Heir of the Dog Black Dog (10 page)

The tether had dumped us into a lush meadow interrupted by gnarly trees covered in moss that sat up and blinked at us with tiny googly eyes that whirled. Mushrooms with jewel-toned caps stopped their steady procession up the side of the nearest trunk to examine us through pinprick eyes. A gorgeous turquoise butterfly fluttered past, only to be shot through the trachea by a toothpick-sized arrow fired from an equally miniature bow held by one of the mushrooms. With his hands. Because mushrooms totally had appendages. And eyes. And sharpshooter aim.

I’m losing my mind.

I plopped down onto my butt. “None of this makes sense.”

Raven knelt beside me. “Faerie is sensation.” He gripped my shoulder when I listed to one side. “Imagine a stamp and an ink pad. Faerie is the ink pad. Fae are the stamp. When you press the stamp into the ink, you saturate that being with magic. As you press the stamp to paper, each imprint, every new world or new creature, becomes more faded. Every pass holds less ink, less magic. Humans and the mortal realm are the third or fourth impression. There was little magic left by that point. For that reason, few humans have magic and their world—colors, tastes, sounds—are bland by comparison.”

Third or fourth? Was he implying there were more realms than fae and mortal?

“Is this our savior?” a mocking voice carried on a fetid breeze.

Savior?
Lifting my head required absolute concentration. “Who are you?”

Raven placed his hand on my shoulder. “Forgive her, Consul.”

The voice sounded closer. “Has she been educated?”

My hackles rose. “I’ve been trained by the best marshals at the Southwestern Conclave.”

Raven’s grip on me tightened. “She is worthy to bear Macsen’s legacy.”

I raked a measuring glance over him. How long had he observed me before making contact? A while if he had claimed three of the Morrigan’s tithes to sustain him before mine. And closely, since he threw his weight behind my endorsement.

The consul’s dismissive attitude grated on me, but I held my tongue. While in this realm, I was at their mercy. With my father missing, I had no one to trust. No one other than the High Court to appeal to, and the idea of conferring with them left me quaking in my sneakers.

“Escort her to the Halls of Winter.” A soft chuckle. “My counterpart and I await you there.”

Raven gave a curt nod to thin air. He stared at the spot in the trees where the voice had originated.

What kept me from drilling him for answers, I couldn’t say. Curious as I was, instinct warned me to keep silent.

“Come with me,” he whispered near my ear. “We will be safer in Winter. There are fewer eyes there.”

The Halls, where he, as a prince, lived. Every step brought me deeper into his world.

When he rose and offered me his hand, I didn’t hesitate. I took it, hoping this wasn’t the second biggest mistake I had ever made by extending him even this much trust when he had done nothing to earn it. The first being when I fell for his sneaky ploy and rode the elevator up to investigate his apartment.

The spot where we had landed caught my eye. Mom had been cast into this world, disoriented and alone, no one holding her or reassuring her. Macsen was her only ally in Faerie, and who knew where he had gone? For now the path of least resistance made the most tactical sense, so I did as Raven asked.

Thanks, Dad
.

Nineteen years ago, I was the mess he left behind. Now here I was, cleaning up after him.

Chapter Seventeen

We kept to the lush forests, hidden among the vibrant foliage, skirting the twisted roads and avoiding the quaint towns that were welcome civilization amid the sprawling wilderness of the fae realm.

Foreign scents pummeled my nose until my sense of smell grew numb. I toddled after Raven as a drowsy child trailed after a parent, trusting him to guide me while I acclimated to this bizarre paint-by-numbers world.

Here plants sang. Birds sprouted flowers from their crests. Even trees met your gaze through lichen-encrusted lashes. My brain spluttered while absorbing it all.

“I would have prepared you better if I had known how strong your reaction would be.”

Tearing my gaze from the sight of a prim white mouse wearing a kilt and wedge-shaped hat with trailing ribbons, carrying a miniature set of highland bagpipes, I zeroed in on Raven.

Words from his mouth intoxicated me as if I had drunk them.

As my ears learned how to filter out the white noise of Faerie, the butterfly giggles and ambient music heavy in the air, I strained against the melodiousness of Raven’s voice above all the other enticements.

I tilted my head. “Do you sound how chocolate-covered strawberries taste because you’re a prince?”

