Something Magic This Way Comes

by Sarah A. Hoyt

  “Megan.”

  * * *

  Megan’s initial notion had been to get herself and Delorias as far from the place where he’d appeared as possible. That plan vanished a few steps along the path, when he stumbled and lurched into her. She caught his weight with a grunt of effort.

  He bowed his head, panting.

  While she strained to hold him upright, Megan began to realize how much damage those fancy clothes of his hid. Every time she tried to get a better grip through the slippery silk and torn velvet, he gasped with pain.

  She sighed and eased him to sit with his back against a tree. “This isn’t working. They already ran you damn near to death, didn’t they?”

  A little color touched those too-pale cheeks as he bowed his head. “Yes.”

  She frowned, her hands on her hips. “Great. I get myths dropping out of midair in front of me, a mythical chase that might or might not show up any time, and god only knows what else.” She shook her head.

  “To think all I wanted was a normal life.”

  Her words fell into silence.

  Ice crawled down Megan’s spine. The sudden stillness scraped at her nerves. There was a chill taste to the air under the smells of earth and summer growth.

  “The Hunt,” Delorias whispered.

  “Crap.” Ancient instinct lifted the hair on the back of her neck. Even in the mildest legends of the Hunt they ran their prey to the ground before they killed.

  No legend Megan had heard mentioned anyone escaping them. “What can you do? Throw stones? Anything?”

  He swallowed. “I may be able to work some minor magics, my Lady.” Everything about him spoke of hopelessness: his slumped posture, bowed head, listless voice.

  “Move.” The air above the trail shimmered. “Into the forest.” Megan grabbed his collar as she darted past, hauling him with her even though her arm screamed protest.

  Reality seemed to twist, then her ears popped, and there was sound once more. The sound of restless mounts, of armor creaking and clinking.

  Megan spun, vaulting a low bush to put a sturdy oak between her and whatever now occupied the trail.

  A moment later, she was intensely thankful she had hidden herself.

  When she peeked out, what she saw through the masking bushes made her stomach churn with nausea.

  She wiped her palms on her jeans.

  Perhaps half the riders gathered on the trail were elves like Delorias. They rode sleek horses and wore fanciful crystalline armor, but no helmets obscured beautiful, pitiless faces. Men and women alike had long hair flowing freely or elaborately dressed, but not one face showed anything but eager cruelty.

  Then there were the . . . other things. Great black hounds with glowing red eyes and slavering jaws. Oneeyed giants holding massive stone clubs. Shriveled things that looked more like decaying corpses than living beings, clawed hands all the weapons they needed.

  A woman whose dark hair flowed like liquid night over scarlet armor urged her mount forward. A cruel smile curled full lips as red as her armor. “Thy prey lies within a few paces, Lord Athaniel.” Her teeth were very white, the eye teeth sharpened to fangs. “A mortal woman stands near.”

  “I know of them, Leannan Sidhe. Thou art not alone in thy gift.” That speaker could have been discussing the weather for all the emotion in his voice.

  Megan spared a moment to wonder how it was they spoke English—albeit bad Renfaire English—as she snaked her right hand down to her fanny pack and her pistol. The things could not be special effects: No special effect included the smell of rot mingled with roses.

  Her hand closed around the grip, eased it free.

  The man spoke once more. “Bring them out.”

  Two of the red-eyed hounds stepped off the trail, a powerful animal musk wafting with them.

  The pistol was cold in Megan’s hands. She aimed, steadying her right hand with her left.

  Without earmuffs, the shot sounded like thunder in her ears. The howling of the dying hound seemed oddly distant as it thrashed, its claws scoring trees and dirt.

  Again.

  The second hound’s thrashing as it died sent it twisting back onto the path.

  Megan swallowed.

  The laughter of the leader seemed to come through a long tunnel. “So, the mortal has fangs.” His amusement did not reassure.

  Megan held the pistol steady, waiting.

  “Fan out,” the leader ordered. “Leannan, thou shalt see they surround our prey. Kill them only if capture is impossible. I wish to . . . meet . . . this so-brave mortal.”

