Storm Crossed

by Dani Harper

  “Heddwen!” Trahern rose so quickly he nearly upset the table. But the little ellyll didn’t even glance up as she hurried outside. Forgetting entirely that he could have cleared a path for himself with a single word, he dodged patrons and servers, stumbled over an inebriated basilisk, and almost knocked Fychan himself down. Reaching the door at last, Trahern flung it open.

  And leapt back to avoid the poisonous horns of the Green Stag that lay dead across the threshold.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  There was no scent of burning leaves, no stench of magic of any kind. Indigo blood, heart’s blood, stained the fine green pelt and ran down the steps to pool on the street below. The stag had been felled with a single obsidian arrow—and the arrow was fletched with amber and claret.

  “We are leaving. Now.” There is no time for the horses, he added silently. It was all the warning he could give her before he gripped her hand and hurtled them both through what must surely appear to her as a tunnel of stars . . .

  They burst onto the mortal plane amid an army of small spruce trees that marched in rows as far as the eye could see. Trahern caught Lissy to him and held her tightly until she stopped shaking.

  “I really, really hate that, you know,” she muttered into his tunic.

  “I know.”

  With one last shudder, she pushed herself away from him—still clutching his tunic with one hand to steady herself—and looked around. “Where are we?”

  “Your world.”

  “That’s a little broad. My world, where?”

  “Keckler’s Christmas Tree Farm, in the historic town of Cape Elizabeth. In Maine.” Despite the circumstances, he enjoyed her surprise. No need to mention that his greater height enabled him to read their location from a distant faded sign visible just above the stubby trees. “Whoever is searching for me is dangerous, and it was imperative to take you away, not only from the tavern but from Tir Hardd, as quickly as possible,” he explained. “I dared not take you directly to your home.”

  “In case he followed us,” she finished. Lissy released his tunic and walked away a short distance, hands on hips as if deep in thought.

  “Yn wir,” he murmured, removing the glamour as before—though regrettably it was more prudent to leave her clothed in this prickly setting. Still, the sunset now glinting gold in her long dark curls afforded him something akin to relief. Her features, and only hers, both charmed him and steadied him. When she turned back to him, however, her sable eyes were filled with questions he had little time to answer.

  “Who was it, Trahern? Do you really think you saw Heddwen?”

  “At the time, I believed that I did. She appeared to be opening the door to leave. You saw no one?”

  “The door didn’t open,” she said gently. “And there was no one there.”

  The disappointment was surprisingly painful. “An illusion, then. A strong one.” Bait for a trap. Only a handful of people could have known that an image of the old ellyll would capture his attention. And while the arrow’s colors had meant nothing to Lissy, Trahern knew them all too well. The House of Oak had sent a clear message in the death of the Green Stag. Come to us or die. He intended to do neither. “They seek only me,” he said before she could reply. “You and Fox will be safe with Braith. Call Ranyon to you to be doubly certain.”

  “Wait a minute, aren’t you—”

  Lissy didn’t have a chance to finish before he sent her home. She is a brave woman and will be angry with me for forcing her to leave. But he had to know she was safe. With great care, Trahern erased any evidence of magic, any trace of Lissy’s essence, from the elements around him. No one would know she had been here, never mind where she had gone, but he was grateful for the protective safeguards he’d left over her house and yard just the same.

  Satisfied, he returned to Fychan’s tavern. The Green Stag must be properly burned, its magic returned to the forest.

  And then he would hunt.

  At least I’m dressed. Lissy sat in the midst of the ivy in the corner of the backyard, grateful there was a layer of denim jeans between her and the prickly vines. There was still a ringing in her ears, but the dizziness had passed quickly this time. Maybe I’m finally getting used to being poofed.

  No way was she getting used to his doing it without her permission, though. How dare he send her away like a child? Far worse, however, was that Trahern hadn’t poofed with her. Where had he gone? Someone who rode with the Wild Hunt certainly wasn’t going to hide out in a bunch of holiday trees. Please be safe, she thought, and focused on the memory of Trahern destroying the monster in the storeroom at Handcastings. He was intelligent, strong, and powerful—she had to believe he would be all right.

