Quigley had seized the advantage, ripping the backpack from Mac’s grip and disappearing into the thick cover of the forest. Danice turned and began to run after him, but Mac snagged her by the shoulder and shook his head.
“Forget about the imp,” he snarled, shoving her in the opposite direction, toward another dense stand of trees. “Run. Now.”
Danice tried to shake off his grip, but he didn’t budge. He gave her one last chance to take off on her own. When she didn’t, he grabbed her wrist and leapt forward, dragging her willy-nilly along behind him.
“Mac, wait!” she cried, too loud, making Mac curse. “What the hell is going on? Why are we running? Where are we going? Would you frickin’ talk to me, you insane man?”
“No time! Just run!”
He stepped up the pace, not even slowing when he felt Danice stumble behind him. He simply used his strength and his grip on her arm to swing her back to her feet.
“Mac, what the hell are we running from?”
The hoofbeats reached a branch-snapping crescendo just to their right, and Mac saw the glint of silver manes. Heart sinking, he knew it was too late. He dragged Danice to a halt and positioned her behind him. At the moment, putting his body between hers and the threat was the best he could do.
“Mac, what are we running from?” she repeated, sounding as confused as she was impatient.
“That,” he said simply, pointing toward the five tall figures emerging from the forest and closing in around them.
Fifteen
Danice had no idea what the hell was going on, and she didn’t like the feeling. Not one bit. She also didn’t like that something in this place had sent Mac into a tizzy, or that he was standing between her and it so that she couldn’t even see what the matter was.
That second part particularly grated, since Danice made it a policy never to make up her mind to be afraid of something until she’d taken a look at it for herself. Unfortunately, Mac was so much taller than she that she’d have to peer under his arm like a four-year-old if she wanted to catch a glimpse. Damned man.
Just before she gave in and said to hell with her dignity, the “that” Mac had referred to stepped close enough for Danice to see around him, provided she craned her head and torso slightly to the side. What she saw didn’t quite match up with what she’d been expecting.
They had to be Fae. Danice could accept no other explanation. Once Mac had explained to her that the natives of Faerie had less in common with Tinker Bell and more in common with the Elves from the Lord of the Rings movies, this had been what she’d pictured them looking like. Until she’d met Quigley and learned that he was native to Faerie as well. After that, she’d tried not to think about it much at all. But the figures standing in front of them now were beautiful. Breathtakingly beautiful.
And all obviously female.
Danice frowned.
There appeared to be five of them, each of them easily matching Mac in height (which put them around six feet) and as slim and straight as a supermodel. All had hair long enough to reach their butts, but wore it pulled back or confined in tails or braids. Two had inky hair so black it glinted blue in the moonlight, two were platinum blondes, and one had hair the color of living flames. Each had features more beautiful than the last, and Danice hated all of them on sight.
“Mac,” she hissed, poking him in the ribs. Hard. “Who are these people?”
“Not now,” he whispered back, somehow managing to make the breath of sound into a firm, granite command.
Danice pinched her lips shut and glared. Both at Mac and at any of the strange women unfortunate enough to stand in her line of sight.
“The question of the moment is who are you,” one of the blondes said, speaking as if Danice had addressed her question to the Fae rather than to Mac. “And more important, what you are doing on royal lands without the king’s permission.”
“Doesn’t sound much like a question to me,” Danice muttered. “More like a demand from someone with a big stick up her ass.”
Mac squeezed her hand tightly. “Shut up, Danice.”
“Well?” the blonde prompted. “We are waiting, but do not try our patience.”
Danice felt Mac draw a deep breath.
“My name is Callahan, son of Tyra,” he announced in a clear voice so the Fae could hear. “And I have business with the Unseelie Court.”
“Tyra’s son?” one of the brunettes repeated. “Tyra ni Oengus? But the lady I know by that name has no child.”
The blonde narrowed her eyes and pointed the tip of a spear in Mac’s direction.
A spear? Danice thought, aghast. They were carrying spears? She quickly looked at the others. Only the blonde seemed to have a spear, but all of them wore swords strapped to their sides, and a couple of them appeared to be holding bows and packing arrows as well.
“We do not deal well with liars,” the blonde warned, her tone taking on a menacing quality.
“And I do not deal in lies,” Mac said, his spine stiffening beneath the hand Danice had instinctively laid there. “I am Tyra’s son. She chose not to raise me and sent me to my father as an infant. But that does not alter the fact of my birth, or of her part in it.”
“A changeling?” the redhead gasped, looking dumbfounded. Danice decided she liked her the least. “You are changeling and you think to demand admittance before the court?”
“I think the court has admitted far worse influences than me. But since when do the King’s Guard decide who is and who isn’t admitted to court?”
Danice inferred from that question that these five women made up the King’s Guard, which she found a tad unexpected. Sure, they all carried weapons, but from what Mac had told her of Faerie, she hadn’t considered they’d be progressive enough to assign women to be the king’s personal bodyguards. Assuming she was right about that being what they were.
“We have always decided who would be allowed near the king,” the blonde snapped. “Or rather, the blades of our swords have done so.”
That brought a scowl to Danice’s face. “Is she threatening us?”