  Crap. Megan knew that tone too well. She was beyond screwed.

  Beside her, Delorias made a sound of terror.

  “If you’ve got any little surprises up those sleeves, you’d better use them,” she muttered. Even if someone heard shooting up here, the chance of anyone actually investigating was minimal. There was no chance anyone with enough firepower to stop the Hunt would investigate.

  A blond elf woman in emerald armor urged her horse over the gap the dead hounds had made. Her delicate face was set off by intricate braids woven through with gold.

  Megan envisioned Frank on the silvery-gray horse, and fired.

  With the hammer of doom ringing in her ears, she watched the elf woman’s armor shatter and fall away, watched her horse rear, twisting and bucking. The animal caught the woman’s arm in sharp teeth and dragged her through the forest, her screams cut short when her head slammed into a tree.

  Megan swallowed bile. Her stomach twisted.

  A giant loomed to the right. Another shot, and another scream, this one a deep rumbling sound that vibrated through her bones.

  She leaned against the tree, shuddering. She had never thought it would be this difficult to kill. Her hands trembled, and with every breath she had to fight the urge to vomit.

  Another shape, this one a twisted mockery of a living thing that could not have existed without magic.

  Another shot.

  Megan’s heart pounded as loudly as the thunder in her ears. Five shots, twelve left. Two more clips after that.

  The noise and acrid smell of each shot seemed to push her into a different world, one where she watched some other woman fire repeatedly into the woods, stony-faced as inhuman creatures screamed and died.

  For each creature she killed, each elf to fall screaming, more of them came, inhuman glee lighting faces beautiful and hideous. They had no loyalty to their fallen kin, only delight in the suffering and death.

  With each death, the remaining Hunters seemed to glow brighter, glaring multicolored lights in the shadows of the forest.

  Delorias curled himself around her feet, shivering.

  The eerie glow of the Hunters drew closer as she fired again and again until the slide locked. Her hand moved automatically to eject the spent clip and slot one of her spares into place. A red-headed man stepped in front of her, reaching for her, and she raised the pistol again.

  Megan’s hands moved automatically, firing even as his armor clinked against the barrel. He rocked back, pain twisting his impossibly beautiful face. His glittering armor crazed and shattered, falling with him and revealing an incongruously small hole in his chest.

  Blood spread from it through the white silk of his shirt, a scarlet splash.

  Something closed over her left arm, hard and unyielding.

  She turned, fired.

  The grip spasmed painfully, releasing as its owner fell back.

  A jerk on her collar pulled her off-balance, then she was dragged upright against the solid bulk of an armored body. Claws under a gauntleted hand pricked her throat, sending a trickle of blood down into her tee shirt.

  Megan slid the Beretta back into her fanny pack as she let her hands appear to fall.

  Sounds seemed to seep through the blood and death-tainted forest, conversation, laughter. Around her, small fires flared, consuming the dead and adding the tang of ash and smoke to the air.

  Her captor pushed her forward.
She had a glimpse of something dragging Delorias toward the trail before trees blocked the sight.

  Nineteen. She’d taken nineteen of them. Her hands tingled.

  She’d killed nineteen of them.

  There was no time for reality to sink in: Megan’s captor pushed her toward a bush. Thankfully not the rambling thorny things that grew in the swampy areas, but his—its?—intention was clear enough. She caught the bush with one foot, stamping it down so she could cross it without getting caught up in its branches.

  The low growl from behind her sounded male.

  “Bring the mortal here.” The leader’s voice allowed no possibility of refusal.

  Megan’s captor pushed, claws digging a little deeper into her neck. She obeyed, hands tense. Just one chance . . .

  Elves in glittering crystalline armor blocked the trail. They parted at a barked command from her captor, staring at her as she was guided forward. Their stares reminded her of cats watching a mouse. Cats had more mercy.