Pale as his skin was, the pink rising in his cheeks gave him a rosy glow.

“No.” He glanced away. “I sound—”

“—edible—”

“—because you’re intoxicated.”

I blinked at him. “How is that possible?”

The edges of his eyes crinkled. “Those toadstools you were talking to earlier?”

“They said
hello
.” Their voices like ants on helium. “It would have been rude to ignore them.”

A full-on smile curved his lips. “They release hallucinogenic spores into the air.”

“Wait.” I pulled on his arm. “Then how do you know anything in Faerie is real?”

“There are no toadstools in the cities, and you build up a tolerance,” he assured me. “I witnessed a human cycle through the process a long time ago. Since you are half fae, you will transition faster.”

“Speaking of humans...” I kept my voice level. “How will Mom handle the transition?”

“At worst, she will be disoriented for a few days.” He swatted at a tiny pest by his ear. “At best, her captors planned ahead and brought provisions to ease her acclimation. Given her status, it would be in their best interest to keep her comfortable. You would be disinclined to negotiate with them otherwise.”

He took my hand and led me underneath mossy tree limbs wreathed with thorny vines. A sharp sting at my earlobe wrung a curse out of me. Figuring a thorn was to blame, I flinched when I reached up and felt something the size of a half dollar stuck to my ear.
Please, please, please don’t be a tick
. The harder I tugged, the tighter it clung.

“Beware,” a small voice chimed. “Beware the Rook. Beware the Rook. You are his pawn.”

The cold fingers of déjà vu caressed my spine.

One hard yank and the not-a-tick came off in my hand. Its tiny face was streaked with reddish-brown stripes like war paint, and its fangs were flashing. It bit my thumb and drew blood.

It was an actual pixie, like the ones from the children’s books Mom never read to me.

Two inches tall at the most, it was beautifully androgynous and—
ouch
—a little bastard.

I tightened my grip before holding it closer to my face. “What did you say?”

It clamped its hands over its pointed ears and screeched.

Holding it at arm’s length, I whispered, “Sorry.”

“Thierry?” Raven stared at my hand. “What is that?”

“It’s a pixie.” I twisted my hand for his inspection. “It bit me.”

“They do that.” He glanced between it and me. “Did it say anything?”

The pixie’s eyes grew round. It shivered in my fist despite the balmy warmth.

It was scared. No. Terrified. Of Raven.

Hot liquid puddled in my palm and dripped through my fingers. Great. Peed on by a pixie. Now my adventure was complete.

“Oh yuck.” I used that as an excuse to fling the tiny fae from my hand. It fluttered its wings, trailing glittering light as it zoomed into the canopy overhead. “Should it have?”

He tore a papery leaf from a nearby tree and passed it to me. “They sometimes act as messengers.”

“Oh really?” I paid close attention to drying my hand to keep from meeting his gaze.

“Remember that pixies are small-minded creatures,” he said. “They often confuse messages.”

If I hadn’t heard that same threat before, then I might be more willing to believe him.

But I had, and I wasn’t.

Raven was the one person who could tell me who the Rook was and what danger he posed to me, but the stark fear in that pixie’s eyes when he spotted Raven made me hesitant to ask. Someone had gone to great lengths to warn me away from Raven, but who? A Seelie rival of his? Or someone else, someone eager for the war Raven mentioned?

Confrontation was out of the question. I needed Raven to get me to the Halls where I could meet with fae who could help Mom. What I didn’t need was for him to get his feathers in a twist and leave me out here on my own. As easily as Faerie had enchanted me, I would be licking rocks or carousing with toads before nightfall.

The smart thing would be to bribe Mable into making discreet inquiries about Rook after I got home.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I let the damp leaf flutter to the ground. “How much farther?”

“Another mile.” He started walking. “Maybe two.”

Behind his back, I scanned the air for my winged messenger. It was gone. Unscathed I hoped.

I jogged a few steps to catch him. “Will someone be at the Halls I can ask about Mom?”

“Yes.” He picked up his pace. “You will have your answers when we arrive.”

“That guy, the consul.” Yet another fae who preferred the disembodied-voice approach to conversation. “Who is he?”

“It’s not safe to talk here. When we reach the Halls, all your questions will be answered. Trust me for a while longer.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You will...hear things about me there.”