Mac ignored her. “I thought that kind of decision only happened when someone with a blade of their own made an attempt on the king’s life. Or have the rules changed so that now you strike first and determine a visitor’s purpose after you have killed him?”
“We don’t have to kill you,” the second blonde said, stepping forward. “We could simply cut out your tongue so that you would cease your prattle. Then the king could determine your purpose later.”
“How?” Danice muttered. “By divining the meaning in our entrails?”
“Shhh!”
Danice and the bloodthirsty second blonde ignored him.
“Your idea has merit,” the guardswoman said, “but I believe we should cut out your tongue and read his entrails. I would so hate to miss the screaming.”
Danice rolled her eyes and stepped to Mac’s side, ignoring his attempts to keep her safely behind him. “Oh, would you at least try for a little originality, girl? That threat was so stale, mold wouldn’t even grow there.”
“Danice!”
She ignored Mac’s bark and stood her ground as the second blonde bared her teeth and made as if to lunge toward her.
“Catrin!” the lead blonde snapped, stretching her arm out to block the other’s move. “Do not allow yourself to be provoked. Especially not by this creature. She is no worthy opponent. In fact, I believe she may even be human.”
The brunettes gasped and put their heads together, whispering to each other before the one on the left spoke out. “If she is human, we must take her to the king. All humans are to be brought to him, Morag.”
“I am aware of that, Sorcha,” the first blonde (apparently called Morag) snapped, her eyes never leaving Danice’s face. “This one does not look like much of a threat, but we will take her with us all the same.”
“Nobody takes me anywhere,” Danice protested, but Mac cut her off by the expedient means
of covering her mouth with his hand. He even knew enough to cup his palm so that she couldn’t bite him to make him let go.
“My companion means that she isn’t going anywhere alone,” he explained, squeezing her arm with his other hand. “She is my guest in Faerie, and I go wherever she goes.”
“Oh, we would not think to part you,” Morag assured him, her smile not looking the least bit amused to Danice. Or the least bit pleasant. “You will both be our guests during your stay. Or rather, the guests of the king.”
Danice narrowed her eyes at the other woman. Morag the Fae might have a pretty face, but Danice didn’t trust her. She didn’t like her, either. Mostly, though, she didn’t like the way the other woman said “guest.”
But Mac only nodded. “Then you will lead us to the Winter Court?”
“At once, my lord mac Tyra.” Morag offered him a mocking bow. “Please, allow my sisters to be your guides.” At a gesture from their leader, Sorcha and the other brunette stepped around to flank Mac, one on either side. “You may release your human friend. We will care for her just as closely.”
Danice stepped away from Mac’s grasp. She could feel how reluctant he was to let her go, which was no more reluctant than she was to find herself similarly surrounded by Catrin and the redhead. Just her luck, of course, to get the two members of the group she liked least as her “escorts.”
“This way. As we did not expect visitors, we have no extra mounts, so I’m afraid you will have to walk.”
Morag led the small group through the forest to a well-worn trail a few yards away. There Danice could see that the flashes of silver she’d noticed earlier had come from the saddles and bridles of the five white horses that stood idly along the edge of the path. Having grown up a city girl, the only thing Danice knew about horses was that they could pull carriages full of tourists around Central Park, unless the weather got too hot, in which case the police would send them back to their barns. She’d certainly never ridden one, and quite frankly she was happy to hear she wouldn’t be starting tonight.
While the Fae gathered their mounts, Mac took the opportunity to sidle up to Danice’s side and hiss a warning.
“Do me one huge favor,” he urged, his eyes on the women. “Keep your mouth shut, okay? These are the personal guards to the king of the Unseelie Court. The fact that they didn’t just kill us on sight means we caught them in a good mood, so let’s try to keep it that way, huh?”
Before she could reply, the women surrounded them again. Morag swung herself up in the saddle, but the others stayed on the ground, resuming stations one on each side of their captives. There was no way, Danice acknowledged, that they thought of her and Mac as “guests,” no matter what had come out of their mouths.
The group moved along the trail and out of the forest, with Morag mounted in the lead, followed by Mac and the brunettes, leading their horses, with Danice and her guards (with their horses) trailing behind. Within ten minutes of beginning the walk, Danice’s hunch had been borne out. Instead of taking a friendly stroll, the guardswomen marched her and Mac along like enemy soldiers, keeping a brisk pace and snarling curt orders anytime one of them varied their pace by so much as half a step.
Danice strode along, still irritated by the attitude of the women but trying very hard to keep her fears at bay. She might feel as if she’d just been taken prisoner by the Gestapo, but she hadn’t been harmed, and not even threatened that seriously. Surely if they were in any real danger, either they would already be dead, or Mac would have put up more of a fuss before allowing them to be captured. They could at least have made a run for it, or something.
She stared at the back of his head as they marched, wishing for the second time since meeting him that she could read minds like a vampire. It would be pretty handy to be telepathic at the moment, so that she could ask Mac what he thought was going on. If they really were being brought to the Unseelie Court—which is what she guessed they had meant when they mentioned that bit about the Winter Court—that was a good thing, right? After all, that’s where they had intended to go all along, and where Mac believed the person who had hired him had originated, she reasoned. Getting there so soon after their arrival would have to be counted as a good thing, wouldn’t it?
