Under the Bridge

by Dawn, Autumn

  He smiled. “Now you sleep. Tomorrow is another day.” He brushed the hair away from her face. “What would you like for breakfast?”

  She smiled. “I’m more interested in dessert.”

  He raised a brow as he glanced down her body. “You’d have to lie very still.”

  “I can do that.” And she did.

  The End

  Dictionary

  Gummibärchen…gummy bear

  Liebling…darling, beloved

  Bergtagen…in all Scandinavian languages there is a word which literally means

  'taken to the mountain', now often used in the sense 'bewitched' (bjergtaget,

  bergtagen). An English equivalent is “taken by the fairies”.

  Eyrnie, aka. Eirnin Donncha Gruagach (pronounced "air + nin" “done + acka” {groo-

  ah-gak} ) donn "brown" and cath "battle" meaning "brown-haired warrior." Brian Boru's son Donncha was a High King of Ireland until his death in 1064.

  Eirnin…Meaning "iron." The name is often linked with Ernest, a Germanic word

  meaning "vigor." The name of sixteen Irish saints, St. Eirnin is the patron saint of Tory, an island off the coast of County Donegal.

  Iron & Hemlock

  by

  Autumn Dawn

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Autumn Dawn on Smashwords

  Iron & Hemlock

  Copyright © 2010 by Autumn Dawn

  www.autumndawnbooks.com

  * * * * *

  Chapter 1

  Jordan flinched and shielded her eyes. The glow of lightning lit the darkness behind her lids, persisted in dots of color as she slowly lowered her hand. She blinked, disoriented. Death was a lonely country road?

  It was no wonder she was confused. Only moments ago, she’d been crossing the street on her way to meet the bus. When the speeding Porsche had sped 'round the corner, then gunned for her with an angry growl, she'd known she was dead. Only the lightning had struck before the car. Had it somehow knocked her out of the way?

  She drew a shaky breath and looked around. No, it was dark here, and stormy. The sun had been directly overhead in Spokane. The city had disappeared completely, leaving nothing but whispering trees and a crawling sense of unease.

  A cold wind worked its way through her jeans, stealing her warmth. She tugged her light leather jacket closer and thanked God for the vanity that made her wear her cashmere and silk sweater, though it had been a little warm this morning. Unfortunately, the suede boots didn't fare as well, quickly becoming waterlogged in the rain.

  A flash of lightning illuminated the outline of a tremendous stonewall lining the dirt road. A quick glance showed nothing behind her—no lights which would have indicated people. A hundred yards ahead, a wrought iron gate pierced the wall. As she drew closer, she could see that the panels were unlatched, swaying slightly in the wind, almost in invitation. When she was close enough to touch it, the torches above the gate flared to life, illuminating the gravel path. She glanced up and started slightly at the fierce gargoyles flanking the wall on either side.

  As she watched, one of them blinked.

  Jordan froze. She was not the kind of girl who screamed and ran at every shadow, even in such dire circumstances. She watched the gargoyle instead. It did not take long to convince herself that she'd imagined it. The statue was obviously stone.

  Still she felt watched. She looked behind her, but there was nothing out there but blackness and night. And yet she had the feeling that something was watching her, something other than the gargoyles.

  Shrugging her shoulders against the sensation, she slipped through the gates. Uneasy, she glanced back, just in time to observe the wind pushing the gates closed. They shut with a loud clang and remained fixed, as if the gate had latched. Was she locked in?

  She did not have time for further speculation. The sounds of hoof beats heading her way made her freeze. When she saw what was bearing down on her, she ran. She didn’t need the lightning to see the flames shooting from the head of the midnight stallion charging her way. His eyes and nostrils blazed, as if he were a living furnace. Sparks flew where his feet struck the earth, and the ground shook.

  She doubted he was checking to see if she'd brought oats.

  She did not get far before she was snatched from the ground by unseen hands and flung on the back of the nightmare horse. “Hide her, Sam!” a fierce voice shouted as she was dropped astride. She grasped the mane franticly, scrambling not to fall off. It seemed safer to ride the creature than to fall under its hooves.

