Reluctant Adept: Book Three of A Clairvoyant's Complicated Life (34 page)

I might have remained frozen and agape if a dog hadn't nipped my right calf, rending a terrified shriek from my throat. If I'd been a gecko, I would have climbed the wall, but when another dog readied itself to lunge, fury roared through me.

Instead of tender flesh, the second hound got a taste of my size eight steel-capped Doc Marten. I wasn't fast enough to deliver a direct kick, but I clipped the aggressive hound hard enough under the jaw to elicit its startled yelp and send it plowing into the dog on its right, prompting a brief skirmish among its jostling pack mates.

"I'm not food, bitch!" I screamed, poising to fend off the next attack.

Presumably, King Faonaín wanted me alive, but I wasn't sure how much control he maintained over the Wild Hunt once he released it. As I watched the dogs snarl and vie for position, I decided 'wild' wasn't an exaggeration. An animal expert didn't need to tell me I was a whisker away from a savage attack, and once that happened, lug-soled boots or not, I'd be torn apart in no time.

A definitive sour note from the rear huntsman's horn, however, recalled the dogs as though they were attached to him by springs. Filling the fast emptying gap, the Master of the Hunt, sheathed in the battle accoutrements of a bygone era, surged toward me on his charger, the clamor of slithering chainmail, creaking leather, and pounding hooves providing deadly musical accompaniment.

From on high, the spectral huntsman loomed over me, his face hidden behind the macabre faceplate of his massive helm, which, by all appearances, had been molded from the skull of a monstrous Otherworld beast. The column of frozen air displaced by the horse's swift move swirled around me, and I hugged myself against the redoubled cold as my teeth chattered.

The horned specter leveled his metal encased index finger at my face and issued a lengthy command, his hard, baleful voice grating unpleasantly through the room.

I enjoyed being singled out by this creature even less than being bitten by a spectral hound, but when I realized I'd again retreated to plaster my backside to the wall, the heat of indignation blossomed in my chest.

Enough!

I was
not
prey.

Squaring my shoulders, I stepped away from the wall and snapped, "I don't speak Silven," from between my clattering teeth.

"He asks whether you will ride with him willingly or be trussed up and strapped to his saddle like game," Caiside volunteered before he uttered a pained hiss at the hands of the huntsman who'd leapt from his mount to hold a wicked dagger to the defenseless sidhe's throat.

I held up my hands in the universal gesture of appeasement. "Please, he's trying to help." I shot the lead huntsman a beseeching look. "I'll go with you. Please, don't hurt him."

Without further discourse, the horned hunter clamped his massive, gloved hands to my shoulders and plucked me from the floor as though I weighed no more than a paper cutout. I gasped as he dropped me crosswise in the saddle atop his frozen lap, my right leg skewed to the outside of the saddle's rounded pommel. With my butt penned by his right hip and my legs dangling over his left thigh, I had no choice but to grapple with his armored torso, snaking my arms around him to avoid going ass over teacup when he released me to take up the reigns of his horse. Bitter cold engulfed me, numbing my body wherever I sat in direct contact with the Master of the Hunt or his horse. The chill seeped into my bones and clouded my vision so that my surroundings took on a wavy, muted aspect, as though I viewed everything through a pane of antique glass.

The horned rider's voice rumbled harshly above my head, as harmonious as an ocean liner running aground.

Caiside grunted and then bit out, "He advises you to hold fast unless you wish to experience the void's merciless grasp."

As the charger's muscles flexed beneath me, I struggled to peer past my captor's broad shoulder to meet Caiside's tortured frown. I was relieved to see that the huntsman had released him unscathed.

I was tempted to ask them to take Caiside too, but I'd heard and read many things about the Wild Hunt, including dire warnings against crossing their path during a hunt. If they took him, there was no guarantee he'd arrive at the king's palace alive.

"Caiside, I'll come back! I swear it," I exclaimed as the horse beneath me sprang violently skyward, jostling me hard enough against my captor's metal clad chest to momentarily drive the wind from my lungs. I locked my right ankle under my left calf, pinning the minimal swell of the pommel between my thighs, and hoped like hell it would help keep me in the saddle.

"I'll get you out. I promise," I wheezed, even though I knew my voice had been swallowed by the huntsman's horn and the raucous tumult of the hunt as the riders spurred their mounts into the realm where the living surely dared not tread.

Icy-tipped agony tore through me as the world tried to shift away, the warm yellow rock twisting inward like a rubber sheet sucked down a vortex, and for a long tortuous moment, I felt every molecule in my body stretching along with it, refusing to let go, until I thought I'd be torn apart. Desperate for relief, I tore off my right glove and shoved my hand beneath the leader's massive helm, relieved when I found cold skin instead of razor sharp teeth. I pulled what little magic I had in my core and, with an aggrieved scream, severed my attachment to Caiside's prison, seeking instead to anchor myself to the resonance of the creature beneath me.

His body stiffened as the resulting snap of release catapulted the three of us—rider, horse, and captive—violently into the unknown like a death-seeking, transcendental missile.

The preternatural, bloodcurdling screech that emanated from both horse and rider accompanied us into oblivion.

Somehow, I stayed in the saddle. For countless seconds, I clamped my eyes shut, squeezing the horned rider's thick body like a lemur clutching a wind-whipped tree trunk. When his chest began shaking beneath me, out of sync with the horse's unnaturally smooth stride, I risked cracking my eyes, hugging him even tighter as I readied myself for yet another pain-filled trial. Beyond my captor's shuddering chest, a bleak, gray landscape blurred past as his powerful steed sped us toward our destination.

No threat in sight, as far as I could tell.

