by Nadine Mutas
“Ugh. That bitch.” She closed her eyes, let her head fall back for a moment.
“Getting feisty, little witch?” He moved to the stove and ladled out a cup of the finished brew.
She took the mug he handed her and sipped on the decoction, made a face and said, “You should use less mold.”
He grinned at her echo of what he once said to her, after they just met, and, damn, but his smirk hadn’t lost any of its appeal. “Bottoms up.”
Bracing herself, she downed half the cup of Mountain Dirt before having to pause and shudder at the taste.
“I can ask my contacts, see if anyone knows a fae.” He laid both hands on her shoulders, massaged her neck and her nape, grounding her with his touch.
She sighed. “That would be great. Thank you.”
Closing her eyes, she leaned forward, resting her head against Rhun’s chest. As always, the feel of him soothed her to the depths of her soul, calmed her restlessness, shifted everything back into focus. She inhaled a good noseful of his scent and hummed with contentment.
“I’m so damn tired,” she whispered.
His arms came around her, stroking her back. “The magic you’ve been doing for Arawn?”
She grimaced at the thought of the Demon Lord, that rotten bastard who had the right to call on her magic at will, courtesy of an ill-fated deal Merle struck with him to keep him from claiming her sister Maeve. “Yeah. You know what he made me do this time? He had me change the freaking color of his stupid fireflies. Wanted them red. Fireflies! I had to fumble around for hours until I got the spell right, and all the while he sat there in wolf form, watching me with a grin on his face. And let me tell you, a grinning wolf is not a comforting sight.”
Rhun’s muscles tensed under her touch, and his growing irritation vibrated along their mating bond, a dull throb deep within her.
“He’s using up your magic for meaningless shit.” It was a growl filled with dark, dark anger.
“And laughing his ass off at the show.”
Stepping back, he pinned her with a steely look. “Tell him to go fuck himself. This has gone on long enough. It’s time you put an end to it.”
She snorted. “Yeah, right. Don’t you think I’d do that in a heartbeat if I had a choice?”
“But you do.” He glared at her. “You can tell him it’s over. End the deal.”
“Oh, sure, and I’ll just go tell my baby sister that I’m throwing her to the wolves.” Or wolf, in that case.
“So you’d rather—”
“I’m not discussing this, Rhun.”
He looked like she’d slapped him. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “One of these days,” he said slowly, quietly, “I’m going to hog-tie you, go to Arawn, and end the deal for you.”
Blood beginning to boil, she glared at him. “You do that, and I will unleash a world of hurt on you that will make your time in the Shadows seem like a five-star vacation.”
They stared at each other for a good ten seconds, then they both growled, “Fine!” and turned away.
Seething, she stomped over to the counter, snatched the bread, and started making a sandwich. Gods, she was hungry. And exhausted. And so, so angry at that stubborn demon husband of hers, who was currently rearranging the dishes in the cabinets in some OCD-compliant order, no doubt working off his frustration. The bread suffered from some frustration of her own, what with the way she almost butchered it.
Going through the fridge, she pulled out a bunch of stuff to put on the sandwich, all the while furiously thinking, brooding, fuming with what in her opinion was clearly justified anger.
He couldn’t honestly expect her to give up on her sister, not after all she’d been through. Only a few months had passed since Merle rescued Maeve, and Maeve still suffered from the trauma of her abduction and torture at the hands of a demon. Merle’s stomach turned when she thought back to how she had to ask Arawn for help in finding Maeve’s captor, and how Arawn’s price for his assistance was an open favor…which he claimed later, after Maeve’s rescue, by demanding Merle surrender magical custody over Maeve to him and let him take her baby sister.
Bruised and hurting from the race to save Maeve, and from seeing the open wounds in Maeve’s psyche, Merle had desperately bargained with the Demon Lord once more to keep Arawn from claiming her right away. So she ended up locked in a deal with Arawn—she granted him free use of her magic as long as he didn’t come to take away Maeve.
