Tempestuous

  Her brother? Kelley thought with rising terror. Her brother is supposed to be dead!

  “What have you done with the charm, little princess?” Jenii sauntered up close to her—click click click—and touched the hollow at the base of Kelley’s throat. Kelley shuddered in revulsion and batted the glaistig’s hand away. She could feel her magick flaring deep within her and she had an overwhelming urge to blast the Green Maiden into a pile of mulch.

  The arrogant, smiling goat-girl seemed to know her thoughts—she tsked at Kelley through her horrible teeth and wagged a long, talon-nailed finger. “Now, now. I am of the Autumn Court. Like your mother, you cannot raise a hand against me in violence.”

  That, Kelley thought with a sudden flash of insight, is a half-truth. It was true if the glaistig didn’t raise a hand against her first. When they’d fought the glaistigs in the Avalon Grande Theatre, Kelley had been able to shove them around some with her magick. But that had been it—because the Green Maidens had been careful not to attack her directly. So that part was true. But it was also, Kelley thought—if she was to go by twisty Faerie logic—only true insofar as her inheritance of her mother’s power was concerned. She was only half descended from the Autumn Throne. The other half of her came from the Court of Winter. Of course, her father had inconveniently stripped her of her Unseelie powers, and so her Winter half was, in theory, useless. At least, as far as magick went.

  But . . .

  Kelley mentally crossed her fingers, hoping her desperate idea would work, and imagined, as hard as she could, that it was her “Winter” hand that she was curling up into an unmagicked fist. A fist she drove straight into Jenii Greenteeth’s nose.

  Kelley heard a crumpling sound, and the glaistig howled and threw her arms up instinctively. The long claws of one of her hands raked parallel gashes along Kelley’s shoulder, drawing blood, and Kelley grinned triumphantly.

  “I’d say that’s raising a hand against me, Jenii,” she snapped, and flared out her wings, blinding the glaistig, who stumbled back a teetering step.

  But the Green Maiden recovered almost instantly—much faster than Kelley had expected. She launched herself at Kelley, screeching terribly and baring her mouthful of sharp, emerald teeth. She lunged for Kelley’s throat, and Kelley barely managed to scramble back away from the murderous Faerie. She tripped over Herne’s prone form and went sprawling herself, badly shaken.

  Jenii was on her in a flash, fingers closing around Kelley’s windpipe.

  Kelley gasped for air, groping behind her to where the Hunter lay still. Her fingertips burned as they brushed the blade of the dagger in his belt. Kelley gritted her teeth and grasped the weapon. Before she could give herself time to think about what she was doing, she thrust it forward, plunging Herne’s knife up under the glaistig’s rib cage, burying the blade to the hilt. The Green Maiden jerked spasmodically, releasing her grip on Kelley, and her eyes went wide. Her mouth opened in a tiny gasp and she fell backward, dead before she hit the ground.

  Slowly, Kelley got to her feet. She looked down at the dead Faerie. The edges of Jenii’s skirts were folded back, and Kelley could see that the dainty goat hooves were stained black with the blood of uncounted victims. Viscous green liquid seeped out in a widening pool around her, and weedy-looking seedlings sprouted up and shriveled in the blink of an eye where the spreading edge of Jenii Greenteeth’s lifeblood reached.

  Kelley stepped away and resolutely turned her back on the creature. She looked down at Herne.

  He was barely breathing.

  Kelley raised her hand, ignoring the painful welts raised by the iron, and formed the image of a rift in her mind. But the mental picture darkened and twisted of its own accord, and she heard a high-pitched screeching whine. She drew back from the conjuring, startled, before the passageway manifested itself in reality and remembered, suddenly, what her mother had told her about the spaces between the worlds. How they had become dangerous and unnavigable.

  Great, she thought. No mystical highway.

  She might have been willing to risk the passage on her own; not with Herne in such grave condition. But Herne would die if she didn’t get him help. Soon.

  Kelley didn’t know what to do. She certainly didn’t have any medical training, and she didn’t think dragging an arrow-riddled man-god dressed in buckskin trousers and an oak-leaf wreath through the emergency-entrance doors at Roosevelt Hospital would get her very far. She ran back to the main entrance. Bursting through the shattered archway that used to house the Tavern’s front doors, Kelley hailed a Faerie cab.

