Under the Bridge (17 page)

“He did,” Ash confirmed, settling on top of
the covers. “As for why he sent me…it was my job. I’ve always been
his champion.”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, so he
laughed and elaborated, “Trolls aren’t popular in the Summer Court,
but the practice of breeding with humans has mellowed my line. Your
father and I’ve been friends for many years, and when he asked me
to protect you, I didn’t hesitate.”

“Really? So how does he feel about you and
me? He can’t be thrilled.”

“He wasn’t happy. We had a very interesting
talk. He’s decided to let you decide…as long as I behave.”

“So that stuff about devouring me was
real?”

He regarded her soberly. “There’s always a
danger, and my mating instinct
is
strong. I’ll probably try
to convince you to conceive.”

She wasn’t worried about that, there were
ways to prevent it, and he’d always respected her wishes. “Just so
I stop wondering, do you really eat people?”

“Not for sixty years or so. As I said, my
control has improved a great deal.”

“I saw you bite the head off a pimp and cart
off the body…”

He grinned. “I thought that was you. Don’t
worry; he was a gift for an informant. I have no problem letting
someone else eat scum like him.”

Ew. Still, she felt better. “Same deal with
Carrie’s boyfriend?”

“No. I shoved him under a rock. It gave the
cave a homey smell.”

She wrinkled her nose and shoved him,
grunting at the pain it inspired. Settling back, she asked quietly,
“Now what?”

He smiled. “Now you sleep. Tomorrow is
another day.” He brushed the hair away from her face. “What would
you like for breakfast?”

She smiled. “I’m more interested in
dessert.”

He raised a brow as he glanced down her body.
“You’d have to lie very still.”

“I can do that.” And she did.

The End

Dictionary

Gummibärchen…gummy bear

Liebling…darling, beloved

Bergtagen…in all Scandinavian languages there
is a word which literally means

'taken to the mountain', now often used in
the sense 'bewitched' (
bjergtaget,

bergtagen
). An English equivalent is
“taken by the fairies”.

Eyrnie, aka. Eirnin Donncha
Gruagach
(pronounced "air + nin" “done + acka”
{groo-

ah-gak}
)
donn
"brown" and
cath
"battle" meaning "brown-haired
warrior." Brian Boru's son Donncha was a High King of Ireland until
his death in 1064.

Eirnin…Meaning "iron." The name is often
linked with Ernest, a Germanic word

meaning "vigor." The name of sixteen Irish
saints, St. Eirnin is the patron saint of Tory, an island off the
coast of County Donegal.

Iron & Hemlock

by

Autumn Dawn

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Autumn Dawn on Smashwords

Iron & Hemlock

Copyright © 2010 by Autumn Dawn

www.autumndawnbooks.com

* * * * *

Chapter 1

Jordan flinched and shielded her eyes. The
glow of lightning lit the darkness behind her lids, persisted in
dots of color as she slowly lowered her hand. She blinked,
disoriented. Death was a lonely country road?

It was no wonder she was confused. Only
moments ago, she’d been crossing the street on her way to meet the
bus. When the speeding Porsche had sped 'round the corner, then
gunned for her with an angry growl, she'd known she was dead. Only
the lightning had struck
before
the car. Had it somehow
knocked her out of the way?

She drew a shaky breath and looked around.
No, it was dark here, and stormy. The sun had been directly
overhead in Spokane. The city had disappeared completely, leaving
nothing but whispering trees and a crawling sense of unease.

A cold wind worked its way through her jeans,
stealing her warmth. She tugged her light leather jacket closer and
thanked God for the vanity that made her wear her cashmere and silk
sweater, though it had been a little warm this morning.
Unfortunately, the suede boots didn't fare as well, quickly
becoming waterlogged in the rain.

A flash of lightning illuminated the outline
of a tremendous stonewall lining the dirt road. A quick glance
showed nothing behind her—no lights which would have indicated
people. A hundred yards ahead, a wrought iron gate pierced the
wall. As she drew closer, she could see that the panels were
unlatched, swaying slightly in the wind, almost in invitation. When
she was close enough to touch it, the torches above the gate flared
to life, illuminating the gravel path. She glanced up and started
slightly at the fierce gargoyles flanking the wall on either
side.