  Her captor shoved her into the circle of watching elves and creatures. Delorias lay on the trail, his clothing somehow gone. There was no sign of it anywhere, as though the cloth and leather had simply been magicked away. His muscles quivered, and pain twisted his face.

  “You left it armed?” This time, the words weren’t English. The meaning seemed to seep into her bones without touching her ears.

  Megan’s gaze was drawn up to that cold, commanding voice. She took in a figure in ruby armor, blond and beautiful and cold as winter ice. Even as her right hand dipped in to her fanny pack, something wrapped around her, freezing her in place, a helpless witness to whatever might occur.

  A gravelly voice rose behind her. “Lord Athaniel, I—”

  “You hoped it would do what you lack the courage to try yourself.” Scorn layered the man’s voice, scorn and contempt.

  Scarlet light sparked from his fingertips, arcing past Megan as though she was not present. Screams erupted behind her, shrieks of agony that made her chest and stomach tighten. Worst was the way Athaniel’s head tilted back, his eyes half-closed with pleasure as he drank in the suffering of his dying subordinate.

  She strained to pull free of the magic holding her, strained and failed. She could not even twitch a finger.

  When the screams finally died, the elf Lord stalked forward, his bright green eyes glittering. “You have cost my Hunters a great deal, mortal.” He extended a ruby-gauntleted hand to place a finger under her chin, tilt her head up to meet his eyes. “You will pay dearly for that.” His eyes narrowed. “If you convince me to be merciful, I may not leave you for my Hunters to play with when I am done with you.”

  Terror beat at the magical walls holding her, terror and rage. There would never be another Frank. Never.

  Just one shot, one moment was all she needed. Megan prayed for that one chance with all her soul.

  The magic held fast.

  Athaniel gestured to one of the creatures behind him. “You, bring the prey. I think we will dance with him at the feast tonight.”

  The cheer his words inspired convinced Megan that “dance” was not meant in any sense of the word she knew.

  “You, remove the mortal’s belt.” Athaniel stepped back, leaving Megan to seethe helplessly while unseen fingers worked at the clip of her fanny pack. She trembled with strain, fighting to break free of the invisible bonds.

  A soft click, and the strap of her fanny pack dropped from her left side, taking any hope of regaining her pistol with it.

  “Conceal it in the woods. It holds iron.”

  The startled hiss from behind her was small consolation.

  The thought of an elf holding the fanny pack as if it would bite could not overcome being trapped and helpless at the hands of these creatures.

  Athaniel was not finished with her. At a gesture, a chill breeze seemed to burn from her shoulders to the soles of her feet. Before Megan could gasp, the sensation was gone. It took her a moment to realize she felt dirt and leaf litter beneath her feet. Her bare feet.

  Every breath of air tingled against her skin.

  If she had been able to speak, Megan would have cursed him with the worst language she knew.

  The elf Lord tilted his head, studying her with feline amusement. “Better.”

  The air grew heavy, crushing. A force that Megan did not doubt could snap her in two pushed her to her knees, forced her to bow her head.

  Laughter skittered through the watching elves, died.

  Her body was freed, and the invisible force shoved hard, sending her sprawling at Athaniel’s feet. Before she could scramble upright, pain ripped through her body, setting every nerve on fire. Eternity passed, an eternity filled with nothing but pain, then it was gone as if it had never been, leaving Megan panting where she lay, muscles twitching in the grip of random spasms.

  “Much better.” Athaniel’s voice seemed to float from somewhere above her.

  Megan had barely time to draw breath before it began again.

  * * *

  Cold. Pain. Megan shuddered, and winced as little flares of pain shot through her body. She hadn’t felt this bad since Frank had put her in the hospital.

  The musty smell of poorly circulating air and unwashed bodies told her this place was no hospital.

  Megan opened her eyes, dreading what she might see.

  She lay naked on bare stone, in a small room carved from solid rock. A grille set high in a wall gave a little light, and more light leaked under the bottom of a heavy wooden door opposite the grille. A smudge of pale skin in the dimness was all she could see of whoever shared this prison with her.

