Rachel Caine: Chicks Kick Butt

Holy shit.

It was blurred at first, as if she were looking through the surveillance cameras back in San Diego. White and glowing, horses and riders.

Then forty yards away, the cantering parade snapped into sharp relief. Cut out in black by the brilliant lights, dozens of spiky goblins in medieval armor rode black chargers, capering and gibbering as they galloped, a thundering horde. There were at least a dozen of them sitting so high in their saddles that she figured the smallest to be at least six feet tall. Orange flames flared from the horses’ nostrils; sparks flew from their hooves. Hellhounds of ash and smoke bayed at their heels, disintegrating, re-forming—

Thirty yards.

Twenty.

At the lead rode the majestic Erl King himself, Master of the Great Hunt, exactly as Lukas had described him. Dressed in ebony chain mail and a solid black chest plate, the demon lord of the forest towered over the goblins. His black helmet was smooth, with no helm—no eyeholes—topped with curved antlers that flared with smoky flames; fastened at the shoulders, his cloak furled behind like the wake of an obsidian river. In his right chain-mail gauntlet, he held the reins of his enormous warhorse. His left clasped a squirming bundle against his chest—the baby.

He must be freezing.

The child had been snatched from his crib, where he slept bundled in pajamas. His name was Garriet, and he was nine weeks old. While they were suiting up and Lukas was detailing the mission, Meg had asked for a picture. Sofie had snorted.

“He’ll be the baby in the Erl King’s arms,” Heath had deadpanned. “But if by chance there’s two, grab them both, Meggie.”

The Erl King had stolen many thousands of children through the centuries. His goblins put changelings in their emptied cribs—often passing for human children, but evil creatures to the core. Adolf Hitler had been a changeling. Jack the Ripper. Charles Manson. There were other places where he could cross the Pale; it was the job of Haus Ritter to guard it here.

What will he do to Garriet if we don’t get him back?

No one could tell her. Their primary mission was to isolate the Erl King and kill or wound him, approach, and snatch back the child. It seemed an impossible task. Lukas and Sofie had done it once before, when they were nineteen. They were twenty-seven now, and this was the first verified theft since.

“I see them,” Meg whispered into her microphone. “My Sight has returned.”

“ Bon, c’est bon, Meg,” Eddie said, his voice taut with excitement.

Then light flared around the Great Hunt, saturating the surroundings with a hazy green glow. Lightning crackled. Sparks flew. Thunder roared down the mountain. The ground shook beneath her, and Teufel whinnied.

A great wailing rose around her.

“ Scheiße. They’re across,” Lukas announced. “Abort.”

A goblin rose in his stirrups, turned, and waved at her. His face was a mass of scars and hollows, as if someone had taken a Halloween mask and melted it.

She’d been taunted before. You didn’t last in the Border Patrol if you gave in to your impulses. But adrenaline was pumping through her system so hard and fast she was quivering. There was no way this was over.

“I can get them,” she insisted.

“They’re beyond the Pale, love,” Heath reminded her.

“It’s over,” Sofie chimed in. “Retreat, Meg.”

Shaking her head, Meg pressed her thighs in a viselike grip against Teufel’s flanks, reached behind, and started to grab her Uzi. She rethought. On this side of the Pale, standard-issue ammo could kill her targets. But if shot from this side to the Pale, the chambered rounds were ineffective. The crossbow bolts, coated with magicks, would work. She didn’t know why. She didn’t care at the moment. Problem was, she had yet to master the crossbow. In target practice, she shot wide.

She had to get closer if she was going to save that baby.

“I’m going,” she said, urging Teufel forward. He tossed his head and broke into a run.

Then she heard singing, in silvery tones, angelic and sweet:

Oh, come and go with us … Where death never visits us …

“Eddie!” Lukas shouted. “Stop her!”

Oh, come and go with us …

The song washed over her, drawing out her anger like poison from a snakebite. Buried anger over her helplessness—

Where death never visits us … “Eddie!” Lukas bellowed. “ Mwen regret sa ,” Eddie said.

Something slammed into her side like a huge, spiked fist; it tore through the layers of her protective armor and sliced into her skin. Fireball heat tore through her body; then she went cold, and began to slide from her horse.

Oh, come—

“No,” she gritted, “crap.”

Losing consciousness, she slumped sideways. Into snow, she prayed; if she hit the rocks, or if she fell under Teufel …

Through the glowworm-like radiance, the image of the Great Hunt stretched and glimmered. She held out a gloved hand, as if she could scoop the riders up in her fist. Vibrations buffeted her ears; then banshee wails shot up around her. Death. Death was riding with the Hunt. The baby …

The wailing.

Just wolves, she thought, tears forming, grabbing the pommel and canting farther right. No, no, I was so close. So close again …

“Don’t go,” she ordered the Erl King. “Don’t, you bastard.”

The King of the Elves turned his head in her direction. Although Teufel was still racing forward, she froze from head to steel-toed boot. Behind his black mask, he looked at her. Saw her. She felt it as if he had laid a hand on her shoulder, or her cheek … icy cold, but gentle. Chills skittered up and down, ghost fingers on the xylophone of her spine.

She had never been more afraid, nor felt more alive, than in that moment.

“I know you,” she whispered.

He inclined his horned head slowly, in her direction. The chills got worse; but so did an incredible euphoria, as if she were the most powerful being who had ever lived.

He held her gaze, in his black mask and flaming antlers. Then he nestled the child beneath his chin.

And then she was gone.

In the hospital:

She’d heard her brother’s voice from behind the bandages, issuing from the hospital bed, after the lightning strike: “Meh meh meh.”

“He’s trying to say my name,” she’d told his neurologist.

“I’m so sorry, but it’s just a reflex. He doesn’t even know who you are,” the doctor had replied.

Their parents were drinking coffee in the waiting room. They couldn’t seem to make it down the hallway to see him. The nurses had all traded looks and the social worker had been called. Something about her parents’ denial. Something about he was their son, for God’s sake. They should at least see him.

In the desert:

When she had held that lifeless Mexican baby and tried to will it into living, she forgave her parents for being too afraid to face Matt. Maybe that was where the tears had sprung from, and the messy way she’d hit on Jack. He’d told her he’d been tempted until she started talking about her brother.

“You got issues, hon,” he’d told her.

We travel light, or we die.

When she awakened, she was lying on the floor of Haus Ritter’s dark blue van, and her armor was off. She was bare to the waist with a heavy blanket covering her, and she felt loopy, drugged, and supremely pissed off. Bathed in snowfall moonlight, Lukas knelt beside her, his hands resting one on top of the other, beneath the blanket, molded against her left side. His eyes were closed, his dark eyebrows furrowed as he whispered under his breath. Warmth spread from his skin to hers; he was performing a healing spell.