Bound by the Vampire Queen (33 page)

“Remind me to never let Kane go out in the snow,” she responded.

The trolls and ogres were banded together in a tight group. Viewing their round, glittering eyes and broad faces, Lyssa realized a happy-looking ogre was downright disturbing. Yips and bays announced the arrival of the hell hounds. Their handlers were a satyr and a centaur. Instead of straddling the centaur, the satyr squatted on his back on shaggy haunches and cloven hoofs. Though he had a steadying hand tented on the centaur’s withers, it was obvious they were companions, not mount and rider. The satyr made a short, musical trill on his pipe, bringing the hounds back to mill around them. Before that, they’d been running about, slathering on any person who let them jump up on them. Their red eyes glowed, long, curved fangs glistening with drool. It made Lyssa miss Bran and his siblings.

It was awe-inspiring, magnificent, macabre. As several shadowlike creatures passed them, she drew in a quick breath at a blast of icy wind. An overwhelming sense of desolation came with it.

Jacob drew her close, giving her his warmth. “The Gaoth Shee,” he said. “Sometimes, when you pass over a fairy line in the mortal world, you'll feel their touch. And when you do, the lore is you suffer a malady soon thereafter, like a stroke. I assume we’re immune.”

“Let’s hope.” It reminded Lyssa that, despite the festive air tonight, there were other, far darker things happening. When she studied her half sister’s serious face, her intent scrutiny of everyone in the procession, she realized Rhoswen didn’t consider this a night of mirth at all. She wanted to terrify the mortal world. She wanted them scurrying back into the safety of their homes, not venturing into dark, old sections of forests and other places where they might find their way into her world. Tonight had a deadly, determined purpose.

As such, when Rhoswen raised her hand, Lyssa wasn’t at all surprised that the assembled fell silent within seconds, all their playful antics vanishing. They were about to become the creatures of the night, the vengeful spirits that humans feared, the things that exploited a mortal’s deepest terrors. It was the Ichabod Crane legends coming to life. And afterward, they would come back here to feast and play, their hard work done.

Rhoswen met her gaze, gave her a slight, impartial nod. Her horse bent his noble head restlessly, shaking the snow out of his mane, nostrils flaring with mist from the frost that emanated from his Mistress. When Rhoswen spoke, she raised her voice, making it clear her address was for a public audience.

“Our visitor will need a proper mount to ride with the Seelie king tonight.”

A lovely palfrey was led from a pavilion on the lawn. The mare was decorated with ropes of greenery and lavender flowers in her dapple gray mane. Lavender embroidered silk was cinched with braided ribbon over a saddle pad. The reins were likewise tangled with a trail of lavender and green ribbon.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Lyssa nodded to her.

“A lovely mare. I hope my servant’s mount is not as gentle, however. He is quite a horseman, and likes to be challenged.”

Apparently enough was known of the queen’s intentions for the second quest that Lyssa’s words surprised a chuckle out of a member or two of the Guard. The lieutenant’s sharp glance brought them in line.

“It is our pleasure to accommodate him.” Rhoswen’s voice had that silver, brittle sound that resonated off the trees, off the silence of the listening Fae. Not even a horse shifted with restless impatience. “Like a faithful hound, he goes whither you goest, right?”

An outraged whinny came from the pavilion, a thud of hooved feet. The side of the pavilion shuddered, as if a support had been kicked, and then Cayden was leading out Jacob’s mount, using all of his strength to control the creature.

The massive black stallion was built like a draft horse, with powerful withers and thick neck. Glowing red eyes glared at the gathering. The high court, whom Lyssa assumed contained many Fae of considerable power, drew back apprehensively as the horse surged forward and then was forced by Cayden’s quickness to swing his haunches around in a circle. He kicked, causing the nearer Fae to draw back farther.

Lyssa’s brow rose as the horse snorted, producing two short gouts of flame that dissipated with wisps of smoke, like a dragon. This horse had no tack except a bridle and cinch. Instead of flowers or strands of jewels in his long mane, he had tangles of seaweed and shells. As he swung around, Lyssa smell ed the ocean coming off his damp, heated skin.

The steed’s front legs were hobbled, forcing the horse to move at an awkward, hopping gait. When she saw Jacob looking at the headpiece, his expression darkening, she realized a bearing rein was holding the horse’s head at a painful upright angle. The discomfort and restraint prevented him from dropping and bucking.

