by Cory Barclay
“Forest dwellers and hunters. Kaiko’s fellowship.” Geddon turned back to Selestria. “Then I will track down Barns. See if I can find out why he did what he did.”
“You play a dangerous game, Geddon,” Selestria said. “He may kill you.”
Geddon gave her a wry smile. “You must forget, my lady, what I can do. I am not defenseless—”
“I know that, I’m just saying—”
“Never mind that,” Geddon snapped. “There’s no time to argue.” He clearly didn’t want to hear how Barns might slay him. It must have hurt his pride too much, hearing it from Selestria. Steve saw a certain connection between the two of them . . . an energy that was also dangerous, if this woman was married to the leader of their resistance.
He kept his mouth shut.
Until Geddon forced his hand. “Where will you go, Steve?”
“I have an idea,” he said, scratching his cheek. “Don’t worry about me. But if you are using Misty to communicate between you two . . .” he trailed off.
Geddon nodded. “We will do the same with you.”
“Good.”
With that, the three Kinsmen—and their cat—took their respective horses and left the mission. Once they were outside in the cool night air, Steve stared up at the night sky.
The sky was beginning to turn purple and pink—the sign of dawn fast approaching. The moon was waning.
“Until we meet again,” Geddon said. He jumped on his horse and together they trotted away.
Selestria looked one more time at Steve and said, “Good luck, Steven Remington.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Steve said, not sure if the title was appropriate. Since Geddon had agreed to offer him the same benefit of using Misty as a liaison, he hoped it meant he was part of the team. Part of the Vagrant Kinship.
Now that he had allies in this crazy place, he had enemies, too. He had to watch his every move.
But he was dead tired. He wouldn’t be able to watch a damn thing until he got some shuteye.
Selestria and Steve parted: Selestria heading west, Steve heading south.
He was alone again, with only Francesca the Third to keep him company. He took the freeway out of Old Town and headed back the way he’d come.
I suppose I should go to the stableman and pay for the damned horse, he thought. He felt his eyelids grow heavy. That can wait until morning. He hadn’t been lying when he said he had an idea where he would go.
Steve remembered what Lig had whispered in his ear—after he’d saved the brownie and his girlfriend.
It was a destination.
He took Francesca the Third south, back on the ghostly highway, toward Annabel’s house.
It took an hour to get there. The moon was ready to disappear over the horizon. Birds chirped and owls hooted. The sound of new life broke the eerie, nighttime silence.
That’s exactly what Steve needed: new life.
He dismounted when he reached the end of the driveway leading to the Lees’ manor. He didn’t walk down the driveway, but disappeared into the bushes and traveled incognito, through the flora. Francesca the Third snorted, struggling to follow Steve through the tight quarters. They eventually made it to the end of the driveway. Through the trees, he could see the mansion.
He longed to barge in there and rescue Annabel from her captivity.
But he couldn’t. Not now.
Instead, he trudged through the foliage to the side of the mansion.
When he passed under a window, he heard humming.
His heart leaped.
He stopped for a moment under the window—still hidden in the trees—listening as Annabel hummed to herself.
She was humming the melody of “Drift Away,” by Dobie Gray. The same song had been playing in Steve’s car after they’d first kissed on the boardwalk, while watching the sun set.
That fateful day seemed like years ago, even though it was only a couple months past.
He stared up at the window and saw, even through the dark curtains, a flickering candle kept the room alight.
He felt like he was in the middle of a scene from Romeo and Juliet. His Juliet was so close, yet so far. He wanted to do something romantic—to let her know he hadn’t forgotten about her, or given up. He knew it was folly.
Nothing good could come from trying to get her attention right now.
He left his position under the window and kept walking around the side of the house. He found a small, wood-framed barn set up behind it. This was where he’d first gone to tether Francesca the Third.
His eyes drooped as he hid in one of the barn’s stalls, Francesca beside him. He fell on his ass and stretched out across an inviting patch of hay, trying to stay hidden, but also comfortable.