Danice struggled to hold on to that sense of optimism for the next hour and a half as the King’s Guard marched them halfway to California, by the feel of it. She hadn’t been allowed to talk to Mac at all, and the two or three questions she’d tried out on her escorts had been met with growls and censoring looks. Not exactly the social type, these girls.
They left the forest behind after the first couple of minutes and spent most of the time on a wide, smooth road that curved endlessly along until it emerged at the edge of what looked to Danice to be either a large castle or a small city. Or maybe both.
She first spotted the high stone walls at least thirty minutes before they got anywhere near their destination. The stones glowed in the moonlight, glinting almost as silver as the fittings on the horses or the tip of Morag’s spear. The structure appeared to nestle at the foot of some dark mountains, which Danice thought seemed fitting for the king of the Unseelie Court—beautiful and ominous all at the same time. Her third question had confirmed just where they were heading. The castle, she had been curtly informed, was Bail Gevhra—Winter Home—residence of the Unseelie king.
Taking in its medieval appearance, lit by moon-and torchlight, Danice made one fervent wish.
Please, Lord, let the place have indoor plumbing.
As it turned out, Morag did not lead Mac and Danice directly to the king’s throne room, or wherever it was that His Majesty received visitors, and she didn’t offer to give them the nickel tour. Instead, she escorted her guests directly to the dungeons.
“Is this really how the Winter King treats his guests these days?” Mac asked when Morag used the point of her spear to urge him into a cell after Danice. “What happened to the laws of hospitality?”
“Hospitality is for those who come at the king’s invitation,” the woman replied, following far enough to block the door with her body and prevent any attempts as escape. As if escape had looked like an option, considering that her four friends stood at her back, their hands on the hilts of their swords. “Do you have one of those?”
Danice saw the muscle in the side of Mac’s jaw clench and heard him grit out an angry, “No.”
“Then I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait until the king is able to make time in his busy schedule to see you.” Her smile offered little reassurance.
“And how long is that going to be?”
“Oh, I couldn’t hazard a guess,” she said sweetly. As sweet as poison, anyway. “But I suppose I could ask for you. Just as soon as he returns from his hunting trip.”
Her laugh trailed into the room through the heavy door, which she closed and locked behind her. Even the thud of the bar falling into its rest sounded malicious to Danice, but then again, she might be beginning to take things a little personally. Mac might, too, judging by the curse he let out at the blameless door.
“Oh, one last thing.” Morag’s smirking face appeared in the small, barred window set in the door just at eye level. “I wish you both a restful sleep. And the sweetest of dreams.”
Before Danice could decide or even wonder what that meant, Morag brought a cupped hand up to her face and blew, sending a fine mist of sparkling dust floating into the dungeon cell.
“Fuck! Hold your breath!” Mac shouted, grabbing her by the back of the shirt and hauling her away from the door.
But it was too late.
By the time Danice blinked through the dust and opened her mouth to ask what the hell Mac’s problem was, she had already drawn breath and taken the powder into her lungs. Her last thought was to wonder why the room was spinning before she sagged bonelessly into unconsciousness.
Sixteen
He slipped into her dreams like a wraith, but his body felt warm and substantial against her skin.
He curled around her, a firm, living blanket pressed against her back, his large frame making her feel tiny and protected as he wrapped his hard arms around her and snuggled her closer.
Danice sighed and stretched a little, arching her back to press her behind against the erection that prodded her. That felt hot and a good bit more than substantial. Her sleep-fogged brain tried to latch onto something about the moment that seemed off, but he distracted her with a soft, rousing kiss, placed just behind her ear where the skin was fragrant and sensitive.
“Mmm.”
He matched her murmur with a low rumble that sounded an awful lot like a purr. His tongue flicked over the curve of her jaw, traced its way up to the lobe of her ear and teased for a moment before his teeth closed delicately over the plump flesh. He nibbled, and her murmur became a moan.
The arm around her waist tightened in a brief hug before his hand slipped over bare skin to close around a sleep-soft breast. It firmed against his palm, the nipple drawing into a tight bead and taunting his cupped fingers. They closed around the small nub, squeezing gently, tugging in time to the nibbling at her ear. His other arm shifted, and she felt the scrape of a callused hand over her hip and belly before long, lean fingers cupped possessively over her mound.
She sighed, the sound shivering through the darkness. Sleep still cradled her, drowsy and secure, but the sensation of her lover’s touch turned the lazy feeling into a sort of spell, holding her in place, making her unwilling to pull away. She’d much rather get closer. Shifting, she tried to turn over in his arms to face him. His hands tightened to hold her in place, and she frowned.
He shushed her murmur of protest, nipping lightly at the curve of her shoulder. His large hand kneaded her breast, taking her mind off his refusal to allow her to change position. Then the hand between her legs slid down and took her mind off everything else. Strong, lean fingers combed through the small patch of curls and dipped, parting her folds and burying themselves in her wet heat.
Prince Charming Doesn’t Live Here Page 13