  “Well, hello, missy.” The tall blond carriage driver stared down at her through arctic-blue eyes. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Oh thank God!” Kelley gasped.

  “Thank Belrix.” The driver nodded at the great white horse who stood looking at Kelley, his ears pricked in her direction. “He was adamant we come round this way again tonight. I didn’t know why, but he seemed to sense there was someone who needed a ride.”

  “I do. Badly. Thank you, Belrix!” Kelley gave the horse a brief, heartfelt hug and turned back to the driver. “Please, ma’am . . .”

  “You may call me Olrun.”

  “Olrun. Okay. Thank you. I’m Kelley.”

  The driver inclined her head politely, even though it was fairly obvious that she knew perfectly well who Kelley was. Most of Faeriekind did.

  “Listen, Olrun.” Kelley glanced at the carriage. “Can you drive this thing out of the park? Into the real world—I mean the mortal world?”

  Belrix tossed his head, but his driver just gave Kelley a long look. “For what cause would I do such a thing, Princess?”

  “I need to get Herne to safety.”

  “The Horned One?” Olrun’s eyes flashed with concern. “But he is—”

  “Injured. Badly.” Kelley gestured behind her at the ruins of the Tavern’s front doors. “I can explain as we go, but time’s wasting and he needs medical attention.”

  Olrun nodded and wrapped the reins around the front rail of the carriage. “If it is for the sake of the Hunter, then yes. I will help you.”

  “I can’t pay you. Not now. But I will—”

  “Say nothing of this.” The driver held up a hand, very kindly saving Kelley from committing herself to an unspecified indebtedness. “The Horned One long ago earned my friendship.” She leaped down from her perch on the driver’s bench with a surprising lightness for one so tall and stalked alongside Kelley as she ran back into the Tavern and led the way to where Herne still sprawled beside the body of the dead glaistig.

  “Boy. It’s a good thing you’ve got clout, pal,” Kelley ground out between clenched teeth as she struggled to raise Herne up off the ground so that she could help Olrun get him out to the carriage. It was wasted effort. The Hunter was far too heavily muscled. But Olrun shouldered her gently out of the way. Kelley stood back as, without even a grunt of effort, the big blond woman knelt down and lifted Herne in her arms, carrying him as effortlessly as if he were a baby, out to the waiting carriage, where she settled him on the plush upholstered seat. Kelley climbed up and sat on the bench opposite, staring worriedly at Herne’s chest, where the rise and fall was barely discernible. His breathing was so shallow. . . .

  Olrun leaned him gently forward and eyed the two arrows. One of them had gone all the way through Herne’s chest and protruded out his back, making it impossible for him to lie down flat. “Can’t leave it sticking out like that . . . ,” she muttered grimly.

  Kelley fought down the surge of bile in her throat as Olrun snapped off the barbed arrowhead and pulled the shaft free, fresh blood following in its wake. She stripped off the jacket she wore and wrapped it around Herne’s shoulder, stanching the flow a bit. Not enough, Kelley thought as she held the garment pressed to the Hunter’s wound while Olrun tucked the fluffy purple carriage blanket around him, unmindful of the blood.

  Then Olrun vaulted into the driver’s seat and snatched up the reins. Kelley told her whe
re they were headed and, without so much as a raised eyebrow, the woman turned and slapped the reins, shouting encouragement to her massive white horse. The carriage lurched forward, and the spoked wheels began to turn faster and faster.

  Kelley held on to the side rail of the carriage and watched as the world around her began to blur.

  Chapter XVII

  Sonny tightened his grip on his sword and started to run.

  He had spotted Fennrys in a far corner, busily engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Hand-to-hoof, more like—the thing he fought was bestial; the deer-hoofed creature reared and kicked with a viciousness that was as surprising as its mouthful of knifelike teeth. A sianach, it was one of a particularly scarce breed of solitary Fae—even among the Fair Folk, the creature was regarded as almost a nightmarish myth.

  But that wasn’t the only reason Sonny was running. Ghost was climbing behind where Fennrys fought the sianach, light glinting off the dagger clutched in his bloodless fist. He would ambush Fennrys from above and drive that knife between the Wolf’s shoulder blades before Fenn even knew what was happening.