Above me, I registered the harsh discord of repetitive barks, which penetrated the combined din of the baying hounds, his charger's huffed breaths, and the jangling of armor. Strangely, his horse's hooves made no sound as it galloped and there was nothing in the way of wind, which made everything feel oddly surreal.

I eased my iron grip to stare up at the Master of the Hunt. "You're …
laughing
?" I asked, too stunned to remember he didn't speak my language.

"Not without considerable challenge," he replied, his powerful, acerbic voice reverberating from beneath his hideous helm. "How is it the only quarry I cannot hold is the one who clings to me as tenaciously as death's eternal shroud?"

I gaped up at him. Tenacious or not, at that moment, he could have knocked me from the saddle with a feather boa.

"You speak English."

Apparently, such an astute observation barely merited a dismissive grunt.

"Why didn't you speak it once you knew I couldn't understand Silven?"

"Human tongues are a punishment to the ear," he rumbled.

With a voice that matched the lowest notes from a decaying pipe organ, I didn't think it was the particular language at fault. Still, I had to admit, even his guttural delivery had a certain musical quality that seemed to go part and parcel with the sidhe.

He whooped something at the other riders, a bellow that jolted me against his icy body. His horse's furious pace slackened as a plaintive call on the horn echoed around us.

My stomach clenched. "Have we arrived?" I gripped his left arm. "Please, I can't manage another transition like that. Not this soon."

I'd depleted most of the potential in my core with our escape, and, although the flow of magic seemed to increase the closer we drew to King Faonaín's territory, I wouldn't be anywhere near full for several minutes yet.

He tilted his head downward, and I could practically feel his black, disapproving gaze on my hand as he replied curtly, "It will be some moments yet before we reach the king's fortress."

I withdrew my hand. "Will you warn me when we get close?"

"If it will avoid a repeat of the discomfort of our departure, then, yes," he grumbled. "Had I known what you are, I would have done things differently."

I wondered what this 'difference' would have entailed. Nothing good, by the sound of it.

"What did you mean when you said I'm the one quarry you can't hold?"

He snorted, whether in disbelief or disdain, I couldn't venture to guess without seeing his face. "You are a
cúairtine
," he ground out. "You may cross worlds at will, yet you cling to me as if falling from my horse will commit you to oblivion."

"But that's what you said!" I blurted, bristling at his derision. "What the hell did you expect? Besides, I said I'd go with you. I've no desire to be lashed to your horse, thanks."

This, to my astonishment, garnered another round of gruff laughter.

I scowled. "I'm so glad I could be the object of your amusement."

"Yet, is that not the appropriate response to a
cúairtine
who pretends she hasn't the power to condemn the Hunt to eternal chase?"

Huh?

I thought back to what Tíereachán had told me about the Wild Hunt, about their singular, relentless pursuit. "If I sidestep to Earth, you can't easily follow me. Can you? You'd be forced to ride until …" I blinked and then sucked in a breath. "Since the king doesn't have a gateway, you'd be forced to ride until I happened to come back to the Otherworld. That's what you meant about eternal chase." I frowned. "So, I guess that means the king can't recall you."

At his responding wall of silence, I muttered, "Jeez. That's a hell of a downside."

I looked up at him, although I don't know why I bothered. It wasn't like I could get any sort of read from him by gazing into the black holes of his terrifying helm. Curiosity finally won over intimidation, though, and I asked him why he was obligated to King Faonaín. "Did you commit your soul to a binding when you died?"

"Of a sort," he admitted. "For another king."

"You and the rest of your hunting party are bound to an object. Aren't you? One that's passed down to the reigning king or queen."

"The
Bráigda
, the perennial collar. Yes."

I thought of Red. Over three hundred years ago, moments before his execution during the Salem witch trials, he'd allowed his soul to be captured by a coven of local witches. Since that time, he'd been bound to many vessels and had coped with four previous masters. I was just the latest. I often wondered whether that impulsive decision, long ago, was one he'd come to regret.

"If you could do it over again, would you?" It was a question Red would never be able to answer, as much as I wished knowing.

"There is no greater pleasure than a righteous hunt for a benevolent king."

That didn't exactly answer my question, which made me wonder whether he was under a geas similar to Red's that limited what he could divulge about his binding.

"A righteous hunt for a benevolent king, huh? So … this"—I swept my hand to indicate the hunters around us— "is a righteous hunt?"

"It does not displease."

"And if you'd been told to kill me instead of capture me? What then?"

"Then I imagine we would not be having this conversation."

Despite my unease at his dry response, I snorted. "No. I imagine not. Would that be righteous? Would that please the
Wuldrífan
—hunting me to my death and thereby avoiding this delightful exchange of ours?" I couldn't help adding my own hint of sarcasm.

The sounds of his shifting armor and the occasional yipping hound filled the intervening the silence. I didn't expect an answer to such a charged question, so when he replied, I jerked in the saddle at his deep voice.

"No,
Cúairtine
," he clipped out. "It would not please."

Interesting.
It seemed the Master of the Hunt wasn't the robotic, unfeeling land-shark that my research had led me to believe. That wasn't too surprising given the lack of credible information about the sidhe. Most people still operated under the delusion that all elves were magnanimous and had pointed ears, too, no thanks to Professor Tolkien.

"Well, that's something, I suppose." I shifted in the saddle, trying to find a happy balance where I wasn't so dependent on clinging to him to stay upright. "By the way, my name is Lire. Will you … tell me yours? Master of the Hunt is a mouthful."

"Drustan," he replied after some hesitation.

"So, Drustan, what about Faonaín? Is he as benevolent as your king of long ago?"

When his body went solid beneath me, I didn't need to pursue the ensuing silence for an answer.

"That's what I thought," I mumbled, turning my gaze to the scenery around us. Or, rather, the lack of scenery.