  Unfortunately, Jordan was no rider. The glance she spared to see who'd dropped her unbalanced her, sent her tumbling from the back of the galloping horse. She landed on the wet lawn with stunning force, too dazed to move. Winded, she lay there as chaos reigned around her.

  A scream jerked her attention to the right. Jordan peered through the curtain of rain, scanning the darkness. As lightning flashed, she gasped. There was a woman out there, battling a...griffin?

  Jordan had no time to fight with her automatic rationalizations that griffins didn't exist; the woman was losing. Seizing a fallen tree branch, she struggled to her feet. There was a flowerbed in her way. Without a thought for the daisies, she tramped through the plants and dashed across the wet lawn.

  It wasn't until she'd nearly closed with the combatants that she realized her mistake. Up close, she could see that the “woman” was nothing more that a wasted wraith, a monster with bones peeking out where pieces of her had rotted away. Jordan could see the creature’s ribs through the rags it wore. It hovered over the ground, using a rusted sword to hack at the griffin. If the griffin hadn't been such a tremendous jumper, gifted with wings, it would have been dead.

  When it spotted Jordan, the wraith's red eyes lit. It opened its mouth and screamed a piercing shriek that paralyzed Jordan before it sent her to her knees. She dropped the branch and pressed her palms to her ears, but nothing stopped the pain. Her ears had to be bleeding. She grit her teeth, but couldn't hold back a moan of agony. That sound would kill her.

  The wraith had forgotten the griffin. He sprang at her while she was distracted, shredding decayed flesh with his razor sharp talons. The banshee fell to the ground, writhing. With one final snap of his powerful beak, he severed her head from her shoulders.

  Jordan panted as the pain ceased, cautiously lowering her hands. Shuddering, she watched the griffin rip the corpse apart. Her hand felt through the grass, closed around the branch. Hoping the griffin would stay occupied, she began to back away, eyes lowered, as if he were a mad dog.

  She had not gone three feet when she backed into something. It moved.

  Jordan whirled with a war cry and swung her stick with all her might. She thought she hit the head that belonged to the eyes hovering above her, but she didn't linger longer than it took the beast to grunt. She ran toward the house with a speed that would have surprised her old gym teacher, propelled by sheer terror.

  The griffin leaped in front of her, landing in a flurry of wings. Jordan cried out, tried to brake, and skidded on the wet grass. She landed on her butt with a wet squish. Terrified, she waited for it to attack.

  The griffin eyed her and sat back on its haunches. It cocked its great head and calmly began to clean its talons.

  Jordan drew a deep breath. Slowly, she got to her feet. A furtive glance showed more dark shapes in a loose circle around her. The night was black, but she could hear them breathing. It was hard to contain her fear, but she put forth a mighty effort. Panic didn't seem like a good idea.

  “It was brave of you to attack the banshee,” the griffin said, giving her a start.

  “Foolish,” someone grumbled.

  Jordan shifted edgily. The heavy stick in her hand was hardly reassuring. “I wasn't attacking her.” There was a short silence. “I didn't realize what she was until I got closer.” In fact, she hadn't realized what the wraith was until the griffin spoke, but sh
e didn't disclose that. She was already close to babbling. To counter it, she grit her teeth. It helped to still the chattering of her teeth. The rain may have abated, but the wind was frigid.

  “You're cold,” the griffin observed. “You should go in.”

  “Great idea,” she said quickly. “If you'll excuse me?” She waited for someone to move, but no one seemed in a hurry.

  Another flash of lightning lit the circle around her, giving a glimpse of big winged bodies to her right and left. It was enough to see that there were gaps in the ring big enough for her to slip through. Shuddering, she took a quick breath and darted between the bodies.

  She couldn't help a glance back, but no one had moved. Eyes front, she speed walked to the front door. She didn't look again to see if anyone followed. She hoped not.

  The driveway must have been a quarter mile long. Though she could only snatch lightning-lit glimpses, the mansion looked old, Gothic. Were there people inside? Only the darkened windows kept her from a sprint. If the place were deserted, would she find a door or window unlocked? The griffin had said she should go in. Did he know the people inside?

