Storm Warned (The Grim Series)

by Dani Harper

  Slowly Liam turned his head to see more, and there was old Brewster, present and accounted for. The ancient moose head was propped up in a far corner and looked none the worse for wear—well, at least no more moth-eaten than usual. Someone had even glued his glass eye back in. And nothing else was out of place. Books and knickknacks were back on the shelves, pictures were back on the walls. If it weren’t for the plywood patch, Liam might have concluded that either he was still asleep, dead, or had imagined everything he had seen during and after the storm.

  Maybe he’d been out a lot longer than he thought. Christ, maybe even days. There was just no other way for his house to be back together—unless it had never been wrecked in the first place. Was that part of the damn nightmare? Maybe he’d simply dreamed that he’d awakened in the first place. Maybe, maybe, maybe . . .

  No, dammit! I was in the hospital the first time I had that dream, I’m sure of it. And what about Brewster? The old moose didn’t just jump off the wall by himself. And then there was Caris, of course. No matter what had happened to him, he sure as hell hadn’t made up that gorgeous, dark-haired woman. His imagination definitely wasn’t that good.

  Liam put a hand to his aching head as if he could physically stop his chaotic thoughts. He couldn’t feel more disoriented if he’d just stepped off a roller coaster. He never expected to have to question what was real and what wasn’t, but in the middle of all the confusion, he was strangely certain of one thing—and his gut was certain of it too: his dreams were trying to get a message to him . . . Come to think of it, so was his damn bladder. Time to see if he could survive a trip to the bathroom. Slowly, gingerly, he eased himself up into a sitting position.

  “Hey, welcome back!” The new voice belonged to Morgan. “Thank goodness we caught you before you face-planted on the carpet last night. Not trying to do it again, are you?”

  “Morning to you, too,” he said as she came into view and sat on the coffee table in front of him.

  “Took three of us to get you back onto the couch, bud. You’re totally dead weight when you’re unconscious. Remind me never to go drinking with you—I’d hate to have to carry you home.” She stood and put out both her hands. “Let me just steady you while you get vertical, okay?”

  The natural fallback response of all males is “I don’t need any help,” but this time, common sense just laughed at that notion. “Sure, thanks,” he managed.

  A moment later he was standing on his own—and he was sweating by the time the dizziness cleared and his stomach climbed back down where it belonged. Whether Liam liked it or not, he had to admit that the damn concussion had kicked his ass and handed it to him.

  “What do you think?” asked Morgan. “Stay up, or sit back down?”

  “Up.” He took an experimental step. “I’m okay.” And he was, more or less. It was a long, slow trip to the bathroom even though it was close by, but he managed it. Morgan hovered as a precaution and waited outside the door in case he got dizzy again, but she needn’t have bothered. He felt completely lousy, but he was elated to be mobile.

  Liam surveyed his reflection—it was worse than at the hospital, the bruising more extensive and much more colorful this morning. His brow was swollen and his left eye was puffy, as if he’d been in a fight. Hope I won. He took the opportunity to lean on the counter, where he could brush his teeth, then drink a boatload of water.

  Outside the door, he waved away Morgan’s help—although the couch looked further away than he remembered it. “I can’t believe you guys stayed the night,” he said, striving to distract both himself and his friend. “That’s some dedication.”

  She shrugged and followed him. “Veterinarians pull night shifts more often than you think. Like during calving season. So it’s not that big a deal. Besides, nobody felt like driving home by the time we finished up.”

  Just a few more feet to go . . . Liam could feel his energy flagging fast. “Rhys is going to kick my ass for keeping you.”

  “Naw, he’s still in California with the horses till Friday or Saturday. He wanted to get them settled into their new home before he left, make sure they were working well for the buyer.”

  He immediately thought of his own horses. “Did anyone find Chevy?” Three more steps, two more steps.

  “We sure did.” Morgan caught Liam’s arm to slow his descent to the couch. “Your sensible mare came home on her own late last night. We found her standing by the backdoor steps, waiting for someone to come out.”

