Homecoming (A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller #1)

  ***

  Lyle was growing impatient. It had never taken the dryad this long to show up before. He was certain that he’d used the right words. They were the same words he had uttered before, on several occasions, and always the fairy had appeared within minutes.

  Dealing with the Fey was something he had no taste for, and he would have been drawn and quartered before admitting that he had ever done so. No one knew, not even McCoy. Especially McCoy. That man already held a low opinion of him, and if McCoy ever found out that Lyle had conspired with the Fey—not once, but on several occasions—he would have done everything in his power to see to it that Lyle was removed from office, at the very least.

  He didn’t understand why this was happening. He had always worked with the Fey to ensure that conditions were favorable to both parties involved. They helped keep him in office by dissuading or removing his opposition, and he turned a blind eye when someone went missing every so often. As long as it wasn’t a friend of his—and it never was; he’d seen to that—he counted it as an acceptable loss.

  And then the little ugly ones had gone rogue. Lyle, of course, had summoned the dryad after the first two murders, only to be told that there was nothing they could do. Their hands were tied, some sort of damn fairy protocol. Bring in McCoy, the dryad had said, and like an idiot, Lyle had done so. Now, his town was about to be turned into an all-you-can-eat buffet, and McCoy wasn’t doing jack shit about it.

  On the tree closest to the sheriff, the bark began to ripple. The dryad’s face appeared, its wooden eyes regarding Lyle with condescension. Lyle would have given almost anything to slap the bark off of its ugly face.

  “It’s about time,” the sheriff said harshly. “The lambs are about to go to the slaughter, and McCoy is useless. Something has to be done.”

  “Something is being done, Good Sheriff,” the dryad said in a bored tone.” As we speak, McCoy is on his way to fetch the girl’s father.”

  “Dave Baracheck? What good is he going to do?”

  “She won’t launch an attack if he’s in harm’s way. We’ve been watching her, and she’s been watching him. She remembers.”

  “That’s it?” Lyle was beside himself. “That’s all it’s gonna take? Hell, I could have done that. Why bring McCoy in on this at all?”

  Even as he said it, Lyle began to have a bad feeling. He was certain that he’d missed something, and it had led to him making a grave error in judgment. The dryad looked at him, its wooden eyebrows arched, awaiting more.

  “There’s something more,” Lyle said slowly. “Something you aren’t telling me.”

  “You know what we see fit for you to know,” the dryad said haughtily. “Don’t make the mistake of putting us on equal ground.”

  Lyle wanted to tell the tree spirit to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine, but he sensed he was already treading on unsteady ground. If it hadn’t been critical that McCoy be involved, then that meant the fairies had wanted him involved. The question was why? Lyle disliked McCoy; the Fey hated him with a vengeance. McCoy had killed a Fey of some importance when he’d been nineteen or twenty, and the fairies had been out to get him ever since.

  “It’s a trap,” the sheriff reasoned. “You could have stopped this all along. You wanted me to bring McCoy back here so you could get at him.”

  “No. We have not lied to you about the Sluagh. They must be stopped by forces outside the Fey. That is just the way things are.”

  “Bullshit. McCoy…”

  “McCoy is going to come to no harm,” the dryad interjected, its voice threatening. “Not

  by the hands of the Fey, not just yet. Do you know the lifespan of our species, Sheriff?”

  Lyle said nothing, because he had no idea.

  “When I was young, your ancestors were using rocks and sticks and living in huts. We can afford to let McCoy live a little while longer, especially since we’ve recently found a use for him.”

  “What kind of use?” Lyle asked. He didn’t like the way the dryad was looking at him.

  “If McCoy is successful, he will be looked upon as a hero by the people of the town. He will hold influence. They will listen to his opinions.”

  Lyle was confused. “I’d think that would be the last thing you’d want. What if he decides to spill the beans about the Fey?”

  “He won’t. We have already made an agreement with Mr. McCoy.”

  “You what? Behind my back?”

  One of the trees limbs shot out and twisted itself around Lyle’s neck. Gasping for air, he grabbed his sidearm and emptied it into the tree. Since the bullets were traditional lead rounds, they had no effect.

  “You have outlived your effectiveness,” the dryad spat at him. “Before the next sun sets, there will be a new sheriff, handpicked by Finn McCoy, and born of the Fey.”

  Lyle had just enough time to wonder who that might be, and then the branch constricted violently, snapping his neck.