Before long, his droopy eyes closed completely . . .
Dale waited for him.
Steve was in the same room as before, when he’d seen Dale and the mystery woman kissing against the wall, next to the bed.
The room, Steve realized, was much too big to belong to Dale. Any room was much too big to be Dale’s, because Steve had basically left him homeless after he left Terrus. He felt guilty about that.
Steve wondered how Dale had managed to weasel his way into couch surfing such a nice place. He’d always been kind and affable, but he wasn’t known for charming women left and right.
He didn’t have time to think on the subject.
Dale was fully clothed this time—Thank God—and he was not alone, again.
It wasn’t a woman he stood next to, though.
Steve took a step forward, watching the two people on the other side of the room. The man next to Dale was a tall, handsome fellow with a square jaw and a tight-fitting tuxedo.
Steve knew the guy.
It was Michelangelo the cherub.
Steve’s mouth fell open as the puzzle pieces started to fall into place. Aiden the leprechaun had called Michelangelo the “best wingman in town” when they’d first met him at the bar in La Jolla. He had the power to make a person fall hopelessly in love with someone else. He’d demonstrated that ability when he’d sent a beautiful woman into Dale’s arms.
Unfortunately, that woman had been with another man. A fight broke out in the bar, one that got Aiden kicked out.
Later, Steve and Dale had raided Michelangelo’s art show. The cherub and Dale had exchanged some heated words.
There was no love lost between the two, Steve knew.
So, what the hell are they doing conversing so casually, now, in this mystery room?
When Steve approached, he realized the two couldn’t see him. He still wasn’t able to dream-leap into Dale’s mind completely—not physically.
“How is the woman?” Michelangelo asked.
Dale said, “Shannon? Wonderful! We’re very happy.”
The hair on Steve’s neck stood on end. Shannon! he exclaimed to himself. Shannon Barton?!
That woman had nearly killed him—and had killed Tumbleweed—when she’d crashed her car next to Steve’s music studio.
Michelangelo said, “And you have what I’ve—” then cut himself short. He faced Steve, his bright eyes fixing him with a menacing stare.
At that moment, Steve knew he’d fucked up.
Michelangelo could see him, even if Dale couldn’t.
“We’re not alone,” the cherub said.
Dale looked over his shoulder at Steve, but had only a look of confusion on his face. “What do you mean, man?”
Michelangelo pointed.
How the hell can the angel see me, when I’m in Dale’s dream? Steve wondered, panicking.
Because I am a Mythic, and he is not, Michelangelo responded in Steve’s mind. Steve took a frightened step back. The angel had talked to him, telepathically. Holy shit, Steve thought.
“Who is it?” Dale asked.
“Your old friend, Steve.”
Dale tilted his head, another confused look overtaking his flabby face. His next words made Steve’s heart sink.
“S-Steve
. . . who?”
Steve’s face burned with a sudden sensation—a painful sensation.
His eyes shot open.
He was still lying on the pile of hay, the prickly, yellow things sticking to his body.
Lig the brownie stood over him, his open palm extended in the air, ready to slap Steve again.
“Finally, wafer-man, you awake from your sweaty slumber.”
“Sweaty?” Steve asked.
“Yes, you were covered in sweat like a pig covers itself in shit.” Lig turned to the shadows and said softly, “Fueda, come here.”
Lig’s small girlfriend appeared from the next stall over.
“This is Fueda,” Lig said.
“Hello, madam,” Steve said.
The little elderly woman chuckled in a high-pitched tone. “He is respectful. I like that.” Her voice was little more than a child’s whisper, but she had the leathery face of an 80-year-old woman.
“What is this all about?” Steve asked, glancing from Lig to Fueda.
“You saved our lives, wafer-man,” Lig said. He opened one eye wide. “Do you have any more wafers?”
Steve frowned and shook his head.
“A shame. But it’s no matter. What was I saying?”
“He saved our lives,” Fueda said.
