The Archer (The Blood Realm Series Book 3)

by Jennifer Blackstream

  “I know your tricks. That won’t work.”

  You know my tricks, but that tremor in your voice says it doesn’t matter. Robin didn’t speak, didn’t need to.

  “Marian, why aren’t you in the field? It’s getting late, have you weeded the tomatoes?” The woman spoke this time, her voice softer than her husband’s, more hurt than angry, but with the same hint of chastisement that her husband had managed. “You cannot take from the land without giving back, Marian, don’t you remember? It’s so important, especially for you. Idle hands, Marian. We worked so hard to save you, from death and from yourself. Haven’t we earned your obedience? Don’t you want us to be proud of you?”

  The blood drained from Marian’s face. “Stop it now.”

  “We took you in, raised you as our own, loved you as our own. And this is how you thank us?” The man threw the shovel to the ground, the muscle in his jaw tightening with what could have been anger or pain.

  The soft thud of the shovel against the ground seemed to be the last straw. Tears flowed down Marian’s face, not a trickle, but a great flood that washed the last of the color from her cheeks. “Stop.”

  “We should have known better then to think we could take one of your kind and raise you to be good.” Her foster mother again, her voice sad with the thick promise of her own tears.

  The bow fell from her hands. Marian crumpled to the ground in a heap of rich fabric, wild red hair, and shoulder-racking sobs.

  The glamour released with a tangible snap, severing the flow of power. Robin fell back onto the ground, limp as a rag doll. The pain in his ankle throbbed in time with his racing heart and he swallowed a groan. Inch by agonizing inch, he lowered his injured limb to the ground as he had yesterday, let the touch of the earth speed the healing. After a few long minutes, he could breathe normally.

  Marian’s soft sobs tickled his ears, drawing his attention to where she remained curled up in a miserable ball in the dirt. He couldn’t see her face past the cloud of red hair hiding her, but he could see the white knuckles of her hands as she pressed her fists into the earth, could see the heaving of her shoulders.

  It would be ridiculous to feel sorry for her. She was going to shoot me. Would have shot me. I did what I had to do.

  He drummed his fingers over the ground, combed them through the grass over and over in rhythmic strokes. A sigh dragged itself from the depths of his being. Careful not to jar his ankle anymore than absolutely necessary, he scooted closer to Marian. Very slowly, he put his arm around her.

  Chapter Ten

  “Sheriff, are you certain you’re all right?”

  Mac curled his hand into a fist and forced it down to his side. He’d been doing it again. Massaging the spot on his chest where that cursed trickster had convinced him he’d been shot. Even now, astride his horse and heading for the home of Robin Hood’s newest beneficiary, he could still feel the arrow protruding from his chest, vibrating wooden shaft nestled amidst slivers of broken bone and a growing pool of warm blood. He reached up to curl his fingers around the polished iron he once again wore around his neck, ignoring the way the buzzing in his ears grew louder.

  “I’m fine.” He put force into his words, a little heat to convince the guard traveling with him that further questions would be unwise. The sandy-haired guard took the hint, even going so far as to slow his horse, fall back a few paces so Mac could take point.

  As he should have from the beginning. Mac’s skin itched beneath his clothes and he caught his hand halfway to his chest before he realized he’d moved. He dropped his hand to the saddle horn and squeezed until the ache in his muscles blocked out the imaginary pain of a wound that had never been real. I will kill him for that.

  “It’s the same fey, isn’t it?”

  “What?” Mac jerked in the saddle, swiveling his head to face the guard with enough force that a sharp stab of pain lanced his neck. “What did you say?”

  The guard bit his lip, looked like he might mutter an excuse, take back what he’d said. Pale blue eyes darted from side to side, flitting about the fields that lined either side of the road they traveled. Then he sat a little straighter and met Mac’s eyes.

  “The fey that…that glamoured the guards and the hysterical prisoner. Who…shot you. It’s the same fey that we encountered last time.”

