The Thing About Weres: A Mystwalker Novel Page 11

  I want Trowbridge.

  Another mewl of distress. My head sagged.

  I couldn’t run, I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t plead, I couldn’t fight.

  Terror-pain spread with each thump of my frightened heart. I cringed as the Fae touched my wound—so lightly, so carefully—and shuddered as I saw my blood staining his fingers. Liquid and still thin enough to drip down the back of his hand and curl around his hairless wrist. Then to my keening, quivering horror, he lifted a wet index to his nose and sniffed that wretched finger oh so delicately.

  That’s my blood on your hands. My Fae blood—

  His Goddess-cursed hand was moving again, but this time his fingers were reaching for my face. There was no escape from them. My chin was too heavy. I hurt too much. The blade, the fear, and Ralph, all of it was too great a burden. I want Trowbridge.

  I slumped into my chains.

  The Fae lifted my heavy head and parted my hair. He teased one sweaty hank off my cheek, and pursed his lips as his cool gaze roved my face.

  Don’t hurt me.

  Whoosh. Suddenly, the Fae was swiped sideways, gone in a blur as Trowbridge shoved him aside. Grunts. Smack of flesh on flesh. More grunts.

  Hurting here.

  “Let me help her!”

  “Keep away from her!” A growl. Trowbridge? “She is mine.”

  I moaned when someone—something?—hit my calf hard.

  A flash of green fire. A furious roar.

  That’s my magic.

  A wolf growling, snarling, snapping.

  “Back, Anu!” cried the Fae. Another flash of green, followed by a yelp sharp and high. “Stop it! Calm yourself.”

  “Get away from her!”

  “You’re under the influence of the moon. Think beyond your anger.” A thud, followed by an unintelligible roar of outrage. “Stop struggling!” shouted the Fae. “The blade is silver; the wound is fatal. I must act immediately.”

  Fatal? I struggled to form words to make an objection.

  “She needs sun potion,” said the Fae. “I can’t hold you aloft and tend to her. Give me this boon, and I will give you one of equal weight.”

  A furious growl. “I have no cause to trust a Fae!”

  “You must. It is a mortal wound,” the Fae shouted. “You know it is!”

  Stop saying that.

  “She belongs to me!” shouted my mate. “Do not touch her with your filthy hands, or by God I will tear your throat out, deal or no deal.”

  “You have a choice, Son of Lukynae.” The Fae pleaded, “Let me save her. For all the…”

  The green fire went out.

  Magic-mine? Come home …

  I waited. A second? A minute? Four? Five? But magic-mine didn’t return to me. The night was dark again, lit only by the moon and stars, not the green fire of the thing I’d dismissed so coldly just twelve hours ago. Just me, and Ralph, and the silver knife—its handle shallowly bobbing, very slowly, up and down, up and down … My Were was stumbling, too; hurting terribly, as if the blade had not only pierced my skin, but torn through her pelt, through her ribs and sinew to pierce her heart.

  Where’s Trowbridge?

  A clink of metal. A grunt. Two hands held me upright as another tore the chains from me. Then I was in his arms. The right man touched my face, cupped my jaw, and lifted it. Dark hair, dark brows pulled together. A glimmer of blue eyes. A glimpse of high cheekbone. His scent wrapped around me.

  Yes.

  Finally, the right man.

  “What did you do?” he asked brokenly.

  I did nothing. Except wait for you.

  “Oh God, look at her.” A voice as raw as the wound in my belly. “Tink, you hold on, you hear? You hold on.”

  I wanted to keep my eyes open, so that his eyes would be the last thing I saw, but I felt myself starting to drift. No longer held by any chains, no longer hurting. Warm arms cradled me. How many nights had I dreamed of being held so? A deep, strong heart beat under my ear. How many hours had I spent remembering the warmth of his body, the scent of him, entwined around me, comforting as his embrace?

  My lids fell, and I fell, too. Inside myself.

  It’s not so terrible, not really. Not if he is here, holding me.

  I am loved.

  “Come on, sweetheart. Come on.”

  I am loved.

  “Move away,” the Fae said quietly.