“Ah, yes. You saved our lives. For that, we will help you.”
“Help me with . . . what?”
Lig’s wrinkled face contorted. “Don’t play stupid, wafer-man. I know your kind are in peril here.”
“My kind?”
“Humans.”
“Ah, yes . . . I thought you meant Kinsmen.”
“Them too.”
“And you can help me escape the danger?” Steve asked, hopefulness in his voice.
“No,” Lig said. “In that regard, you’re . . .” he turned to Fueda. “What’s the word, my dear?”
“Fucked,” the little woman said. Steve flinched, not expecting to hear such vulgarity coming from such a nice, tiny woman.
“Great,” Steve murmured. “Then what can you help me with?”
“Something more important,” Lig said.
Steve glanced at the two small faces. “More important than staying alive? What could be more important than that?”
Lig took Fueda’s tiny hand within his own tiny hand and smiled. “Love.”
“Ah.”
“We will try to help you recover Lady Annabel. I do not like seeing that poor girl so sad.”
Steve’s heart raced. “Can’t you get in trouble for that?”
Lig shrugged. “If we’re found out. We won’t be found out, though. Do not worry about us, wafer-man.”
Steve tried to hide his elation. “T-Thank you,” he said. “How do we begin?”
“It starts by putting you in a home close to Annabel’s. You must not be recognized, but it must be easy to communicate with you.”
Steve nodded. It made sense.
Lig turned to Fueda, who took over. “That is my duty. You will stay at my household, as a servant.”
“A servant? But I know nothing of serving—”
“It is a ploy, wafer-man,” Lig interjected. “It is only for the time being. Since you are in hiding, anyway, it should serve two good purposes: One, you’ll be close to me, so we can communicate. Two, you can hide from whoever is trying to kill you.”
Steve was about to ask how they were going to achieve this. Wouldn’t the master of a house realize when a brand new, non-tiny person had arrived in the household?
Fueda disrupted his thoughts. “Plus, my masters enjoy humans. You should fit right in.”
Steve was skeptical. “When you say ‘enjoy humans’ . . .”
Fueda rolled her eyes. “They aren’t going to eat you, wafer-man.”
“This isn’t a Hansel and Gretel situation?” Steve asked.
Fueda narrowed her eyes. She clearly didn’t like Steve as much as she originally did. She said, “This isn’t a fairy tale, boy.”
“Could have fooled me,” Steve quipped, but then immediately added, “sorry, my sarcasm is automatic. It’s a fault of mine.”
“Sarcasm is fine,” Fueda said, “as long as you obey my orders and obey the masters. Don’t use your sharp tongue on them.”
“Deal,” Steve said.
Lig looked over his shoulder. “I’d best be going,” he said. He gave Steve a nod, then hugged Fueda and kissed her on the lips. A moment later, he disappeared behind the stall wall.
It was heartwarming, in Steve’s opinion, to see two elderly people so infatuated with each other.
A moment later, Fueda shattered the charming scene. “Off your ass, wafer-man. We must quit this place, too.”
Steve nodded and grabbed Francesca the Third’s reins.
Fueda put a tiny hand on his kneecap. “No, leave the horse here. It will raise suspicions with my masters to see a servant with a horse. You must not look above your means.”
Steve’s shoulders sagged. “B-But . . . what do I do with Francesca? When the Lees awake, they’ll know I’ve been here.”
“Let my husband deal with that, boy.”
Steve frowned.
Fueda wasn’t having any of it.
“Quit sulking and come on, wafer-man!”
CHAPTER NINE
STEVE WAS STILL DEAD tired as he followed Fueda to her master’s house. While they crept away from the barn, the sun peeked over the horizon, showing a glimpse of a beautiful morning. Steve was skeptical about Fueda, but he didn’t want Annabel’s parents to catch him sleeping in their barn.
Then he remembered Constantin and Mariana were vampires. Wouldn’t I have been more likely to get caught while dozing at night? Isn’t that normal vampire business hours?