And she had to keep it up, because the thought of the Demon Lord dragging Maeve off to the heart of his dark dominion soured her blood. Why couldn’t Rhun see that she had to hold on to this last chance of keeping Maeve safe, that it was simply not an option to surrender her baby sister to a being like Arawn if there was still a way around it?
Grinding her teeth, Merle barely kept herself from squeezing the honey bottle to death—and then she froze. She stared at the sandwich in front of her, a dizzying suspicion crawling up her spine. Mentally doing some math, she then put the honey down on the counter with shaking hands, heart pounding a thousand times a minute.
“Rhun,” she whispered.
Pausing with a mug in his hands, he met her eyes, then followed her glance to the sandwich—which consisted of bread with peanut butter, cheese, bacon and pickles, topped with honey. He frowned, looked at her face again, before his attention dropped to her hand, which was resting on her abdomen.
His eyes widened. The mug slipped from his grasp, fell to the floor, shattered. Suddenly Rhun was in front of her, his hands cupping her face, his lips on hers, searing, possessive, kissing the hell out of her while the mating bond between them pulsed with a tangle of white-hot emotions. Excitement, fear, protectiveness, and, above and beyond all, a love that went so deep, it fucking broke her heart.
Swallowing a sob of bittersweet happiness, she wound her arms around his neck, kissing him back with all the passion she felt for him. She jumped up and wrapped her legs around his hips, and he caught her, set her down on the counter with utmost care, stroking her face. Resting his forehead against hers, he closed his eyes, his hand warm as it curved over her belly. There was a hush of awe about him, and it was so damn beautiful she wanted to cry.
For the longest time they remained like this, Rhun’s one hand tangled in her hair, his other resting on her belly, her arms around his neck, fingers digging into the silk of his hair. He smiled as he met her gaze.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” they both said at the same time, and she giggled, giddy and high on an overload of happy hormones.
“Are you really…?” he whispered.
“Yes.” She gave a shaky nod. “I can feel it. A tiny spark.”
Rhun’s smile brightened until it was blinding. “We’re going to have a little witch volcano.”
Chapter 8
Your mother.
The unspoken words whispered through Isa’s mind, and brought back memories of what had indeed been the hardest case Isa ever worked.
“Please, please, I beg you. Search your heart, find some mercy.” Tears streamed down the fae’s face, her eyes huge and round and imploring as she looked up at Isa. “Please let me go.”
The magical leash in Isa’s hand burned into her skin, even though the power was calibrated not to affect Isa herself. And yet she burned. Her hand trembled. If Isa had even a shred of compassion in her heart, she would release the faery, would grant her the freedom she so desperately craved. But alas, the heart the fae had spoken of was made of stone.
“Come with me,” Isa said, her voice as cold as the marble that sang to her.
Basil’s voice drew her back into the present. With a start, she looked over at him.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I was just asking about the hardest case you ever had.” His brows drew together over those gorgeous brown eyes. “But hey, if it’s too personal a question, forget I asked.”
Isa swallowed hard, pushed back the feeling of an irrevocable, heavy mistake. “Well, I gues
s it’s a tie between the one fae I had to chase up Mount Hood—all the way up—and the other fae, who fled into the sewers of Portland. And yes, I had to chase him through pipes full of human waste.”
Basil choked out a laugh. “I don’t even want to imagine how long it took to wash off.”
Isa grinned, glad he accepted her diversion at face value, bought into her implication that hard had been a matter of physically taxing versus emotionally devastating. Because even with a heart of stone, dragging Basil’s mother back into Faerie almost broke Isa.
It was wrong, she knew that. All these years of suffering, all the pain, the looming specter of her own death, it was only fair, wasn’t it? Didn’t she deserve it? Had the curse not been the just reward for declining to do what had been so obviously right? Yes, maybe she deserved to suffer.