  “No! Give me the juice. I will do it.” My mate’s loving fingers were hurtful now, thumbs digging into the soft flesh of my cheek. Prying open my jaw. Something metal clicks against my teeth. My tongue investigates it. Round and smooth. The edge of a cup.

  “Drink it, sweetheart. Please.” A low voice. Rumble soft.

  I’m so tired.

  “I swear to God, Hedi. I have gone through hell to come back home. You will not die in my arms. Do you hear me? You will drink this.”

  Cold liquid floods my mouth.

  Tasteless, and yet somehow potent. My tongue, which had felt so thick, now tingles.

  “Swallow it.” Hard command in his voice. The water tastes like spring water, but purer and sweeter than any that came in a plastic bottle. I feel panic as it clogs my throat. I’m choking on it. I spluttered it up, and then gasped air, precious air. Water leaked from the corners of my mouth.

  “No!” Another squeeze of my jaw, another mouthful poured between my chattering teeth. “You’ve got to drink it all. You have to. I promise that you’ll feel better.”

  A hand massaged my neck. My throat flexed, struggling to get the hurtful ball of wet past the knot.

  “Please.” His tone softened. “Do it for me.”

  I forced it down.

  But I didn’t feel any better.

  “On the next mouthful, I’ll slowly pull the blade out of her,” said the other man.

  Don’t let the Fae touch it.

  “More, Hedi,” said Trowbridge harshly again, pressing the cup back to my lips. Another cool flood into my mouth. Something tugs at me, pulls at me. I swallow, chest hurting. The liquid cools my throat, then my gullet. As it swims down into my core, I struggle to focus on his eyes. To see past the ropes of hair, the black whiskers.

  Blue comets, blue fire.

  Mine.

  And then … a wave of warmth … and I was no longer hurting. The raging fire in my center was cooling, easing, being pushed away by something that wasn’t seething hot, but warm as my mum’s hand on my brow. Soothing as someone stroking the pointed tip of my ear.

  “Don’t you dare leave me. If I could hold out this long, you will find the strength to fight this … You understand?” He gave me a little shake. “You won’t leave me. Don’t you dare do it. You hear me? You will fight this!”

  The juice took the fire, the misery, the pain, and carried them away on some tide to some other continent, while I lay on the warm beach of this one, feeling so …

  Content.

  Such a simple word. My legs felt pleasurably heavy, weighted for sleep, ready for slumber. Even my Were felt drowsy and serene. The thought came to me that maybe I wasn’t being healed, but I was being carried to that land that you never, ever, thought existed.

  A place where nothing hurt.

  And bad things had no teeth.

  I was loved.

  Heaven.

  Chapter Eight

  So, here’s a good rule: if you’re teetering on the brink of death, the one word you do not want to think, breathe, or hazily imagine, is “heaven.” Because if you close your eyes—and truly you can’t help but do so when you’re so profoundly tired—you may find yourself opening them in a realm not your own.

  For a few moments, I was muddled. Where was I? Obviously, I wasn’t in Creemore anymore. No scent of Were wrapped around me. No arms holding me painfully tight. I knew myself to be alone … I could practically feel the silence pressing down on me.

  No, no, no.

  This was so wrong on so many levels. Not only was I too young to die, but—come on, for fuck’s
sake—Trowbridge and I had finally been reunited. This was when the good times were supposed to roll. This was to be the moment when my real life began.

  Oh, that incredible bitch.

  Karma had given me one sweet, brief taste of my heart’s desire then promptly pushed me into heaven. Though, come to think of it—this sure didn’t feel like paradise. Wasn’t I supposed to be met by a family member, or at the very least, some messenger holding a sign that read WELCOME TO CLOUD NINE? Besides, the ground felt solid underneath me … and surely heaven wouldn’t smell like wet earth, and rain and—

  Fire.

  Shit. As in brimstone and hellfire?

  * * *

  Well, that was a game changer. I lay there, eyes closed, thinking in terms of moral audits; my balance sheet kind of sucked. I stole, though not from the pack. I lied, but then again, who didn’t? And yeah, I did kill Dawn Danvers. But … she really, really deserved it. Didn’t that give me a get-out-of-jail pass?