Jacob had been the master of horse at the Ren Faire, and she knew well how he felt about seeing one mistreated.

Easy, Jacob. There’s more here than meets the eye.

“A water horse is a very difficult horse to catch.

Impossible to ride, unless you wish to ride to your death.”

At the sound of Rhoswen’s voice, the horse let out another shrill , bloodcurdling cry. Cayden shifted with the stallion once more, narrowly avoiding having his skull crushed with a swing of the massive head.

Oh, lovely fucking Christ. A kelpie.

Lyssa glanced at Jacob. From the set of his jaw, it appeared the situation was far beyond optimal.

Perhaps even in the realm of hopeless impossibility.

Ah, my lady, there is no such thing as hopeless around you. Impossible, yes; hopeless, no.
He gave her that warm look he did so well, though it was laced with tension.

“Mortal legend claims a waterhorse coaxes children onto his back,” Rhoswen said. “Then he races away, plunges into a loch and drowns them. It is believed he has a strong binding magic to keep them on his back until the last breath leaves them.” The Fae queen considered the creature, the brutal effort he was expending, trying to stomp her guard captain into the ground. “Since the bodies were rarely found, it was also suggested that the horse took them to the Fae world. Or ate them, once he had them below the surface of the water.” She shrugged. “Only the waterhorses know for sure.

Even the Fae are wary of them, as you can see. The Irish called them kelpie. Right, Irishman?”

“Aye. And the Scottish called them
each uisge
.” When Jacob looked toward the queen, Lyssa saw his blue eyes were almost as cold as Rhoswen’s.

“To be feared… and respected.”

“Supposedly, if you have the kelpie’s halter or bridle, he has to obey your will .” Rhoswen gave Jacob a tight smile. “As far as we know, Firewind has no such weakness. He despises most Fae, let alone humans. He won’t tolerate a vampire on his back at all. Perhaps because he feeds on blood and doesn’t like the competition. However, if you do manage to get on his back, be careful of the unique trait he inherited from his sire, Firebreather.” She lifted her hand toward the horse, gave a sharp command that was reinforced by a flicker of magical energy. Jacob started forward, but Lyssa caught his arm. Firewind’s head snapped around, long ears pinning back as his malevolent expression intensified. A wreath of flame erupted from his withers and, in a dramatic sweep, encased him from neck to tail, the long black strands like a flame-covered flogger as he lashed them over his haunches. Cayden had his hand on the bridle’s cheek piece, avoiding the fire. Then the flame vanished and Firewind made another valiant attempt to get his hooves off the ground.

“Ride him in the Hunt,” Rhoswen said, fixing her eyes back on Jacob. “That is the second quest. If you do not succeed, or if you don’t dare to try, your lady has failed the Gauntlet, per your failure as her champion, and her fate rests wholly in my hands.

Since I know you are as full of pointless nobility as Firewind is of flame, I expect you will immolate yourself. But try not to singe your fine backside, vampire. Some things should remain sacred.” Rhoswen turned her attention to Lyssa. “You will ride with me at the head of the procession. We proceed to the rendezvous point with the Seelie court. Your servant will join us, or not.” The stablehand holding Lyssa’s palfrey moved forward, presenting a hand to help her on the steed.

Lyssa turned her gaze to Jacob.
Sir Vagabond?

“I'll catch up,” Jacob told her. He gave her a wink, though there was no such affability in his gaze. His mind was already concentrated on the task ahead because, of course, it wouldn’t occur to him to do anything but try, just as Rhoswen said.

Lyssa nodded. She accepted the stablehand’s help onto the mount with the brief press of hands on her waist, since mounting with a dress train was not an easy task for any species, Fae or vampire. She caught a brief flash of surprise on Rhoswen’s face at her detachment, but she couldn’t feel any smug satisfaction. For one thing, looking serene and unconcerned was taking all her effort. As she bent her knee over her mare’s withers in a sidesaddle position, she saw Jacob take two steps toward Cayden.

“Looks like you’re a little out of your depth, Captain. Ready to turn him over to me?” For Jacob’s thirtieth birthday, she’d surprised him with a visit to the particular Ren Faire that had been his home for a couple years. They’d invited him to rejoin the jousting that night. Vividly, she remembered how he’d swung up on the back of a horse, no stirrups, just holding a handful of mane.