  “Thanks.” He sank into the cushions with enormous relief. “She’s all right?”

  Morgan nodded. “‘Right as rain,’ as Caris says it. Maybe when you’re up to it later today, you can come out and see her.”

  Liam closed his eyes and was just plain thankful for a long moment. It was an incredible piece of luck that both horses had come through the storm unscathed. He eyed the tall vet then. “The cattle?”

  “Most of them made it. I’ll let Jay tell you. Which reminds me, the power was on for a while this morning but it’s off again. I’m afraid it’s going to be like that for a few days, but Jay finally got your generator up and running late yesterday. Caris did the milking by hand last night, but we were able to put it in the cooler right away. Once the goats are milked this morning, Jay’s going to run the whole batch through the pasteurizer for you. Oh, I found the number for your cheese maker too, and let him know what’s going on . . .”

  Although she kept talking, Liam had stopped listening the moment he heard Caris’s name. She did all the milking? By frickin’ hand? Forty does was no small feat for one person. Even Aunt Ruby in her younger days, before they could afford the luxury of milking machines, would have found it a challenge. He knew that his own hands, as accustomed to hard work as they were, would still be cramped and sore this morning if he’d milked the whole herd the old-fashioned way.

  Morgan had mentioned on the phone that Caris was actually willing to stay and help Liam out on the farm for a few days. There was no denying that the timing was perfect. He’d heard plenty of storm stories at the hospital, and he knew his farm was just one of many places that had suffered damage. The demand for extra hands and equipment would be huge right now, and most would already be spoken for . . .

  Yet Fate had somehow seen fit to deliver this unusual and remarkable woman to his very doorstep. Someone had once said, “There are no coincidences,” and Liam turned that over in his mind. Any able-bodied person would have been welcome in his particular situation. But Caris, as capable as she was, was no mere hired hand. He wasn’t stupid: maybe the help he really needed didn’t have a damn thing to do with the farm. But he was so frickin’ out of practice it wasn’t funny. When was the last time I actually talked to a woman I didn’t already know?

  He interrupted whatever Morgan was saying. “Look, I’m not used to having a woman around, you know? I don’t know how to make this situation work.”

  “Liam, you’re not used to having anybody around anymore,” she said. “But you don’t have the luxury of being choosy. Jay and I both have to go home eventually. And you aren’t in any shape to look after things alone, especially with the power being unreliable.”

  “I get that. I do. I’m not being choosy, honest, but I’ve still got a problem.”

  “Look, bud, right now all your problems are solved for a while. Besides, you’ve got a big house, so you’d hardly have to see her.”

  Liam knew it wouldn’t help if he owned a fifty-room mansion. He’d done nothing but think about Caris Dillwyn every waking minute when he was nowhere near her. Dreamed about her when he slept, too. Even as he napped in the goddamn cab on the way home, she was in his mind.

  Morgan was still talking. “I know you care about your animals, and Caris is downright gifted with them. I’ve even offered her a job at the clinic, that’s how convinced I am of her competence. I’m vouching for her. Jay is vouching for her. Do you have a
ny idea how hard it is to find someone like her?”

  “Yes, the lovely Caris is intelligent, competent, great with animals, a hard worker, and probably sews clothes for orphans in her spare time. I agree with you, okay? But I’m trying to say that she’s more than that. She’s something incredible and—and rare—and I don’t even know how I know, but I do,” he said. His voice was louder than he wanted it to be, but he couldn’t seem to help it. “I totally agree that I’m goddamn lucky to have her help. But I’ve done nothing but make a lousy impression on her so far. I don’t know what to do or how to act, and now you’re making that poor woman live with me?” He sounded angry, even to himself. “Shit, I’m sorry, Morgan. See? See what I mean?”

  “It’s probably just the concussion,” she said gently.

  “I’m not so sure of that. You know I’m used to being alone—in fact, I’m pretty sure you called me a ‘Howard Hughes wannabe’ the last time you were here.”

  “Hey, there’s no tissue boxes on your feet yet, so there’s still hope,” she grinned.