  I believed Matt would be all right, too. The unexpected thought stabbed her like a knife, leaving her breathless for a long moment. Fear and hurt made her angrier than ever, though, and she wrestled those feelings into an inner closet and slammed it shut. Fox. Just focus on Fox. Seeing her child, witnessing for herself that he was okay (although he could hardly be anything else with Brooke and Aidan and Braith looking after him) would steady her. Just being with her son, going through all their little daily routines, even some of their ongoing struggles, would crowd out most of her worry over Trahern. Maybe.

  From the angle of the sun—which thankfully could be counted on here—it must be around suppertime. Her friends would soon be sitting down with Fox, and undoubtedly Brooke had made the special grilled-cheese sandwich that he always asked her for. No crusts, cut in perfect halves, a single pickle slice beside each (but not touching the bread), though he never ate the pickles. He just likes the way they look. The simple familiarity reunited her with her world at last and galvanized her into motion. Lissy rose, dusted herself off, and noticed that her shoes were on the wrong feet. She’d tease Trahern about that little goof later. As long as it was just the shoes and not her actual feet that were transposed . . .

  Unfortunately, her house was silent and empty. So much for the reunion. Her phone was on the kitchen table, and a text informed her that Fox was at Handcastings playing pirates with Rory, Bouncer, and Jade. So far, he was enthused about staying overnight (especially since they were going to binge-watch Tiger Ninja together), and he’d actually managed it a couple of times before. As Lissy smiled and sighed, however, her peripheral vision caught sight of a shadow at the screen door. A very short shadow. “Ranyon! Why are you standing out there?”

  “On account of ya told me I was to be knockin’ afore I came into yer house.” He stood with his thin branchlike arms folded huffily in front of his ubiquitous Blue Jays shirt. “And I haven’t decided to knock yet.”

  Don’t smile, don’t laugh, she ordered herself. “Please come in. And thank you for waiting.”

  The little ellyll immediately appeared in the kitchen, perched on the edge of a chair, swinging his strange knobby feet. His gnarled brow frowned like a ledge over his bright-blue eyes. “Brooke said Mister Son of Oak took ya on a picnic in the fae realm.”

  “There was no picnic.” Well, not of food. There had been a glorious feast of sensation in a forest clearing . . . and Lissy hastily stashed those thoughts for later. “But Tir Hardd was amazing. I didn’t collect a single rock!” In fact, no aspect of geology had even crossed her mind. Tomorrow she would kick herself for not asking more questions, for not trying to observe more of the formative features of the fantastical land, for not even scraping up a teaspoon of that aromatic black sand or pocketing a pebble from high up the banks of the stream of blue lava. Today, the faery world had been too vivid, too filled with life, too overwhelming. Even now, she had no hope of describing it. But maybe she should reveal what happened at the tavern? Trahern had said to call on Ranyon . . . though the ellyll would be sure to blame the fae for everything. Given a choice, she’d probably keep quiet. But there was Fox to think about, and if there was the slightest possibility of danger from a fae source, then she needed everyone—especially Ranyon—on board. “Can I make you a sandwi
ch? I have things to tell you.”

  His bright-blue eyes sparked with interest, though his brow remained furrowed. “Well, now, I might be able to manage a bite or two.”

  The bite or two turned into four large sandwiches (all different) and every dill pickle in the house. Chewing was interspersed with dark comments about Trahern’s power-hungry family and the tragedy of the Green Stag. “A desecration, that’s what it is,” he said, and more than one tear ran over his gnarled face to plop onto his plate. “’Twas an ancient creature, the very life of the forest it guards. Many sought it for favors and blessings, though very few received.”

  Trahern said it was a good omen. It certainly hadn’t been favorable for the stag. “You’re certain it was the House of Oak?”

  “No one else would commit such heartless sacrilege.” Ranyon finished the last bite of the last sandwich and sighed. “Another stag might rise up to take the place of the old one. But it’ll take a very long time, and the trees may dwindle in the waiting.” He drained his last juice box, too. Six of the little crumpled containers, all apple, lay on the table. “So exactly where is Mr. Son of Oak now?”