  Sonny leaped as the pale renegade Janus sprang at Fennrys from above. Sonny’s shoulder caught Ghost high on the side of his rib cage and knocked him from his trajectory. He hit the ground heavily and rolled down an incline. Sonny scrambled after him, struggling to keep his footing on the loose shale of the uneven cavern floor. Ghost twisted in his tumbling and, with the kind of startling agility that had been trained into all the Janus, sprang back to his feet.

  He flew at Sonny, eyes rolling white in his head and his mouth open wide, teeth bared in an animal grimace. Sonny shuddered to think of all the Fae that had met their ends at his hands, whether they deserved it or not. He’d never seen anyone so far gone in battle madness—not even Fennrys, with his legendary berserker Viking rages—and the sight of it was horrifying. The corners of Ghost’s screaming mouth were webbed with foam, almost as if he were a rabid dog. He went for Sonny’s eyes, knife in one hand, fingers of the other splayed wide and hooked like talons. Sonny knocked those lethal hands aside with a sweeping block of his forearm and pivoted away as Ghost lunged off-balance to one side. But the other Janus used his sinewy strength to his advantage. Propelled by his own momentum, he snaked back around in front of Sonny to deliver a head-butt to Sonny’s temple that momentarily blinded him and sent him reeling backward.

  The next thing Sonny knew, Ghost was on him. His dagger looked as if its black blade had been hewn from obsidian, and it glittered wickedly as it descended toward Sonny’s heart. Sonny fell, his spine slamming into the stone floor, and rolled frantically to the side, taking Ghost with him.

  In the scramble, he felt a sudden, sharp jolt.

  Sonny gasped as the wetness spread outward from the center of his T-shirt and, heaving Ghost’s tangled limbs away from him, he frantically felt for the wound. There wasn’t one. The knife had not pierced his chest. Instead, the blade had twisted in Ghost’s sweat-slick palm and slid effortlessly between the young man’s ribs. It quivered with the beating of his heart—once, twice . . . and then was still.

  Sonny sensed Fennrys coming up to stand with him as he looked down at the face of the tortured young man he’d only ever known by a mocking nickname.

  “Ghost . . . ,” he murmured.

  “Étienne,” Fennrys said, as if sensing what Sonny was thinking. “His real name was Étienne.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “I don’t think many of us did.” Fennrys shrugged. “He wasn’t really the type to tell you unless you asked.”

  Sonny turned and looked at Fennrys. “You asked?”

  “We got on.”

  “Did he ever say anything about . . . this?”

  “No, Sonny.” Fennrys stared at him flatly. “We got on, but I’m not one of the renegades. They didn’t include me in their devious little games. I knew nothing about any of this until I overheard Bryan and Beni talking. And they didn’t really seem to have the whole picture either. Neither did Cait, although she still led Godwyn and his minions down here, in spite of any misgivings she might have had.”

  “I didn’t think you were involved,” Sonny said quietly. Not with this . . .

  “I’m not.”

  It had been a joke when Sonny called Fennrys Kelley’s “new boyfriend.” Still . . . he couldn’t help feeling a hot rush of blood behind his eyes as he stood there beside the other Janus—at the thought of all the time that he had spent with Kelley while Sonny had been chasing the Wild Hunt. Time that should have been his.

  Trust her, he said to himself. Believe in her.

  He had to. But why had she lied to him?

  Fennrys crouched and slid Ghost’s eyelids closed, shuttering his sightless, staring gaze. He stood quietly and said, “Anyway. Thanks for the save.”

  “No problem,” Sonny said, and made himself unclench his hand, which had balled into a fist at the thought of Fennrys and Kelley together.

  They gazed down at the lifeless body at Sonny’s feet. With his eyes closed like that, Sonny thought, Ghost looked almost peaceful. There was the hint of a smile on his lips. Sonny felt a wave of sadness wash over him. It was followed closely by a surge of anger. He thought of Dunnbolt, Neerya’s ogre companion, viciously blinded, and he remembered that he had made a silent promise to exact an answer for that cruelty. That answer had come. All Sonny knew was that this was not what he had wanted. This was not supposed to have happened.

