that was addling his brain. He couldn’t afford to be so distracted: he had a vow to fulfill.
Now that he’d regained his body, he would learn all that he could and seek to arm himself with knowledge as well as weapons. Perhaps he could persuade this gwddon, this witch, to help him with her magic too. Because he was more determined than ever to return to the faery realm and face Celynnen, even if he had to move heaven and earth to do it.
By Gofannon, he would see fear appear in that cold fae’s eyes, right before he avenged his Annwyl.
TEN
Brooke was thankful beyond words that Olivia had somehow made sense of her frantic phone call. While the older woman didn’t panic in the least (as if strangers fell through skylights every day), she certainly reacted with appropriate haste and brought all that had been asked for, and then some. What Brooke appreciated most, however, was the huge sense of relief she felt when Olivia walked in. Funny how being a grown-up didn’t make you any less glad to have a mom on the scene. Whether it was your own or someone else’s mother, it was like having the cavalry arrive. One way or another, order was darn well going to be restored, at least as much as it could be under the circumstances.
“Madre de Dios,” said Olivia, dropping her two huge shopping bags in the doorway and crossing herself at the sight of the destroyed room. “There is glass outside all over the sidewalk, but I did not realize—m’ija, are you sure you are all right?” She grabbed both of Brooke’s hands, and it was a few moments before she was satisfied the young woman was unhurt.
That’s when George jerked a thumb in the direction of Aidan, who still wore nothing but the dog-printed tablecloth around his hips. For a split second, Olivia goggled, then crossed herself once more and immediately got down to business. While Brooke and George had focused on the who and why and how of the situation, George’s mother gave her entire attention to the physical reality. Her son was handed a fresh T-shirt, then dispatched to get some tools and to start cleaning up the broken window glass on the pavement in front of the shop. Then she turned to Aidan. Maybe it was that mom thing in action, coupled with the fact that Olivia was a force of nature all out of proportion to her diminutive size, but within seconds she had him sitting down on Brooke’s little round altar table, where she could reach him to check him over.
Immediately, she pulled an inch-long chunk of glass out of his shoulder blade with her fingers, then two more from his calf. “He must shower,” she pronounced. “And very carefully. There’s glass dust and slivers in his hair and embedded in his skin. He certainly can’t put clothes on over that, and I need some of this blood washed off so I can see where it’s coming from.”
“I need no healer,” protested Aidan, but that was as far as he got.
“You! Just like every other big strong man in the world, you think you’re invincible.” Olivia shook her finger at him. That was at his nose level, since he was seated. “But you are not a superhero. There is glass sticking out of your stubborn hide, and you are getting blood all over the place. If you do not care about yourself, fine, but you are not going to make a mess while I am here.” She hustled him off to the apartment—and no way was Brooke going to dare to complain about that, even if she wasn’t sure she liked the idea of the stranger being in her home. In her shower. With warm water running like rain over his…
If she hadn’t had such a lump on the back of her skull already, she might have smacked herself in the head just to get that image out of her brain. As it was, she was distracted by the absence of her cats as she entered her living quarters. The terrible trio didn’t run up to greet Brooke. Nor did they race to check out the stranger Olivia was escorting. Dry cat food was scattered from one corner of the kitchen to the other as if it had been rolled in—one spot looked suspiciously like a cat angel—yet the gang had made an admirable dent in the quantity. Easily half the box was gone. She tracked the group to a sunny spot between the window and the couch, where they were sprawled in Little Whiskers–induced comas. Rory was spread-eagled on his back, a bulge in his black-furred belly the only evidence of the feast. She shook her head. Occasionally, a customer would ask if her cats were her familiars, and it was always hard for Brooke not to laugh. In the old stories, familiars were alleged to be mystical advisers in animal form, basically a witch’s assistants. If only those clients could see the trio now…Assistants, my ass. More like furry overlords with a taste for expensive food.
Brooke snatched up a turquoise T-shirt out of the clean laundry and changed into it in the pantry—the bathroom was far too close to the bedroom for her to even think of getting dressed there. She hung the skull-festooned T on the coatrack, to return to George. She didn’t mind the darkly gothic design, but the shirt had definitely bothered Aidan. In retrospect, she could see that it might have contributed to the whole “evil witch who keeps company with demons” image; and somehow that made her want to wear it again, just to annoy him. Dark or light, indeed.
She swept up the remains of the uneaten cat food from the old oak floor in her bright kitchen, grateful for the sense of calm and peaceful energy that still existed in her orderly apartment. A simple spilled box of kibble (even ridiculously expensive kibble) couldn’t disrupt the chi in her home. The windows were unbroken in this part of the second story, the section of the ceiling high over the apartment was intact, and there wasn’t a speck of glass on the floor. What a stark and welcome contrast to the massive chaos in the much larger spell room! Some of that chaos was naturally due to the physical disaster, and it would go away when the mess was dealt with. Much of the chaotic energy, however, was no doubt because of Aidan himself, and that was much har
der to figure out. Was it emanating from him, or was he just causing it within her? And had it happened before or after that earthshaking kiss?
All of the above. She had felt attraction of course, despite the bizarre circumstances. She’d also experienced a strange, deep connection that didn’t make sense considering she’d never laid eyes on the guy before today. However, there was something more. Not only had he rocked her world with a kiss; Brooke had felt the soundless thrum of power begin to vibrate in her very bones as two magics mixed. Her Gift was one of them. Whatever the other power was, it had belonged to Aidan.
Having given the man in question a lengthy list of instructions about shampoo, conditioner, and other things probably not readily available in medieval Wales, Olivia reappeared. “Are you sure you’re all right? George said you tried to summon El Guardia. That’s really ambitious, m’ija.” She made coffee, then sat at the little bistro table in the kitchen as she so often did when she came to visit. This time, though, they weren’t talking about décor, or poring over catalogs, or discussing the latest movie. Instead, George’s mom questioned Brooke on every step of the spell, every detail and nuance of that night’s activities.
Brooke put out cups and condiments as she tried to recall every possible factor leading up to the blast. It wasn’t all that hard. “It was all about the intent, Olivia. I thought that was the most important part of every spell. I tried to set the stage to help focus my attention on my goal. All I wanted was for your mother’s spirit dog to help me with my magic. How the hell did I grab Aidan out of the Twilight Zone instead?”
“I do not understand it, m’ija. I myself have seen El Guardia in my mother’s sacred circle more than once, and this is not him. El Guardia is a dog, a big ferocious black dog and always a dog, never a big handsome naked man.”