  Enough stalling. Open your eyes and say hello to the guy with the pitchfork.

  Cautiously, I slit open my eyes and was treated to a microview of brilliant green moss.

  Oh thank Goddess, I’m not in hell.

  A stream of blue-gray smoke slipped past my sightline, undulated over the verdant, textured surface with a harem girl’s teasing touch, then slid under the scraggly undercarriage of the overgrown hawthorn hedge. There it played for a moment or two, ever the teasing will-o’-the-wisp, flitting between twisted branches, until it grew bored, and melted into the playground of the wild woods beyond the hedge.

  Unbelievable. I’d found myself thinking “heaven” and ended up in Threall? Exactly what part of my subconscious paired those two thoughts together?

  Close your eyes, and will yourself back to Creemore.

  Right now.

  I focused on Trowbridge because that’s what worked last time I wanted to zap myself back to the realm of chili burgers and cell phones. But I couldn’t seem to call up his face. Whenever I tried, my brain got hazy, as if something—someone?—had pulled me here and was reluctant to let go.

  My presence had been demanded.

  By whom? To witness what?

  I took stock.

  It seemed that I’d landed in exactly the same place as on my first visit to the realm between realms—on the right-hand side of the clearing of land, my head turned toward a hawthorn hedge, my body within feet of the roots of the dying black walnut tree. The ground under me was spongy and unpleasantly wet. That’s new, too. Tentatively, I flattened my paw on the damp moss and watched with a small frown as a miniature puddle of brown water formed under it.

  Odder and odder.

  Water squelched as I rolled to my knees. For a moment I felt unbalanced, my sense of equilibrium rolling like the bubble inside a tilted level. I don’t know where my Were goes when I travel to Threall, but when we pull into the station, the spot near my spine where she usually curls is absolutely empty. And it was a given that I’d arrive in the land of myst without an amulet. But this time—unlike last time—I was without my Fae, as well.

  I was … just me.

  Hedi Peacock-Stronghold, stripped of her add-alongs.

  At last. Hadn’t I always just wanted to be me? Good old unadorned and simplified me? No longer a complex stew? Seeing the world through my own perceptions?

  I felt so much lighter without them.

  Lonelier, too.

  I swallowed and breathed through my mouth until the sensation of loss passed.

  My gaze moved past the ruddy red balls of light buried deep inside the hedge beside me, up beyond the ragged tops of the hawthorns, upward and beyond, to the very top of the ancient trees—

  Aw, there they are.

  Mine.

  Hundreds of soul balls, high up in the overcast sky, each one lovingly cradled by the boughs of its proud tree. Lit from within—some shining so brightly they made my fingers itch—protected from harm by their thin vellum-soft skins. Oh Goddess, the heart-stirring beauty of them. Even now in Threall’s daylight, they glowed. A hundred variations of yellow, pink-blushed primroses, and heavy golds, sun-pure lemons and tawny topazes, lime-fresh citrons and orange-tinted umbers. And here and there, balls with imperfect colors; their surfaces streaked with shadows of red, suggestions of eggplant, soft whispers of forest green.

  Darker souls.

  But even so—

  Still mine.

  I pivoted to look the other way and shrieked as the ground fell out from beneath me. My head snapped back, my knee twisted, and downward I tumbled, arms flailing, mouth wide open.

  It was a short plunge, overall, and I landed with an oomph on something soft.

  * * *

  The foxhole had three things at the bottom of it. A great deal of churned-up earth—loose, and quite fine. A foot of water—muddy, and very cold. And one mystwalker—immobile, and quite possibly … dead.

  I’d landed draped across Mad-one’s body.

  Immediately, I was assailed by a bitch-storm of broken visuals, all jumbled together, with no sense of pattern or time sequence. Two fireballs exploding in a shower of sparks and cinders in the night sky. Rain, gentle and soft. The Old Mage with his lips pulled back, his teeth clenched against some terrible agony. A fast-moving dark shadow skulking along the length of the hawthorns. A black walnut tree, the red light in the center of its purplish soul light flickering before a fresh shower of fireballs arced into the air toward her. A little girl, well turned out in her best pinafore, her hair pulled back, the rakes of a comb still evident in her hair.