The moment his fine ass had touched the horse’s back—she and Rhoswen at least agreed on that— he’d become part of that horse’s body.

The horse he’d ridden that night, Boudiceaa, had been a badly abused mare who’d become the Faire’s top attraction because he’d taught her to trust again.

She held on to that memory to reassure herself as she calmed her own mount. Firewind had managed to agitate most of the horses in the procession. It gave her an extra moment to linger, watch Jacob move toward that monster. As he did, he was loosening his shoulders, his gait. He tilted his head, cracking his neck with an audible pop that made several of the Fae flinch in surprise.

When he was four steps away from the kelpie, he nodded to Cayden. “Let him go.”

She had accelerated senses, but the ability was not the same for all Fae. Some seemed surprised to see Jacob standing where Cayden had been a moment before. As the captain moved out of range, the kelpie screamed his rage and twisted around, pivoting with over a thousand pounds of muscle at his disposal to crush whoever was offending him.

Though the creature was moving even more swiftly than he had with Cayden, his frustration mounting to berserker level, her servant was staying a step or two ahead of the horse. He made the rapid turns with him, an odd merry-go-round of twisting, dangerous movement.

“Mount up,” Cayden called out as if nothing dramatic was occurring. “The queen is departing.” Lyssa started as a guardsman’s hand landed on her bridle and led her horse toward the front of the procession. From that vantage point, she couldn’t keep her eyes on Jacob unless she twisted around in her saddle. Rhoswen wanted her to appear agitated and concerned, she knew. While she could be in Jacob’s mind—in fact, she was in it now, amazed by the instinctual flow of counter reaction toward the horse, as natural as a swift river current— it was not the same as being able to watch him. She needed to withdraw from his head, because if he did get in a difficult position, an agitated reaction on her part, even internally, would be a distraction he could ill afford.
Damn it.

That, too, was part of the test Rhoswen was executing, wasn’t it? Settling her seat further, Lyssa made an impatient noise, collecting her reins and pulling her mount away from the guardsman. Moving the palfrey into a pretty trot, she came to Rhoswen’s left side as Cayden swung up on his own horse on the queen’s right. As they moved away from the field, every squeal that split the air, the sound of earth thudding beneath hooves—hopefully it was earth, and not bones—was a hammer at her consciousness, screaming at her to jump into his mind again.

She ignored it, keeping her hands loose on the reins, her shoulders relaxed, even as her heart and gut were tight as two tangled fists. If Rhoswen got him killed, it didn’t matter if it kill ed Lyssa as well.

She’d come back and haunt her bitch sister for all eternity.

As Jacob kept up his dance with the horse, he started crooning in Gaelic. Calming words, a singsong chant he’d used with fractious and mistrustful mounts in the past. Whether or not it would have any effect on a kelpie, he knew nothing was going to get better until that bearing rein was released. It had been misused to deliberately goad the horse, the way cinching a strap over the testicles of a bull was done at rodeos to make them buck more ferociously. It proved Rhoswen as a hypocrite in her scorn toward humans. She was treating one of the creatures of her own world abysmally to serve her own purposes.

He put aside the anger, because the horse would pick up any negative feeling and feed off it. Plus, he was handling a creature that was not exactly a horse.

Every time those nostrils flared and expel ed a bill ow of flame, he had to stay clear, though more than once the heat seared his skin. He could smell the fibers of his tunic smoldering from proximity alone.

Vaguely, he was aware the Unseelie procession was filing down the hill side. They’d meet the colorful Seelie train at Caislean Talamh, the Castle of Earth, and that route would be lined with more Fae, celebrating and encouraging the riders. He would have liked to see all that. If he survived this, maybe he could.

“Another minute,” he gritted, to both of them. He needed the procession to be clear of the castle, giving him room to do what he needed to do.

The horse squealed, baring yellow teeth the size of his thumb knuckles. “I got it, you’re pissed.” Jacob grunted with the effort to hold fast to the bridle. He flexed his other hand, ready to go for his knife. It might not be wise to cut off the only thing controlling the horse, but he followed his instincts, as he always had. Gideon had often said there was a reason the words
instinct
and
insanity
differed by only two letters.