  “Thanks—I think . . . But do you get what I’m saying? You’re not doing poor Caris any favors by leaving her here. I mean, I’ll pay her well, no question, but—”

  “But you like her. That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?”

  After a long moment, he finally nodded. There was no point pretending differently—at least not with Morgan. One of the things he’d always liked about her was her directness.

  “You,” she said firmly, “are simply going to treat Caris with the utmost kindness and respect. And some honesty never hurts either. She’s been through a lot that you don’t know about, but she’s not fragile. Give her a chance. Give yourself a chance.”

  “About that stuff she’s been through—she’s said some really weird things, you know.”

  “And all I’m going to say is that you don’t need to worry about her. She’s not a serial killer, or a con artist, or even a goat rustler. She’s just Caris. In fact, if you really want to get along with her, you could try being yourself.”

  And wasn’t that the real problem? “I’m not sure who that person is anymore.”

  “Maybe she’ll help you figure it out.”

  Maybe. Trouble was, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know.

  Morgan got to her feet and stretched. “Hour’s up. I think that’s enough couch time for now—for me, anyways. You get to stay there and rest up.”

  “Not going to add counseling to my bill, are you?”

  “Depends. I’ll waive my therapist fee if you promise to suck it up, smile, and make a reasonable attempt to get along with your new hired hand. Deal?”

  “Deal. Except for the smiling part—I think that might be harmful or fatal right now with this headache.”

  “I’ll accept that as a valid excuse. But only for a while.”

  Morgan brought him some coffee and a couple of pieces of buttered toast, then headed out to the barn, leaving him alone with his thoughts. And this time, he couldn’t chase them away by moving hay bales.

  One of Uncle Conall’s oft-heard sayings immediately sprang to mind: “Receiving is harder than giving, son. But gifts are made to be accepted.” Caris Ellen Dillwyn certainly qualified as a gift—and on so many different levels, that it made his head spin.

  Something his Aunt Ruby said was finally starting to make sense too. Ever tactful and considerate, she’d kept her advice and her opinions to herself after his return to Steptoe Acres with his heart and soul in tatters—except for one puzzling thing. Just before the couple left for their new home in Arizona, she’d taken her nephew firmly by the shoulders: “Sometimes the universe conspires to give you what you really want, Liam. And it’s your job to let it.”

  Could he let it? Could this exquisite gift really be for him? His head and his heart were divided on the issue, and any opinions from below the belt were automatically suspect. But his gut was saying, “Yes, yes, yes.” At the hospital, the situation had seemed so clear-cut, so black-and-white. There was still no question in his mind—or his gut, where it counted—that he wanted Caris, but now he had a new consideration: Why the hell would Caris want him? What had he said or done so far to impress her, except argue with her, be an unsympathetic moron, and, as a finale, throw up in front of her? Christ, he couldn’t have done a better job of turning her off if he’d been a teenager on a three-day bender.

  Maybe there was still a chance to show her his better side. Mind you, he’d have to find the damn thing first. Kissing and foreplay and sex were simple compared to communication. Hell, even the most basic of conversation could be downright hard. It’s your own damn fault, he told himself sternly. You’ve been alone too long. You’re gonna have to go slow and easy until you get your sea legs back.

  If he were really lucky, he wouldn’t hurl in front of her a second time.

  FIFTEEN

  Exhausted but joyful, Caris lowered the fiddle at last—and jumped as she heard a sound like tree branches slapping together. Whirling, she saw Ranyon in the bushes at the edge of the woods, rapidly clapping his strange little hands for all he was worth.

  “Dear heavens, you startled me!” She realized she had instinctively clasped the fiddle to her breast with both hands, as if to shield it. And that she was far from where she’d started too—her feet had danced her all the way to the head of the tiny stream, where spring water burbled out of the high stone wall of the ridge itself.