  “I wish I knew,” she said. “I know he’s strong and capable, but if his crazy family is involved? I’m scared for him.”

  The ellyll looked uncomfortable for a long moment, then finally offered: “He’ll be all right, dontcha know. That Trahern is pretty clever with his magic. Fer a fae.”

  She came around the table and hugged her friend. “Thanks.” Standing on the kitchen chair, he returned the hug heartily, though those long branchlike arms were always surprisingly gentle—

  And strong. He threw her to the floor just as a blast of blinding white light disintegrated the screen door and struck him. There was no time to move, to scream, to run. Ranyon’s beloved Blue Jays hat was still spinning in the air when men with long white hair and sharp, pitiless features entered the empty doorway. The tall invaders encircled her but didn’t touch her. Instead, their leader spoke a single word, and Lissy found herself hovering about a foot off the kitchen floor. She didn’t remain upright, as Cryf and Cyflym did, but bobbed weightlessly in all directions as if gravity itself had ceased to exist for her. Upside down at one point, she made a fruitless grab for Ranyon’s sprawled form. With his hat gone, his wild braids were askew, and a flurry of brown leaves, buttons, and trinkets surrounded his woody features. If it wasn’t for his beloved Toronto Blue Jays shirt, he might have resembled a tangled pile of fallen twigs. She couldn’t seem to control the rest of her weightless body but managed to turn her head, keeping her eyes fixed on Ranyon until she was satisfied that his little baseball shirt really was moving ever so slightly. Keep breathing, bud. Please be okay—

  Another fae word sent her floating helplessly out the door into the twilight. Though she swung and kicked at her captors, she couldn’t make contact—it was like being inside a bubble. Instead, she called them every name she could think of and (although she knew they wouldn’t comply) demanded to be freed. Either they were deaf or they didn’t care how much noise she made, and she made plenty. They wouldn’t even look her in the eye as they approached a group of fae horses under a pair of campus trees.

  Suddenly a lone figure appeared, walking briskly in high heels along the sidewalk. Claire Emsley headed for her own house, just two doors away!

  “Help! Help! Tell my friends what happened!” It was hard not to use names, but Lissy wasn’t about to give her kidnappers any more power than they already had. “Look at me, dammit! I need your help! Call someone!” To her horror, Claire simply stood on the doorstep of her townhouse, rummaging in her large, expensive purse for her keys. Lissy didn’t expect the woman to see the Tylwyth Teg or the group of fae horses that waited for them—after all, she’d walked right through Braith that first night in Lissy’s living room—but those sharp ears that had heard every sound that Fox made inside his own home should have been able to hear Lissy now. Crap. I asked Ranyon to make her forget us! How could I have been so stupid?

  But then, how could she have anticipated being taken prisoner by a gang of fae?

  At least Fox is safe with Brooke and Aidan. She drew comfort from that. As for herself, though, how would anyone ever know what happened to her? Where on earth—or, more likely, below it—was she being taken?

  The kitchen door was not merely open but missing entirely. A wild wind stirred eddies of papers from a sideboard, plucked pictures and drawings from the refrigerator door, and wrested clothing from the coatrack. Fierce gusts through the window had made ragged sails of the curtains over the sink, yet Trahern’s mind processed none of it. His attention was wholly on the silver dagger thrust deep into the blackened door frame. Pinned by its blade, a long claret sash edged with amber fluttered in the air like a mocking banner. The odor of burnt leaves stung his nostrils, the scent of recent magic.

  Lissy was gone.

  Eirianwen has done this. This . . .

  It was his first and last coherent thought before a tsunami of raw emotion slammed into him. No mere grief or despair, this. Nothing as tame as anger or even pain. In fact, the sensations were beyond anything he could have imagined, buffeting him with bruising intensity, until it seemed as if his very essence would be shattered.

  This!