  “He did not shoot me, it was a mere glamour.” Mac narrowed his eyes. “What last time?”

  The guard shifted, his leather armor creaking. “But it felt real didn’t it? Even though your brain knows it’s not real, it still feels like it’s happening. It hurts, and it’s like it doesn’t matter that it’s not real, because it convinces you it is real, and maybe…maybe that’s enough for it to kill you.”

  Mac tugged the reins of his horse, waited for the guard to catch up so they once again rode side by side. He studied the man more closely now, taking the time to distinguish him from the host of other faceless weapon-bearers who followed his orders. He’d looked young at first, but now that he looked closer, Mac noticed the crow’s feet around the guard’s eyes, the shine of silver hair nestled amidst the tarnished gold.

  “What last time?” he asked again, more gently this time.

  The guard shuddered, though he didn’t look away. “It was last year, a few weeks before the solstice. Me and four other guards rode out with you, chasing the man you said was robbing all those nobles, er, people. One of our arrows had cut his leg and the dogs had picked up his scent. We almost had him, when…”

  The guard trailed off, but Mac was already lost in the memory. He could feel the sharp bite of the wind, the icy chill that slid down his spine with every gust. The crisp scent of snow. The red shine of blood in the moonlight, its coppery essence invading his senses, underlying the screams…

  It was never far from his mind. The greatest nightmare he’d ever experienced. The day he’d realized that the thief he pursued was not a human, but a fey. The day he had moved beyond wanting to see justice done and had started hating Robin Hood.

  “I remember catching sight of him, a green tunic and leggings, but no coat, no cloak of any kind. I remember thinking that was strange, but then he turned. His eyes were…glowing. And then…then the wolves came.”

  “Yes.” Mac cut him off, his voice a little too loud. He didn’t want the guard to speak of what had happened next. Bad enough he remembered it at night when he closed his eyes, remembered the teeth and claws, the lupine eyes glowing in the moonlight. The blood soaked fangs, the shredded flesh. It had been fake, all of it. Everything but the screams of the guards who’d believed they were being eaten alive. Those had been real. His screams had been real.

  “Will he do it again?” The guard’s voice was admirably strong, despite a slight waver. More so than most men’s would have been.

  “Are you wearing iron?”

  “Yes.” He shuddered slightly. “I’ve worn it since that night.”

  “Then you are as protected as you can make yourself.”

  “But… But weren’t you wearing the same this morning when he came? When he—”

  “Enough!” Mac jerked hard on the reins, dragging his horse to a stop. The black beast snorted and tossed its head, stomping the ground as if it would throw Mac from the saddle. Mac dug his heels into the beast’s sides and wrapped the reins around his fist. He was in precisely the mood for a fight and the animal seemed to sense it. With one more irritated snort, it settled. As the minor battle of wills ended, the self-censure he’d been fighting all morning rose to swamp him.

  No, he had not been wearing iron that morning. Oh, he’d had it on him, in a manner of speaking. It was the small coin he kept in his desk drawer, a precaution in case he rode out straight from the courthouse to pursue a lead on Robin Hood, or in the event the odd fey showed up, or halfblooded fey as was more likely the case. It had been the same coin he’d used to test Marian’s companion, the reason the fey had…

  But he hadn’t been wearing it as he should have. If he had, he might hav
e had a chance at fighting the glamour, might have at least taken some of that bone-deep detail out of it, enough to shrug off the pain. But he hadn’t. His family was no fey, but the magic of the curse had left him with a mild reaction to iron. Nothing so severe as a fey would experience, but just enough to make it uncomfortable to carry on his person. That horrid buzzing in his ears that made it so much harder to concentrate, to think clearly. It scattered his thoughts, and if he wore it too long, he began to feel very much as if he were going mad…

  The reins creaked as he tightened his grip. He would not make that mistake again. He was wearing his iron pendant now, and the buzzing in his ears was infinitely preferable to the alternative.

  He exhaled slowly through his nose and faced the guard. “Listen to me now…?”

  “Glen.”