As she watched, one of them blinked.

Jordan froze. She was not the kind of girl
who screamed and ran at every shadow, even in such dire
circumstances. She watched the gargoyle instead. It did not take
long to convince herself that she'd imagined it. The statue was
obviously stone.

Still she felt watched. She looked behind
her, but there was nothing out there but blackness and night. And
yet she had the feeling that something was watching her, something
other than the gargoyles.

Shrugging her shoulders against the
sensation, she slipped through the gates. Uneasy, she glanced back,
just in time to observe the wind pushing the gates closed. They
shut with a loud clang and remained fixed, as if the gate had
latched. Was she locked in?

She did not have time for further
speculation. The sounds of hoof beats heading her way made her
freeze. When she saw what was bearing down on her, she ran. She
didn’t need the lightning to see the flames shooting from the head
of the midnight stallion charging her way. His eyes and nostrils
blazed, as if he were a living furnace. Sparks flew where his feet
struck the earth, and the ground shook.

She doubted he was checking to see if she'd
brought oats.

She did not get far before she was snatched
from the ground by unseen hands and flung on the back of the
nightmare horse. “Hide her, Sam!” a fierce voice shouted as she was
dropped astride. She grasped the mane franticly, scrambling not to
fall off. It seemed safer to ride the creature than to fall under
its hooves.

Unfortunately, Jordan was no rider. The
glance she spared to see who'd dropped her unbalanced her, sent her
tumbling from the back of the galloping horse. She landed on the
wet lawn with stunning force, too dazed to move. Winded, she lay
there as chaos reigned around her.

A scream jerked her attention to the right.
Jordan peered through the curtain of rain, scanning the darkness.
As lightning flashed, she gasped. There was a woman out there,
battling a...griffin?

Jordan had no time to fight with her
automatic rationalizations that griffins didn't exist; the woman
was losing. Seizing a fallen tree branch, she struggled to her
feet. There was a flowerbed in her way. Without a thought for the
daisies, she tramped through the plants and dashed across the wet
lawn.

It wasn't until she'd nearly closed with the
combatants that she realized her mistake. Up close, she could see
that the “woman” was nothing more that a wasted wraith, a monster
with bones peeking out where pieces of her had rotted away. Jordan
could see the creature’s ribs through the rags it wore. It hovered
over the ground, using a rusted sword to hack at the griffin. If
the griffin hadn't been such a tremendous jumper, gifted with
wings, it would have been dead.

When it spotted Jordan, the wraith's red eyes
lit. It opened its mouth and screamed a piercing shriek that
paralyzed Jordan before it sent her to her knees. She dropped the
branch and pressed her palms to her ears, but nothing stopped the
pain. Her ears had to be bleeding. She grit her teeth, but couldn't
hold back a moan of agony. That sound would kill her.

The wraith had forgotten the griffin. He
sprang at her while she was distracted, shredding decayed flesh
with his razor sharp talons. The banshee fell to the ground,
writhing. With one final snap of his powerful beak, he severed her
head from her shoulders.

Jordan panted as the pain ceased, cautiously
lowering her hands. Shuddering, she watched the griffin rip the
corpse apart. Her hand felt through the grass, closed around the
branch. Hoping the griffin would stay occupied, she began to back
away, eyes lowered, as if he were a mad dog.

She had not gone three feet when she backed
into something. It moved.

Jordan whirled with a war cry and swung her
stick with all her might. She thought she hit the head that
belonged to the eyes hovering above her, but she didn't linger
longer than it took the beast to grunt. She ran toward the house
with a speed that would have surprised her old gym teacher,
propelled by sheer terror.

The griffin leaped in front of her, landing
in a flurry of wings. Jordan cried out, tried to brake, and skidded
on the wet grass. She landed on her butt with a wet squish.
Terrified, she waited for it to attack.

The griffin eyed her and sat back on its
haunches. It cocked its great head and calmly began to clean its
talons.

Jordan drew a deep breath. Slowly, she got to
her feet. A furtive glance showed more dark shapes in a loose
circle around her. The night was black, but she could hear them
breathing. It was hard to contain her fear, but she put forth a
mighty effort. Panic didn't seem like a good idea.