Isa took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and shook herself. Shook off the maudlin feelings of self-recrimination, and reminded herself of what had been her reality ever since she was a little girl. How could she have made the right decision, or even known what was right? How could she have known how to care for anyone else, how could she have put the welfare of anyone else before her own needs, when no one had ever done the same for her?
She had to claw and fight for every scrap of food and shelter while she was growing up. She struggled through a childhood intent on seeing her die rather than succeed, and she made her way out by herself. No one helped her. No one cared. She never had the luxury of caring for someone else more than she cared about staying alive, so declining to listen to the pleas of one desperate fae had just been par for the course.
She made a mistake, she suffered for it, but what was done, was done. Breaking the curse would be her chance to start fresh.
“Your turn, Basil,” she said, shutting down the internal clamor of doubts and what-ifs, “tell me your tale of the one who walks the sky.”
His laugh warmed her, chased away the chill of the night and the shadows of the past. And, oh, he looked so delighted, so full of joy, like a coyote pup with something new to play with.
By the time they reached the Treetop Inn, she was thoroughly immersed in the story of Luke, Leia, and Han, and their struggle against the evil Empire.
“You have to tell me how they’ll make it out of that trash compactor,” Isa said to him as they approached the treehouse.
“Sure,” he muttered absent-mindedly, his eyes glued to the towering structure in front of them, the stairs and walkways, the walls, parts of the roof, windows and decorations, all worked around and into and through the copse of grand firs ahead of them.
Isa tilted her head, studied Basil’s reaction, and then looked at the inn, tried to see it with his eyes. Yes, for someone who had never beheld an elaborate faery treehouse before, this must be wondrous. She tended to forget how different human architecture was from that of the fae.
All around them, fae creatures were moving to and fro, coming and going, the inn being a popular meeting place for their kind. This commotion, however, went beyond the usual bustle of the lodge. Whispers rose and fell while fae sped past, an air of urgency and trepidation about them.
What was going—?
Just that second, a snippet of dialogue floated over to her. “…royal court. All of them. Dead…”
Isa inhaled sharply. Right. News of the slaughter hadn’t reached the outskirts of Faerie when she passed here a couple of hours ago, but it sure was on everyone’s lips now. Her stomach curdled at the thought of what the future might hold, considering the power vacuum created by the gruesome murders. Well, whatever change might be ahead, she’d weather it like she did everything else in life. She’d survived worse.
Provided, however, she could break her curse.
She slanted a look at the one thing standing between her and survival.
“This is amazing,” Basil whispered.
“Just do me a favor and try not to leave your mouth hanging open,” Isa said in a low voice, leaning into him.
Basil straightened, threw a glance at her, and closed his mouth with an audible click. Isa looked down at the ground and bit her lip to keep from grinning. To no avail. She ascended the stairs ahead of Basil with a not-unwelcome smile on her face.
The wide staircase encircling the massive girth of the main tree holding up the Treetop Inn was illuminated by will-o’-the-wisps, like the main road. The old wood planks creaked under her feet as she took the stairs up, up, farther up, until they reached the main landing a good thirty feet above the ground. A few fae mingled on the large platform in front of the entrance to the inn, but Isa ignored them, and signaled Basil to follow her into the main house.
Inside, a live band in the corner played upbeat music, and a few smaller fae creatures danced in front of the bar, either oblivious to or uncaring about the slaughter of their royals. The rest of the room was packed with patrons. Despite the heightened buzz of agitation caused by the news of the throne room massacre, the crowd promised anonymity, just as Isa preferred. She rarely stayed in less-frequented establishments, for fear of drawing too much attention, a result of a life lived on the fringes of society, always braced for the next kick.
She approached the front desk while muttering to Basil, “Let me do the talking. You don't speak Fae, and insisting on speaking English would be weird. We don’t want to draw unnecessary attention.”
Basil nodded, then gasped, his face all shocked. “Wait, does that mean I can’t wear my Legolas outfit around here?”