  “Glen. Caution is a necessity. You are absolutely right, the fey should not be underestimated and we must do whatever we can to fortify ourselves against his tricks. However, I want to make something absolutely clear. This fey is not invincible. He has weaknesses like any other, and he will be defeated like any other.”

  The guard fixed his gaze straight ahead and nodded once a little too quickly. “Yes, sir.”

  They rode in silence for a few moments. Mac tapped his thigh, musing on the guard and everything he’d said. “Are there many in the guard who are aware of this Robin Hood’s true nature?”

  “No. Only those of us who were… Those of us who were with you that night. We dare not speak of it to anyone else. How could we? How can you explain to anyone… They wouldn’t understand how real…” He trailed off, frustration strangling his last words. He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Some wouldn’t even believe we encountered a real fey. And those who would believe would be terrified. What good would it do to cause such a panic?”

  Mac raised his eyebrows, looking at the guard with new respect. “A wise decision.” Perhaps I have been wrong not to include them.

  “So this woman we’re going to see. You think she’s connected to the fey? To Robin Hood?”

  “All that is certain right now is that she was the recipient of Robin’s ill-gotten gains. We must question her.”

  “Are you going to call her eric? If the money she paid it with was stolen…”

  “I cannot prove that it was stolen,” he muttered bitterly. “Despite the fact that there were witnesses to the glamour who saw it fall apart when Robin left, none of them can”—or will—“swear that it was Lady Marian’s companion who was responsible. Right now, Lady Marian is just a witness, someone who may be able to lead us to Robin Hood.”

  “If he helped her, then what is her motivation to cross him?”

  Mac allowed himself a small smile. There was the rub, something even Robin Hood could not have known. Lady Marian was a shrew. Never had Mac known any woman so adverse to other people, a woman who so completely preferred solitude to company of any kind. A woman who despised men who pursued her so passionately. He had seen the look on her face when Robin had claimed to be her fiancée. The fey might have meant it as a joke, but it could very well be his undoing.

  A woman scorned makes a valuable witness.

  “I will offer her the four hundred pounds she paid me in exchange for information regarding the fey. She will be hard pressed to turn away such a sum for something so paltry as information.”

  “And if she doesn’t see it that way?”

  “Witnesses say Robin Hood rode away on a horse with Lady Marian. Since the fey has never been seen on horseback, it is not unreasonable to assume that the mount belonged to Lady Marian. If that is true, then Robin Hood was here, for at least a short time. Long enough that some of the servants may have seen him, may have some information I can use.”

  At long last, the endless fields gave up their dominance for stretches of green grass leading up to a sprawling, well-manicured garden. Behind the squares of knee-high green hedges, and the clean white-stone paths that wound between rows of towering purple blossoms, rose Lady Marian’s family home. The pale grey stone stood proudly on a slight swell in the land, giving it a fair perspective of the surrounding area. Mac glanced to the west at what had formerly been his cousin’s land and was now his. He made a mental note to be sure the paperwork was in order so he could proceed with claiming that property. If Lady Marian turned out to be useful, it may behoove him to have quarters so close.

  As they neared the gardens, Mac noticed a woman working behind a particularly tall cluster of white flowers, her shoulders just visible over the green hedge. Following a sudden hunch, he turned his horse to head in that direction, slanting away from the main house. “This way,” he called over his shoulder. “I want to speak with this woman before meeting with Lady Marian.”

  The soft thud of the horses’ hooves on the dirt road gave way to the sharp clack of horseshoes against stone. The gardener looked up just in time for Mac’s shadow to fall over her face, shielding her eyes from the sun.

  The dirt-encrusted laborer eyed Mac and Glen for less than ten seconds before returning her attention to the weed at hand. “I’m paid up through Saturday.”

  Mac rolled his eyes. “I am not here for tax collection. What is your name?”

  “Why are you here if not for taxes?” The woman leaned over, peering around Mac to the guard. “Besides chipping away at our good walking path. And what do you need an escort for?”