  The ellyll grinned as she made her way back toward the quilt-covered rock. “And ya surprised me too, good lady. Yer gift fer music is a rare and wondrous treasure.” He hopped onto a log and spread out a cloth of his own. On it was a lovely little feast of bread and cheese and apples, with twin bottles of ale, but though she was hungry, she barely saw it. Instead her gaze was arrested by something that gleamed on top of his bright blue shirt—and as she got closer, she recognized the wide silver collar she’d been forced to wear as a grim. The severed edges of the intricate chain creation were bound together with copper, and broken links hung from it on wires like beads. The entire thing was looped over one of Ranyon’s skinny shoulders and draped across his narrow chest like a bright bandolier.

  “Why are you wearing my collar?” she asked, and immediately felt distaste for having called the thing hers. It wasn’t hers at all—she certainly hadn’t wanted it. The collar was as clever and exquisite as only fae craftsmanship could make it, but it was nothing more than a tool to imprison her.

  “Why, I’m hiding it, good lady.”

  Ranyon grinned at her as he slathered a thick slice of bread with butter, and she couldn’t help but smile just a little.

  “’Tis in plain sight, good sir.”

  “Ah, but it’s not, dontcha know. As long as I’m wearing it, there isn’t a creature in any realm that can see it or sense it unless I allow them to. ’Twill be safer that way.”

  Safer? All the disquiet that had been nagging at her yesterday returned. “Please tell me what’s wrong, Ranyon. I feel that you’re my friend, yet I can also feel there’s a peril here that you haven’t revealed.”

  He motioned to her to sit on the log with him. “Eat up. Ya brought me a brammer of a sandwich last night and ’tis my turn to offer a meal.” He waited until she finally nibbled at a piece of cheese, then he nodded. “Aye, there’s more to the truth than what I told ya. The real answer is that we’re in deep troubles, good lady. I didn’t want to cause more concern for Morgan and Jay until I’d thought it through a mite. And I didn’t want to worry ya for something that’s not yer doing.”

  “My doing? I don’t understand.”

  “There was an anghenfil here yesterday.”

  She nodded. “You chased it away.”

  “Aye, it left in a hurry, but not all the danger left with it.” His twiggy fingers held out an elaborately tooled sphere of silver, no more than an inch across. “I poked about the r
uined shed last night and found this atop the rubble. ’Tis made of the same silver as this collar.”

  “What does it do?”

  “It lures fae creatures—and it traps them. If ya were still a great black dog, this little charm would call to ya, lure ya to it like a fish to a hook. And then you’d be rooted to the spot until the monster came to collect ya.”

  Horror made her break out in goose bumps. “Duw annwyl, I could have been eaten!”

  “If ya were still a grim, maybe—but I’m not thinkin’ so,” said Ranyon. “Anghenfilod feed on magic, but they have none o’ their own. They can’t use spells and they can’t make these little things, or they’d have eaten their fill o’ grims and every other kind of fae a long time ago. Only the Fair Ones can create these.”

  “Maelgwn gave it to the beast?”

  “Aye, and then that fool prince sent the monster here. It wasn’t looking fer any of us, dontcha know. It was searching fer a lost grim to take back to its master.” He pointed a finger at her, and her goose bumps gave way to a chill that went right to the marrow. “Maelgwn is wantin’ proof that yer dead, good lady—or he’s wantin’ ya back.”

  “Why?” She leapt to her feet. “Why isn’t it enough that he kept me a prisoner all this time? How much more must I pay for my sins? I’ve lost everything and everyone to the fae. How much more punishment must I bear?” A burst of angry tears surprised her—surely she’d already used up a lifetime’s worth of them that very morning.

  Ranyon came over and patted her hand gently, handing her a cloth napkin. “What’s all this about sins? You’ve too kind a heart to have many, and there’s not an ounce of evil in ya that needs punishin’.”

  “I . . . I wouldn’t give up my music. That’s what started all of this. I couldn’t do it.” She explained her strict upbringing as best she could, and the little ellyll’s eyes widened.

  “’Twould be far more of a sin to stifle such a pure gift,” said Ranyon. “And as fer the fae, ’twas never yer fault, dontcha know. Lurien alone is Lord of the Wild Hunt, and only he has the power to ride down the guilty. Was it he that came for ya?”