Isa blinked, stopped short. “What’s a legolas?”
His grin was positively mischievous. He winked at her, bumped her shoulder gently with his. “Methinks I’ll have to show you a couple of movies to bring you up to speed on human culture.”
“Another religious tale?”
His eyes crinkled at the corners while he chuckled. “Yes.”
Her heart inexplicably beating faster and lighter, Isa stepped up to the front desk and conferred with the main host, a stout female fae with skin resembling the white- and green-flecked pattern of red alder bark, and hair the color of young moss. Isa paid for a room for the night and signaled Basil, who followed her out of the main house and over the platform, past the mingling fae, up another flight of stairs, to one of the single rooms nestled in the upper branches.
She opened the door with the silver key—not iron, the despised metal not to be found anywhere in Faerie—and held the door while Basil entered. Shutting it behind him, she turned around and scanned the room, noting all the exits and entry points for a possible threat.
It would do.
Basil let out a breath, put his hands on his waist. “I can't believe it. This is…amazing architecture.” He spread his arms wide. “Do all fae live like this?”
Isa deposited her weapons in the corner with the bunk bed, so her bow and arrows would be within easy reach while she slept. “No, not all of us. Fae architecture actually differs according to the fae’s element.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, since you asked me to teach you about fae powers, here’s your first lesson. No two faeries’ powers are exactly the same. But some of us have ties to the same element. Some parts of nature…sing to us, to our own power. Some fae have an affinity for water, for example, while others can manipulate fire.”
“In other words, fae magic is elemental magic?”
“Not quite, but close. Our magic is not limited to elemental magic, or rather that there’s one element we prefer. A water fae, for example, will be strongest in the presence of water, and the core of her talent will be in manipulating water, and anything to do with water. But she may have magic that has nothing to do with water as well.”
“That means a water fae would still be able to work a spell on someone’s mind, right?”
Isa nodded. “Yes, kind of like that. The elemental part of our magic is the part we are born with. It’s the magic we barely need to study, since it comes naturally. Now, other types of magic, those similar to the magic witch
es wield, those types we have to spend time to learn, just like witches. Our powers are still far below those of witches, but we are able to learn and wield some magic that goes beyond our natural element.”
“What’s your element?” Basil’s eyes held a speculative gleam.
Inexplicably, she felt the urge to tease him, to be playful. She marveled at the feeling. “Why don’t you take a guess?”
The spark in his eyes, the hint of a smile on his face, both deepened, spread into an expression of interest and appreciation that caught her off guard. He took a step closer, studied her from head to toe and back up again, lingering over the feminine places of her body—which grew hot and sensitive, as if in answer to his visual examination.
The intensity of his regard, the unabashed interest, seared through the layers of her clothes, made her suddenly aware of the overwhelming maleness so close to her. He leaned in, inhaled deeply, as if trying to sample her very essence. She shivered in response, struggled not to sway forward, into him.
“I’d say,” he murmured in a voice pitched so low, so seductive, it invoked images far too intimate in nature, “it’s not fire, or water.”
Unable to raise her voice to speak, she just shook her head, mesmerized by his presence.
He tilted his head and studied her face so closely, she had to lock her knees so she wouldn’t tremble. “Earth?”
She exhaled on a gasp. Her heart skipped a beat.
“Am I close?”
Far too close. But not in terms of guessing her element. His heat brushed against her skin, his scent wrapped around her—he smelled like warm earth caressed by rain, touched by an intriguing dark note. Her pulse sped up, her breath caught in her throat, and desire uncurled in her lower belly. Insidious, unwelcome—she hadn’t wanted a male in years, had been too preoccupied with stalling her curse, and now was not the time to reawaken a long-buried need.
So instead of an answer—or any of the disastrous, traitorous ideas her newly invigorated libido came up with about how to respond to his interest in her—she called to the stone around her, drew the pieces she found close, raised them up and swirled them in the air—and then let go so they could rain down on Basil.