  “Your name, woman!”

  The gardener narrowed her eyes and slowly sat back on her heels. “Ermentrude O’Leary. What is this about, anyway?” She looked back and forth from Mac to Glen, a sudden tension creeping up her spine. “Is this about Patrick? He’s just a boy, he doesn’t mean any harm.” A storm cloud rolled over her face and she gripped the gardening spade tighter in her hand. “If that old bat Mrs. Lonnegan’s been complaining again—”

  “Lady Marian came into town today with a gentleman escort,” Mac interrupted, fighting the urge to rub his temples to soothe the headache that was quickly forming there. “Who is he?”

  Ermentrude’s shoulders slumped briefly only to stiffen again almost immediately. “What concern is that of the law?”

  Mac dropped his hands, gripping his saddle so he could lean forward to pin the gardener with one of his darker stares. “At the moment, it is a distraction. Something to keep my mind from other matters—such as young Patrick and the rather serious trouble he’s found himself in.”

  He had no idea who this Patrick was, or what sort of shenanigans he was prone to that so concerned Ermentrude, but his stab in the dark struck home. The gardener’s face lost its superior air and the spade sagged to the ground. “He’s only sixteen.”

  “Old enough to be locked up if Mrs. Lonnegan has her way,” Mac said evenly. “Unless of course I am too preoccupied with other matters to bother…?”

  “I don’t know anything about the gentleman.” Ermentrude held the spade in both hands now, twisting the gardening implement until it creaked. “I never met him before today.”

  There was a distinct hesitation in her voice—a common trait of witnesses who knew more than they wanted to say. Mac sat straighter in his saddle and raised the reins as if preparing to leave. “If you have no pertinent information to share regarding Lady Marian and her new companion, then perhaps our time would be better spent discussing young Patrick’s fate. I don’t suppose you have the funds to pay his rather considerable eric?”

  “She called him up to her bedroom,” Ermentrude blurted out. Her face went beet red, but it was difficult to tell if it was scandal, embarrassment, or anger. “And he… He kissed her. Right here in the garden.”

  Mac’s eyebrows met his hairline and the guard behind him made a strange sound in his throat. “They are…romantically involved?”

  The gardener shot to her feet, her face still a rather unflattering mottled red. “I don’t know. And that’s the truth of it!”

  “Well then, I suppose I’ll have to chat with the Lady Marian herself.” He gathered t
he reins more firmly in his grip and prepared to turn his horse toward the main house.

  “You won’t do it now, she’s not in.”

  “She’s…” Mac sat back in his saddle, blinking as the implication of the gardener’s news sunk in. “She’s…still with him?”

  Ermentrude pressed her lips together, obviously realizing she’d volunteered more information.

  Mac’s brain whirled. How quickly things had changed. If this gardener was correct and there was something more between Robin Hood and Lady Marian than the usual thief and beneficiary…

  “You have been most helpful, Miss O’Leary. I trust you’re capable of keeping my little visit between us? And in consideration for your contribution to my pursuit of justice, I will put young Patrick from my mind…for now.”

  Something flared in Ermentrude’s eyes, anger or defiance, perhaps. It didn’t escape his notice that she’d clenched her hands into fists, that one foot had moved forward as if she would knock him from his horse. Mac waited, held her gaze. Strong women were like any wild animal. If you allowed them to intimidate you, then you were lost and they would eat you alive. It was important to set the tone of the relationship early.

  Bit by bit, Ermentrude’s temper waned, her shoulders sliding down, the set of her jaw sagging. Finally she dropped her gaze to the ground.

  Mac nodded slowly, firmly. “Good day, Ermentrude.”

  “Good day, sheriff.”

  Her tone did not match the sentiment, but she didn’t spit on him either, so perhaps a win. Regardless, Mac had no more time for a battle of wills.

  Robin Hood has a lady love.

  The possibilities swarmed him in a chaotic mass, one thought following another so closely he could scarcely think straight. He needed more information, needed clarity. And there was only one way to get it.