  A geyser of white-hot fury erupted from depths he’d never known existed. His blood pounded and raged that Eirianwen would seek to control him by laying hands on an innocent and fragile mortal. But hard on the heels of the heat was icy anguish. Frost bloomed in his bones at the certain knowledge that a mortal was unlikely to survive long in his mother’s hands.

  My mortal. My woman. My Lissy.

  After a long lifetime of denying love’s existence—and more the fool for it—he’d finally accepted its presence, marveling that it could be both rich and powerful yet also subtle and gentle.

  The absence of that love, however, was a genuine horror: a flaying of the mind, a tearing of the heart, an agony that threatened to sunder joint and marrow. Yet his suffering had nothing to do with himself. True, it would likely have felt as if his most vital organs were being cut out if Lissy had rejected him—but at a single word from her, he would have walked away to ensure her happiness and hidden his pain all his days. He still would.

  No, the demon-clawed emotions that now ripped through him were all for her. The thought that she might be frightened or hurt made him wild. She could be dead already—

  A croak from the other side of the room stopped his heart. He flung the table aside, revealing not Lissy but Ranyon. Trahern knelt by him at once, passing a hand above the still little form while whispering a seeking spell that might reveal his injuries. A crimson glow radiated briefly from the ellyll before disappearing.

  “Lie still, friend. Your magic is gone.” More like ripped away. Whoever came through the door had expected Trahern to be with Lissy and planned to incapacitate him. “It will return with rest and time.”

  “Couldn’t stop ’em,” rasped Ranyon. “Took her.”

  “It is not your fault. Lissy is alive, and I will find her.” Of course she was alive. His shrewd mother would never kill such a valuable bargaining chip. But there were far worse things than death, and Eirianwen knew how to inflict every one of them. “Tell Brooke not to bring Fox back to this house. I am sending you to her for healing.” The ellyll tried to protest even as he disappeared.

  Deadly calm descended over Trahern like a dark cloak as he rose to his feet. The wind stilled abruptly like a quieted horse, and the torn curtains fluttered into motionless shrouds. At his glance, violet flames consumed both the oaken sash and the glittering knife, leaving no spark or ash behind. Trahern studied and flexed his hands as magical energy crackled over his skin—building, gathering, eager for greater release.

  Lissy Santiago-Callahan, by all that is hallowed in your world or mine, I will find you and free you.

  And there would be neither help nor mercy for anything or anyone who stood in his way.

  He sta
lked outside but didn’t mount Cyflym. Eirianwen would have ordered Lissy to be taken all the way to the Nine Realms beneath Wales, to the very heart of the House of Oak. As faithful and swift as his fae horse was, Trahern needed something far faster. He could translate there, of course, but doing so over such a distance would cost him energy that he might not have time to recoup. More, he desperately needed a plan of action.

  Think!

  By all the stars, he had to fight to do so. Unfamiliar emotions, raw and raging to the point of overpowering, called for him to simply blast away the walls of the grand matriarch’s sanctum and loose his full powers upon her before she could react. Satisfying, yes, but short-lived because she would not be alone. Her camarilla of sorcerers would be there to add their magic to hers. His own power was sufficient that he might best his mother if he caught her by surprise, but he could not hope to win if he had to face all of them together in a head-on assault. He would die or be captured before he could free Lissy.

  Think!

  Diplomacy he was skilled in. Sorcery he excelled in. But it was stratagem he needed right now, and not the usual games and machinations that were the lifeblood of the careless Court. Eirianwen was a brilliant and ruthless tactician. The situation called for some unexpected maneuver, an unconventional ploy, a trick—

  A trick.

  Who better to devise a trick than a trickster? Trahern reached into an inner pocket and withdrew a coil of glittering pwca hairs.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Lissy opened her eyes to find herself facedown on a polished stone floor, the smooth surface cool against her cheek. She didn’t dare move—not yet—though she was stiff, sore, woozy, and utterly furious that her captors had knocked her out for the trip to wherever the hell she was. Not a dungeon, at least. Small splashes of sunlight here and there struck dragonfly hues of green, gold, and blue from the seamless stone. The flashy iridescence automatically identified it to her inner geologist as a feldspar—labradorite—though she’d never seen it in such quantity.