“It was brave of you to attack the banshee,”
the griffin said, giving her a start.

“Foolish,” someone grumbled.

Jordan shifted edgily. The heavy stick in her
hand was hardly reassuring. “I wasn't attacking her.” There was a
short silence. “I didn't realize what she was until I got closer.”
In fact, she hadn't realized what the wraith was until the griffin
spoke, but she didn't disclose that. She was already close to
babbling. To counter it, she grit her teeth. It helped to still the
chattering of her teeth. The rain may have abated, but the wind was
frigid.

“You're cold,” the griffin observed. “You
should go in.”

“Great idea,” she said quickly. “If you'll
excuse me?” She waited for someone to move, but no one seemed in a
hurry.

Another flash of lightning lit the circle
around her, giving a glimpse of big winged bodies to her right and
left. It was enough to see that there were gaps in the ring big
enough for her to slip through. Shuddering, she took a quick breath
and darted between the bodies.

She couldn't help a glance back, but no one
had moved. Eyes front, she speed walked to the front door. She
didn't look again to see if anyone followed. She hoped not.

The driveway must have been a quarter mile
long. Though she could only snatch lightning-lit glimpses, the
mansion looked old, Gothic. Were there people inside? Only the
darkened windows kept her from a sprint. If the place were
deserted, would she find a door or window unlocked? The griffin had
said she should go in. Did he know the people inside?

The storm was rapidly becoming one of the
worst she'd ever seen. Whips of lightning split the sky with almost
supernatural frequency. Suddenly one speared an ancient oak tree
not fifty yards from her, splitting it in two. The thunder came so
quickly it deafened her, drowning her shriek.

Jordan decided she didn't care if the mansion
housed a battalion of zombies; she ran for it. Stumbling up the
stone steps, she skidded to a halt at the door and pounded for all
she was worth. “Hello? Help! Please let me in.” She couldn't help
looking over her shoulder, expecting to be pounced on at any
moment.

It took a determined round of banging on the
old iron knocker, but finally there came a deep echoing sound as
the door grudgingly swung open. An old woman with black eyes and
the biggest nose in Christendom scowled down at her. “We're not
open to travelers.”

Jordan stood up straight, her composure
somewhat restored by the long wait. “Ma'am, I know we've never met,
but I would be grateful if you'd allow me in. I—” she was
interrupted by the crashing voice of thunder. She couldn't help
glancing behind her. There was a howling note to the wind, like a
live thing denied its prey.

The old one looked at her with more interest
now. “Well now! Got the banshee after you, have you? Heh. Perhaps I
ought to let you in after all.” She swung the door open, smiling a
rather white and sharp smile at the wind's protest. She grabbed
Jordan as the wind suddenly tried to suck her away from the thick,
iron-bound door, pulling her firmly inside. The sudden quiet as the
door slammed was almost eerie.

The old one sniffed. “Nothing like hemlock
and iron to keep out unwanted guests.” She picked up her
old-fashioned oil lamp from a side table and glanced at Jordan.
“Come. You're dripping on the floors.”

Jordan glanced around as she followed her
hostess, taking in the dusty elegance. “I didn't get a chance to
introduce myself. I'm Jordan Hearst.”

The old one raised a brow that was nearly as
thick as her nose. “You may call me Mrs. Yuimen. I am the keeper of
the kitchens.” As she spoke, she led the way through a great hall
with a neatly wiped and polished table and murky floors. “The
housekeeper has left us some time ago and has yet to be replaced.
You can see it needs attending.” She spoke as if this were somehow
Jordan's responsibility.

Jordan blinked. “I see.” She was unwilling to
offend Mrs. Yuimen, lest she be given the boot. “I really
appreciate—”

“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Yuimen interrupted. “Now, be
seated and I'll pour you some tea.” She entered the kitchens as she
spoke and gestured to the rocker and stool before the old brick
hearth. A one-eyed cat looked up from the rug and growled a warning
as Jordan squished over, choosing the stool. She didn't want to
take what must surely be the cook's customary seat.