  Simeon, tall and fair.

  Simeon.

  All delivered so fast, it made my stomach want to hurl.

  And feelings, too. Fae Stars. So much emotion. An intense explosion of surprise, anger, and hatred. Then fear—oh, a whole bunch of that—followed by a sickening wave of weak despair. Hissing with shock, I scrambled off her then scuttled up the mud-slick incline for the surface. There I froze, half in, half out of Mad-one’s foxhole.

  The top of a nearby stump was hearth to a clump of smoking moss.

  What had happened to Threall?

  War? It sure looked like it. The formerly lush and semitranquil landscape was a ruin of rutted bomb craters and scattered tree branches—all of it fanning outward from the healthier of the two black walnuts that held court at the edge of Threall’s world. Anger grew inside my belly as my gaze roamed. Whatever had occurred during my absence, the souls of Threall had endured at least two casualties beyond the loss of the former Mystwalker of Threall. Signs were everywhere: a long sheaf of moss swinging from the root ball of a fallen beech; the crushed remains of a flattened hawthorn. An empty soul ball, with its skin torn and its contents spilled, reproached me as it flapped against a spar of elm thrust into the damp earth.

  It’s just a hawthorn. And an old tree.

  And yet, sorrow brushed me with dry fingers.

  Souls had been killed.

  Two of mine.

  There it was again—the same feeling that had assailed me the first time I’d visited Threall. An inexplicable feeling that this world was mine, and everything in it—the souls, this mossy terrain, these trees—was my Goddess-given duty to protect.

  It scared me.

  Focus, I told myself. Will yourself back to Creemore.

  Except focusing was suddenly incredibly difficult to do. I was positively flooded with an inexplicable feeling of possessiveness. If I left, who was going to protect those souls?

  I flicked a resentful glance to my left, to the beech under whose leafy canopy Mad-one usually lolled about with her mandolin. The Mystwalker’s favorite tree had taken at least one direct hit, judging by the hole in its foliage, and the wattle fence built to protect it had been torn asunder. Her overturned silk chaise sported a burn spot in the shape of a bull’s-eye on its back.

  She never even saw it coming.

  My gaze swept the area, searching for a shadow that didn’t belong, then moved to the line of hawth
orns. Soul lights glowered inside their thorny embrace, but nothing or nobody popped out with a gotcha “Boo!”

  Still, someone had to be responsible for all this destruction.

  I twisted around to inspect the other end of the pasture, where two hulking black walnuts served as sentries to the end of Threall’s world. The trees were of equal height, but other than that, they were as dissimilar as they could be; the most obvious difference being the smug and rude health of the one on the left versus the one-wheeze-away-from-adios-my-friends of the walnut tree supporting the Old Mage’s essence.

  Because that pathetic, leaf-denuded relic was host to the old man.

  I knew that as clearly as I knew Trowbridge was meant for me. Last time I’d been in Threall, I’d found myself clinging like a limpet to one of the dying tree’s wind-chapped boughs, and I’d heard him. Inside my head.

  Without a word of a lie, I’d heard him. Speaking directly to me. Sounding old and wise. That day, I’d thought him a mixture of Gandalf and the Wizard of Oz. Kindly. Paternal. Now, I knew better. I’d spent too many slumbers watching Mad-one’s last hour in Merenwyn to be fooled by the bonhomie in his voice.

  Bottom line, kindly men don’t make good mages.

  And yet …

  Over the last six months, Threall’s soft wind had further ravaged the Old Mage’s black walnut, stripping off its bark, beating its topmost branches into bleached, frayed splinters, and the remaining signs of life had been reduced to a few whippet-thin branches that boasted a few handfuls of leaves. His sagging soul ball drooped from its tether; its rich hues had faded from their glowing brilliance into a watercolor blur of dead golds and toothless reds.

  I should have been unmoved at the sight. An arrogant man was finally meeting his inevitable end. But I wasn’t. Sorrow, that’s what flooded me at the sight of that languishing soul. An ancient sorrow—not a fresh pain—deep inside me, down in my gut where my Fae usually lived.