  Cait appeared beside them suddenly, panting for breath. She gazed down at the lifeless form of their once-brother. Then she turned and spat to one side, as if to clear a bad taste from her mouth, and glanced at Sonny’s face. “I wouldn’t shed too many tears over that homicidal little rodent if I were you,” she said. “He got what he deserved.”

  Sonny saw that Cait held a broken bow in her small, capable hands. The Janus sorceress threw the weapon to the ground in disgust, anger dark in her eyes.

  “Selene got away from me,” she said. “But she won’t be shooting any more arrows anytime soon. Not with that dislocated shoulder . . .”

  “Remind me never to make an enemy of you, Cait,” Sonny said quietly.

  She blinked in surprise and glanced at Fennrys, who smiled thinly and nodded at Sonny. “What he said.”

  The tide of the fighting had finally turned in their favor. Carys had marshaled her forces, and the redcaps were in danger of being surrounded. But just before that could happen, the lead redcap pulled a shimmering glass orb out of a leather pouch at his belt. He held it high and then smashed it on the stony ground, instantly opening a rift between the worlds that crackled with eldritch energy.

  Shrieking redcaps, demon birds, and all of the mercenary fae they’d brought with them abandoned their adversaries and scrambled for the rift, clawing at and climbing over one another in their haste to get away.

  In seconds it was over.

  The silence left behind in the wake of the departed foe was weighty, blanketing the cavern. After a moment, sound returned—the drip of water and spilled blood trickling from the stones, the soft moan of someone in pain, the shuffling of ogre feet as Dunnbolt lumbered over, finally awakened from his slumber.

  Sonny stared at where the rift still hung in the air, the ragged edges puckering slowly closed around the dark passageway. Fennrys moved to stand beside him.

  “What, exactly, just happened here?” the Wolf asked quietly.

  “I’m not entirely sure.”

  Maddox appeared at Sonny’s other side. He was limping slightly, but otherwise seemed unhurt. “Looks like a tactical retreat,” he said. “Whatever their purpose in coming here . . . I’d say they accomplished it and it was time to cut their losses and run.”

  “Should we follow them?” Fennrys suggested halfheartedly.

  Sonny turned to say something pointed about the relative wisdom of that idea when a frenzied movement from deep within the narrowing rift caught his eye.

  “Little help here!” Bob the boucca sho
uted frantically as he struggled to heave himself out of the rapidly closing rift. Sonny lunged forward and pulled him out just as the thing closed.

  Fennrys circled the spot where the portal had appeared. “Okay . . . I know the Gate’s unstable these days, but I didn’t think rifts were just showing up on command.”

  “They’re not.” Bob stooped painfully and picked up a shard of glass from the globe the redcap had shattered on the ground. The boucca was covered in scratches from the grasping things that had attacked him in the Between. “That one your redcap leader brought with him. In this.”

  “Now I know what to ask for, for Christmas,” Fennrys said dryly.

  “That would be a rare and prized gift indeed,” the boucca snorted.

  “Right.” Maddox gestured to the broken glass. “So who gave it to that bloody redcap then?”

  “I really have no idea,” Bob said. “But one thing’s for sure, whoever it is that’s equipping thugs with high-level magickal implements, it is not what I’d call a positive development. Except for me, that is. The timing of the redcaps opening their escape hatch was fortuitous. Another few moments stuck in the Between would have been . . . unpleasant.”

  The denizens of the reservoir had begun to sort things out in the aftermath of the battle, and Carys was directing her folk to gather and care for the wounded—and sweep the cavern’s many nooks and alcoves to see if any of the enemy wounded remained alive.

  Bob gestured Sonny out of earshot of the others and, settling himself on a rock, regarded Sonny for a moment. The ancient Fae sighed heavily.

  “Right,” he said finally. “Telling you any of this goes against my absolute better judgment. But I don’t fancy being used. And I don’t fancy my friends being used either.”

  “I’m your friend?” Sonny asked, incredulous. That was not something that he had ever expected to hear Bob say.

  Bob turned and glared under a raised eyebrow. “Did I say that?”

  Sonny blinked. “Er—no.”