  The storm was rapidly becoming one of the worst she'd ever seen. Whips of lightning split the sky with almost supernatural frequency. Suddenly one speared an ancient oak tree not fifty yards from her, splitting it in two. The thunder came so quickly it deafened her, drowning her shriek.

  Jordan decided she didn't care if the mansion housed a battalion of zombies; she ran for it. Stumbling up the stone steps, she skidded to a halt at the door and pounded for all she was worth. “Hello? Help! Please let me in.” She couldn't help looking over her shoulder, expecting to be pounced on at any moment.

  It took a determined round of banging on the old iron knocker, but finally there came a deep echoing sound as the door grudgingly swung open. An old woman with black eyes and the biggest nose in Christendom scowled down at her. “We're not open to travelers.”

  Jordan stood up straight, her composure somewhat restored by the long wait. “Ma'am, I know we've never met, but I would be grateful if you'd allow me in. I—” she was interrupted by the crashing voice of thunder. She couldn't help glancing behind her. There was a howling note to the wind, like a live thing denied its prey.

  The old one looked at her with more interest now. “Well now! Got the banshee after you, have you? Heh. Perhaps I ought to let you in after all.” She swung the door open, smiling a rather white and sharp smile at the wind's protest. She grabbed Jordan as the wind suddenly tried to suck her away from the thick, iron-bound door, pulling her firmly inside. The sudden quiet as the door slammed was almost eerie.

  The old one sniffed. “Nothing like hemlock and iron to keep out unwanted guests.” She picked up her old-fashioned oil lamp from a side table and glanced at Jordan. “Come. You're dripping on the floors.”

  Jordan glanced around as she followed her hostess, taking in the dusty elegance. “I didn't get a chance to introduce myself. I'm Jordan Hearst.”

  The old one raised a brow that was nearly as thick as her nose. “You may call me Mrs. Yuimen. I am the keeper of the kitchens.” As she spoke, she led the way through a great hall with a neatly wiped and polished table and murky floors. “The housekeeper has left us some time ago and has yet to be replaced. You can see it needs attending.” She spoke as if this were somehow Jordan's responsibility.

  Jordan blinked. “I see.” She was unwilling to offend Mrs. Yuimen, lest she be given the boot. “I really appreciate—”

  “Yes, yes,” Mrs. Yuimen interrupted. “Now, be seated and I'll pour you some tea.” She entered the kitchens as she spoke and gestured to the rocker and stool before the old brick hearth. A one-eyed cat looked up from the rug and growled a warning as Jordan squished over, choosing the stool. She didn't want to take what must surely be the cook's customary seat.

  She cast a wary eye at the glaring, reddish colored cat and the odd green flames of the fire. “I've never seen a fire burn green before.”

  “Driftwood,” Mrs. Yuimen said as she moved efficiently about the kitchen, setting up a teacart.

  “Oh,” Jordan said, disoriented. “Are we by the sea?”

  Mrs. Y cast her an odd look, but otherwise, didn't comment.

  The kitchen was so spotless as to seem a world apart from the rest of the house. Mrs. Y had enormous worktables that, while nicked and battered enough to be fifty years old, were polished to a high sheen. Stacks of wooden bowls and crockery lined the shelf beneath it, and ropes of garlic, onions and herbs hung from the beams. The stone floors were neatly swept, and the tiled, wood burning cooking stove was free of soot and cooking residue. Even the copper teakettle was brightly reflective.

  When she'd assembled the cream and sugar and such, Mrs. Y rolled the cart over to Jordan and poured the tea.

  “Thank you,” Jordan said gratefully as she accepted a piece of cold ham, apples and cheese from the birch platter. Cold drops of water ran down her neck, chilling her further. Carefully, she wrung her hair out and tried to squeeze some water out of her sweater.

  Mrs. Y made an impatient sound and found her a kitchen towel. “Here, use that. You're making a mess. And take off your clothes while I fetch a blanket.”