“Let me guess.” I chuckled. “I shouldn’t believe them because they aren’t true?”

When our gazes met, something old and tired drifted behind his eyes.

“Believe the worst of me,” he said at last, “and I will never disappoint you.”

“Lucky you, I come standard with daddy issues. I don’t trust easily.” I couldn’t afford to in my line of work. “That goes double for fae men.”

“Even Shaw?” he asked softly.

Frowning at Raven’s back, wondering how much he knew about us, I told him the absolute truth. “Especially Shaw.”

I almost froze to death before we reached the Halls of Winter.

Twelve steps outside of the jungle, the sheet of mirror-smooth ice had started. A moat he said. Skating across had been fun. The humid breath of the forest interior still curled over the ice to warm me. I even laughed.

I was an idiot.

The solid moat led to a castle built from colossal blocks of ice, mortared together with snow. I screamed on the first step onto the snowbank surrounding the fortress. Tears froze in my eyes. Their glassy shine distorted my view of what came next. An ornate door to one side of the structure swung open when we reached it. Hard to tell for sure, but I saw no one responsible for our welcome.

Inside was bliss. I collapsed in a heap before Raven caught me. I shoved him away and sat there, soaking in the warmth of the room’s blazing fire as my skin thawed. I reached an icy hand toward its beckoning heat but was too exhausted to walk the requisite steps to sit in the chair before the hearth.

Rather than argue or manhandle me, Raven snapped his fingers.

The fire stood up on flame-kissed legs and walked to me, leaving sooty footprints in its wake.

“T-t-thanks.” I stretched my fingers and let my joints thaw. “F-f-fire elem-m-mental?”

“He is.” Raven left me on the opaque tile floor and crossed to the chair, which he angled toward me before he sat. “He’s been with our family for centuries.”

Footsteps rang out behind me. I was too weary to check who they belonged to.

“Shall I warm some broth for the
Cú Sídhe
?” a cultured voice asked. “Or for you, my lord?”

“Thierry, are you hungry?” Raven rose and crossed the room to a cabinet, where he poured three fingers of amber liquid in a squat glass that resembled the iced block walls. “Drink this. It will help.”

I accepted the drink, swirling the contents. “What is it?”

“Single malt whiskey.” He took the glass from me and sipped. “It’s not poisoned or spelled.”

I stuck out my hand, trusting he wouldn’t kill me or let me die before he got what he wanted.

The first swallow lit my throat on fire. The next sent my chest up in flames. The third ignited in my stomach and the fourth simmered the numbness from my limbs. A fifth would have rendered me to glowing embers. Good thing Raven pried the glass from my hand and polished off the amber dregs.

A throat cleared behind me. I was thawed enough to turn this time.

“Whoa.” I covered my mouth. “Please tell me I didn’t say that out loud.”

The servant didn’t smile, but amusement thawed the chill in his eyes.

He was tall and lean—definitely sidhe—but was as colorless as the heart of winter. His skin was as pale as Raven’s, his outline limned in faint silver light. His irises were ivory. Even his hair, the same length as his master’s, was snow white with silver strands threading the queue down his spine.

“I set two places in the dining hall.” He bowed to Raven. “I will serve, if it pleases you.”

“Leave the tureen. We can serve ourselves.” Raven extended his hand and pulled me onto my feet. He eased into my line of sight, forcing my attention onto him. “Bháin, you are dismissed.”

I peered around Raven’s shoulder. “What is he, if it’s not rude to ask?”

“He is a servant of winter.” Raven grasped my elbow. “His kind seeded the lore for Jack Frost.”

“That is amazing.” My part of Texas didn’t see snow often, which explained why I experienced wonder when those rare flakes fell instead of swearing when forced to procure a shovel or a bag of rock salt.

Raven steered me down a long hallway lit with peculiar spheres of light. “I suppose.”

Portraits decorated the hall. The décor could be summed up in one word: macabre.

Battle scenes raged across the walls. Weapons hung on pegs, proud of the carnage they had wrought. Stylized black birds flew on a coat of arms adorning shields and helmets interspersed among the art.

Yes, it was fitting, but non-death related pursuits were nice too. In fact, I much preferred them. The human in me must be spoiling my gore-loving death dealer heritage.