He followed the little brownie through a thicket of bushes, maneuvering much slower and clumsier than her little body. Some thorny branches stabbed him a couple times, causing him to groan.
They finally emerged from the undergrowth and came to a road. He looked back and realized they must have been almost a mile down the road from Annabel’s house. They’d made a shortcut through the trees, because Fueda was in a rush to get home before her masters awoke.
The building ahead was a large, white, Victorian mansion, with an open courtyard full of elegant statues and a pond with koi fish. Tall trees surrounded the entire property, hiding the main building from the road. One minute they were traveling through rough woods, then it opened into the secret lair of a Bond villain.
Steve was nervous as he followed Fueda around the side of the building. They went in through a secret door that opened to a spiral staircase. The staircase led down and put them in a grand basement, clearly below ground, but it still looked upscale.
They went through another door and came to a mid-sized kitchen with a low ceiling. Steve almost had to bend his knees to stand straight in the room, though Fueda had no problem. She rummaged around a refrigerator and came out with a carton of eggs, a slab of pork, and some fresh fruit. She found some pots and pans and placed them out on a four-eyed stovetop.
“Tiberius likes his bacon crispy, but Emilene likes hers limp and barely cooked. Jareth and Dosira don’t mind either way, as long as it’s on the table expeditiously.” Fueda began cutting thin slices from the pork.
She was basically talking to herself. Steve was peering all around the kitchen and basement. He asked, “How far does this underground level go?”
Not bothering to look at him, she said, “It follows the entire first level of the house. The passageways make it easy for me to travel from room to room without being seen, should we have guests.”
Steve didn’t like the sound of that. Not being seen? It sounded like her masters were quite strict.
Fueda pointed her sharp knife at Steve. “Come on, wafer-man, cut up some fruit. Do something useful.”
“Right . . . sorry.” Steve towered over the little woman. The knife she held looked like a sword in her hands.
Steve said, “Should I, like, ma
ke a fruit salad or something?”
Fueda sighed. She was already at the limit of her patience and the day had just begun. “The masters like their fruit placed a certain way. Quarter the watermelon and grapefruit and slice the apples. I’ll set up the platter.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
By the time the bacon was sizzling and spitting out little specks of grease, Steve had finished cutting the fruit. The ceiling overhead creaked with footsteps.
“The masters are heading into the dining room! We’re late!” Fueda cried, flustered. She rapidly plated the fruit on a big, round platter, then served the eggs. Two helpings of eggs were scrambled, two were sunny-side up. She threw a heap of bacon onto each plate.
She handed Steve two of the steaming plates. As he carefully balanced the two plates and fruit platter on his arms, he noticed how . . . human this meal looked. It was like a breakfast he’d eat on any given day.
They left the kitchen through a different door, reached another staircase, and went up. The door at the top of the stairs opened into a small hallway, leading to the dining room.
Wide, beautiful windows surrounded the dining room and let in a cascade of light at all angles. Steve flinched and squinted to adjust to the brightness. It had become morning.
Three people sat at a large table. A fourth was bounding down the stairs. The first face Steve saw belonged to the oldest member of the table. He was a brown-skinned man of about sixty, with graying hair and a velvet red robe that made him look like a Middle Eastern Hugh Hefner. To his left was a middle-aged white woman, also with brown hair, high cheeks, a pinched nose, and a blue robe. To her left was a younger woman, a few years Steve’s junior, who shared the tired handsomeness of the father and the fine features of the mother. The last spot at the table belonged to the young man coming down the stairs. His face was also dark and handsome, and he had watchful eyes and a cleft chin.
Steve stared at the four strangers as he followed Fueda’s lead, placing the plates in front of the faces. They didn’t so much as glance at him. It was good enough for him, though, because he didn’t really want an introduction over breakfast. He figured Fueda would give him the lowdown when they were back in the basement.
As Fueda placed the last plate in front of the young, mysterious man, she stepped away from the table. She stood in a corner, making herself practically invisible.