Shona Husk - The Outcast Prince

Embrace change!

Maybe it was time to sell. She could move to another city. She could travel. She’d stayed because of Gran, but she no longer had that tie. She could do whatever she wanted. She opened her eyes waiting for a sense of freedom or something to jolt her into action. Nothing. She felt as empty as Callaway House. Even when it had just been Gran living there, the old place had lived and breathed. Now it was a shell.

Except Caspian hadn’t seen it that way. He was fascinated even as he tried to remain impartial. He hadn’t asked leading questions about the house and it’s colorful past. He was genuinely interested… and interested in her.

She hadn’t missed his glances. She’d stolen more than a few herself. There was something different about him, but she couldn’t say what. However, she was interested enough to want to find out more. She flipped back the covers and sat up. She had a day at the office to put in before meeting Caspian at Callaway House. The weather forecast came on, another patchy day of undecided spring weather. Dress for summer but add a jacket, and take an umbrella just in case. She reached out to turn off the radio, but the announcer’s next words slammed into her.

“Madam Callaway has died at age eighty-nine. No doubt there are some relieved power brokers this morning knowing the secrets of the mistress hotel are safe with her.”

Lydia drew in a breath and held it. She’d expected something two weeks ago, been braced for a story then, but when the media hadn’t picked it up she’d relaxed. She rubbed her hand over her face as her eyes stung. She wasn’t going to cry. She’d done enough of that before burying Gran in a small private service—one her mother hadn’t bothered to attend. Some daughter Helen was.

Lydia took a deep breath. She was in public relations. This is what she did for a living. First rule, control the situation.

She needed to come up with a statement that seemed to give the media information but that told them nothing, certainly nothing salacious. She’d been hoping Gran’s death and sorting out the will would happen quickly and quietly so she could stay well clear of the gossip, but Gran would have wanted to go out in style. Maybe a big party was just the thing after all…

Maybe a very public memorial would be enough for people to sate their curiosity while reminding them that Gran was a much loved person, someone who’d made a difference in many people’s lives. Lydia nodded to herself. Yes. That was how she’d respond to the media. She’d lay down a challenge and see who was brave enough to show their face and mourn Nanette Callaway.

And in the meantime, she’d figure out who tipped off the press.

Something hit his bedroom window with a thump and a flutter. Caspian opened his eyes, awake and alert even though morning was still thinking about arriving. For a moment all he heard was the pounding of his heart. Then the flutter-bump happened again. He turned to face the window and saw a small bird against the pane. The bird’s wing caught in the streetlight and shone iridescent turquoise. A fairy wren.

Flutter-bump.

The bird was on the inside trying to get out.

Cold filled his gut. If a wren was in his house…

“Shit.” The Brownies .

He threw back the covers and ran down the stairs two at a time. Ice pumped in his veins, fueling a panic he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

He skidded into the kitchen and stopped as if he’d hit a wall. The antique tea set was scattered across the floor. Sugar was everywhere. A broken saucer had sent shards of porcelain over the tiles. His eyes widened at the wanton destruction of an irreplaceable one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old tea set. It might have been worth hundreds of dollars, but to him it was worth more. He’d purchased it especially for the Brownies. He’d taken their arrival as a sign of good fortune and protection.

The skin on his back prickled as if a ghost was running its fingers down his spine. Caspian slowly lifted his gaze from the floor, aware he was being watched. The gaunt man from the yard sale stood in his kitchen, sipping from a tiny teacup. The echo of fairy beauty still clung to the Grey like an extra shadow. The man’s lips turned up in what could only be called a victory smile.

Caspian did a quick threat assessment. The Grey looked pretty enough to have only been recently banished.

But still Caspian was out of his depth.

For several heartbeats neither of them moved. Caspian looked away first. If it hadn’t been five in the morning, he might’ve been smarter and pretended as if he hadn’t seen the Grey. Although the smashed tea set had already given away that he could see fairies. He really hoped the Brownies were safe.

The Grey set the cup down on the saucer. “I appreciate your hospitality, Caspian ap Felan ap Gwyn ap Nudd.”

The use of his fairy name to the fourth generation was a sign of respect, but coming from this man it was more of a threat. The Grey knew exactly who he was, and no doubt knew exactly how the fairy blood in him had manifested in the mortal world. The Grey had watched him touch the mirror at the garage sale. He knew he shouldn’t have bought it.

His heart hammered, rattling his ribs. Where the hell was Dylis? Caspian inclined his head but didn’t speak. Fairies could twist words to their own advantage better than any human lawyer.

“You have been well schooled. Be assured I’m not after your soul. In my present state I have no use for it.” He flicked his hand dismissively as if he were used to being obeyed.

But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t take Caspian’s soul to trade later. Caspian waited. Running would serve no purpose.

The Grey walked around the kitchen counter. His clothes were finely made and highly decorated. Velvet and brocade in muted shades, a memory of their past color. They had yet to show signs of wear from being cut off from the power of the Court. He’d obviously been a lord, and yet he wore no sword of fairy silver. Whatever he’d done had been bad to be cut off and cast out without a weapon.

Caspian’s initial adrenaline-fueled panic gave way to something much colder. A bead of sweat rolled down his bare back. It was one thing to see fairies but another to have one break into his house and confront him.

The Grey’s boots crunched over the pieces of china. Caspian tried not to wince. The Grey was doing it deliberately and enjoying every pace. Each grinding step was another insult to the Brownies. He was acting as if he were still at Court looking down his nose at those who chose to live in the mortal world. But here, fairies, like Dylis, and the Brownies outranked a Grey no matter how recently banished.

Even a changeling like him outranked this Grey. Pity there was no one here to enforce the rules and protocol. Caspian willed himself to remain still and wait, trying to think of ways to get rid of the Grey without it being construed as an insult or a sign of weakness. He drew a blank.

“While I don’t want your soul, I do want something from you.” The Grey smiled the way a fox would smile at a cornered rabbit. His pale eyes glinted in the pre-dawn light.

Caspian was as good as dead. If he refused he was as good as dead, and if he helped he was as good as dead. It was simply a matter of time and a question of who would kill him first. The Grey or his father—the Crown Prince of Death, guardian of the veil between worlds—for breaking the rules and making a deal with a banished fairy.

Caspian watched the Grey but said nothing.

“I’m looking for a mirror, one lost in your world centuries ago.” The Grey paused as if waiting for a reaction and got none. “It’s very valuable, and you shall help me find it.”