  “Delorias?” Her voice came out as a croak.

  “My Lady!” He sounded as hoarse as Megan, most likely for the same reason. “You should have fled and left me.”

  “Screw that.” Megan levered herself up, wincing with each new spasm of pain. It hurt more than she would have believed just to sit, to lean against the rough, cold stone. “Where are we?”

  “The prisons of Castle Moondark.” Delorias swallowed.

  “They will end my life this night.”

  Where she would be kept alive to play to their sick amusements: Megan did not need to be told that.

  “Tell me about the castle.” She had to get out of here before Athaniel began his games. If what he had done to her was any indication, she would not be in any condition to escape after he started.

  “My Lady?”

  Megan leaned against the stone behind her, pushing her body up into she stood leaning against the stone.

  “How do we escape it?”

  Delorias paused before he spoke. “It cannot be done,” he said finally. “The castle stands atop Moondark Peak, and we do not fly.”

  Stealing one of those glossy horses wasn’t an option, Megan guessed. They became uncontrollably vicious without the control of their elf masters. That didn’t leave much choice.

  She’d rather try to climb down a mountain than face Athaniel again.

  A tentative step forward sent more pain through her joints. Megan winced, and took another step. And a third. And a fourth.

  The grille was higher than she could reach, the wall too smooth to climb. Megan turned and walked the few steps to the door.

  It opened outwards, the hinges not visible from inside the cell. Metal bracing surrounded the lock. Copper, Megan supposed, given the way elves reacted to iron. There was nothing she could use except the space between the wall and the door. That . . . If she stood on the lock side she might be able to ambush a guard.

  She clenched her teeth. Better to die fighting than whatever Athaniel planned. Megan just hoped the martial arts training she had done would work against elves. To help keep off the chill, she started jogging in place, nothing too strenuous. She could run for hours at this pace—although she was usually in better shape when she did. A good sports bra helped, too.

  Megan had forgotten just how much bounce there was in unprotected breasts.

  * * *


  By alternating jogging with walking, Megan kept the chill of the air from making her stiff and cold. After a time, Delorias joined her, though he said little until the light from the grille began to dim.

  “Those who collect us will likely be magical constructs,” he murmured. “Made to obey, perhaps to inspire fear. They are unlikely to be able to think for themselves.”

  Megan nodded. “Thanks.” It might be a fool’s hope, but she refused to walk meekly to death—or worse.

  Once had been enough.

  They walked and jogged without speaking for a stretch of time marked only by their own breathing, their own footfalls. The grille became invisible, lost in the darkness of night outside.

  “Something comes.” Tension strained at Delorias’s soft voice. “Possibly a construct.”

  A few steps later, Megan heard it: plodding footfalls on the other side of the door. They drew closer, stopped outside the door. She froze, poised.

  Scraping sounds as a bolt was pulled, a squeal as a key turned. The rattling of a doorknob in its frame.

  The door pulled open, and a massive shape filled the doorway.

  Megan held her breath. Surely the thing would see her and Delorias in the corner.

  It lumbered forward.

  That was all the encouragement Megan needed. She darted behind it, and out into the long corridor beyond.

  Another of the creatures waited there, arms hanging loosely from its shoulders. Megan’s heart pounded as she raced away from it, her ears straining for lumbering footsteps. None came.

  Instead, Delorias drew level with her, touched her arm to draw her to the side, to a door whose bolt was not drawn.

  They slipped inside, waiting.

  Silence. It seemed to last forever.

  Finally, Megan heard the heavy steps of the guard creatures as they left the prison.

  “They will surely be sent back and the prison searched,” Delorias whispered. “We must move swiftly.”

  Megan pushed the door open and slipped out, then eased it closed once Delorias joined her. Neither needed a signal to run.

  They raced through the long corridor to crude stairs carved from the rock. Up, climbing a long stairwell with nowhere to hide, to another heavy door.

  Megan could hear nothing beyond it. After a while, Delorias nodded, and pushed the door open. The creatures had not locked it.