  “Th-thank you.” Mrs. Y was quick, and Jordan was soon wrapped in a quilt, her feet in borrowed bed slippers. She watched Mrs. Y wring out her clothes and hang them over chairs near the fire. Her clothes quickly began to steam from the heat, but Jordan knew it would be hours before they were dry. “I was wondering if you had a phone? I'd like to call for a cab.” She bit her lip, silently questioning just what help a cab would be. She wasn't in the city. Looking around, she began to wonder if she were even in the same century. Though that was absurd, right? Where else could she be?

  The old one looked at her with gleaming black eyes. Too large and black, really. Combined with her odd gray hair―like wet soot, with a subtle life of its own―she didn't look either modern or normal. “I have a suspicion you're not asking about a hansom, which you'll not find here in any case. And unless a “phone” is an odd term for a footman, I think you'll find yourself unsatisfied.”

  Jordan opened her mouth to speak and was interrupted by another angry peal of thunder. She glanced warily out the window and had to stifle a sudden cry. A man stood there in the shadows, just behind the workbench. His chest was bare, the rest hidden by the bowls and counter. “Who are you?” she demanded, trying not to look below his eyes.

  Mrs. Y didn't seem disturbed. “Oh, Lord Griffin! This is Jordan Hearst. She was caught in the rain tonight. Join us for tea?”

  Griffin came closer and smiled into Jordan's wide eyes. “We've met.”

  Jordan looked hard at him. Surely he didn't mean...but his hair was tawny and crested, more like feathers than hair. His nose was hooked, the jaw strong, but with a rather pointed chin. The eyes were dark, with glints of gold. Her heart accelerated as she recognized the voice. “Griffin?”

  He cocked his head, like a hawk considering prey. She took it as affirmation...and fainted dead away.

  She didn't think she'd been out long. Griffin's feathery hair was still dripping when she came to. In fact, it was probably the drops falling on her nose that woke her.

  She sat up carefully, but there didn't seem to be any new aches. It was then that she noticed he was naked. Since he was crouched beside her, she wasn't particularly stressed about that—it wasn't as if anything interesting were showing. Oh, he was ripped otherwise, of course. Fighting monsters must be great exercise....

  She shook her head, feeling dizzy. “I think I could use some whiskey,” she muttered. With a little help from him, she climbed carefully back on the stool.

  He smiled as he helped steady her. “I'll bring you some brandy. It'll take the chill out better than tea.”

  She watched him as he trotted over to a cupboard. She numbly accepted a jam tart from Mrs. Y, trying in vain not to stare at Griffin's better parts while he poured her drink. It was difficult; there w
as a lot to look at. She averted her eyes when he caught her at it.

  “My apologies; I've run with my brothers too long,” he murmured, and reached into a lower cupboard to fetch a tablecloth. He wrapped it deftly around his waist. “Better?”

  Jordan lowered her head and murmured something non-committal. In other circumstances, she'd feel obliged to correct him.

  He returned to the fire and handed her the brandy snifter. “See if that helps.”

  It did, actually. It even helped her to maintain her calm as he pulled up a chair and sat across from her with his own cup of tea.

  He smiled at Mrs. Y and commented to Jordan, “You're doing very well. I imagine most damsels would be in hysterics by now.”

  “American girls are tough,” she said. “We aren't bothered by drinking liquor with half-naked, shape-changing griffins. Though if we were back home, I'd probably be having an Irish coffee...with a little extra Irish thrown in.”

  “Ah.” There was silence for a moment. Maybe he was organizing his questions. “You came through our gates earlier, trailing banshees and storm gremlins. I wonder what they wanted with you?”

  She released a shaky breath. If she'd had lingering doubts about his identity, his words erased them. “It really was you outside.”

  “Mm. My brothers were there, too.” He took a careful sip of tea and slanted a questioning glance her way, as if judging the state of her nerves.

  He was right to be concerned. Hysterics threatened again, but she stared at the ceiling until they passed. “I don't know what they wanted.” She met his eyes. “I have a question, though. Where am I?” It came out pleading. She felt obliged to explain. “I'm supposed to be in America.”

  He was silent for a long moment. Finally, he set aside his teacup. “You're in England, darling. I am curious to know how you missed the transition. I'm told it's a three month journey by ship.”