Dani Harper - Storm Warrior

She nearly dropped the hoe. “How do you know about the Tylwyth Teg?” Except for her grandmother, she’d never heard anyone on this side of the ocean speak of them, never mind pronounce their name correctly. The tourist shops in Wales did a booming business in faery merchandise, yet she hadn’t heard the ancient name of the fantasy creatures used very much even in that country. She narrowed her eyes at the man, daring him to answer.

He shrugged a little. Although she wasn’t pressing on his neck anymore, he remained prone. “The Fair Ones are cousin to men but very much older. Ancient as the mountains. It was the custom of our clan to leave offerings for them outside the village. The Fair Ones are often bored, and they think nothing of toying with mortals for sport.”

Nainie Jones had often spoken of her childhood, told of her mother leaving milk and bread on the back step for the Tylwyth Teg. It was an offering, a gift of hospitality, she said, so they wouldn’t play tricks on the family. Morgan gripped the hoe harder to keep her hands from trembling, yet she couldn’t help but be fascinated.

“You cannot enter their territory without permission or payment,” he continued. “I had nothing to offer when they discovered me. Not even my life, as I was dying. I thought they would finish me, but instead they healed me. And that was their prank. Because then they changed me, so they could take their payment in servitude.”

Rhys—if that was even his real name—either believed what he was saying or was a prime candidate for an Oscar. Because try as Morgan might, she couldn’t see any evidence that he was lying. He had to be crazy then, but everything about the whole situation was insane. After all, she was standing in her front yard in her pajamas, holding a naked man at the point of a garden hoe. She’d taken assertive action when she’d seen him lying in the grass, assuming he was drunk or something. Well, she’d gotten the upper hand all right. Now what was she supposed to do with the guy? She couldn’t keep him there indefinitely. “If I let you up, will you behave? Because I swear I’ll beat you with this if you so much as look at me wrong.”

“I will not hurt you. I swear it on my life.”

It would have to do. “Okay. You can get up.” She stepped back, clutching the hoe’s handle, ready to swing and swing hard if need be. The man rolled away from her and got to his feet, his movements deliberately slow.

Omigod, he’s tall. Morgan felt something deep inside her turn over in pure female appreciation. When he’d been on the ground, she’d been focused on his face. Now, her eyes quickly scanned the strong arms and muscled chest, then followed the dark line of hair that traveled down his taut belly and fanned around a very promising cock. She snapped her gaze back up to his face, feeling her cheekbones heat and her body thrum. It was embarrassing, not so much that he was naked but that she was reacting so strongly to him. It was the stupid dreams; it had to be those stupid, sexy, wonderful dreams that were sending her hormones wild. Morgan cleared her throat with difficulty, fought to focus.

Suddenly she noticed something she hadn’t before. The man’s arms and shoulders showed at least a dozen scars. There were more on his torso, some on his legs. The scars were white, wounds that had healed long ago. They were also curiously wide, as if they’d never been sutured. What the hell had happened to him? An accident? She prayed that he wasn’t one of those troubled souls who felt compelled to cut themselves. Worse—had he hurt the great black mastiff?

“I want to know what you’ve done with my dog.”

He looked surprised. “It’s me, surely. You called me Rhyswr, but my name is Rhys.”

“No, I called my dog Rhyswr. And there’s no way you could know his name unless you’ve been watching me.” Had the stranger been hiding in the woods last night, spying on her as she walked around the yard with the dog? Or had he seen her with the dog at the clinic and followed her home? Her grip tightened on the garden hoe. Maybe letting the guy get up had been a really bad idea. “Look, I want to know where my dog is right now before I call the police.”

He ran a hand through his dark hair then pinched the bridge of his nose as if thinking. “I know not how to explain. You’ll think me mad.”

“Too late, buddy. Goes with sleeping in a stranger’s house and standing around naked.”

He flushed slightly, and those golden eyes darkened, but he made no effort to cover himself. “A warrior goes into battle naked, as does a gladiator. But we are not at war, and this is not your custom. Does it offend you that I have no clothes?”

“I’m not offended so much as pissed off that you broke into my house, scared the hell out of me, and lost my dog.”

“Your dog is not missing.”

“Good. Where is he?”

“I am the black dog you befriended. When they found me, the Tylwyth Teg were amused by this—” he pointed at his tattooed collarbone “—and thought I would make them an excellent hound. I’ve been a grim ever since, a barghest, bound in service to the Fair Ones for all time. Forced to wear a collar that was forged in faery fire, crafted by faery hand. There was no hope of escape for me until you unmade the spell with your kindness.”

Holy crap. The guy was a loony after all. “Stay there. Right there. Understand? Don’t make a move.” Morgan brandished the hoe as she sidled over to the front door, then dove through it, slamming and locking it after her. Ran to the phone in the kitchen, snatched up the cordless receiver, then dashed through the house to the back door. It was locked. A quick check of the windows showed that they were securely latched as well. How on earth had the man gotten inside?

The sensible side of her said to call 911. Now, right now! Yet strangely, she found herself reluctant to do that. Instead, some inkling was fluttering at her brain like a bright luna moth before a window. She strained to discern what it was but came away with only the same vague sense that she knew this man. Intimately. Cared about him.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said aloud. Obviously she was thinking with her hormones, reacting to a fantasy, to a dream for heaven’s sake. The guy might be a serial killer. Homicidal maniacs could be attractive, couldn’t they? So could compulsive liars. But what purpose would a grown man have in claiming to be a dog? Did he really think she’d fall for something so outlandish? Maybe he had a fetish for veterinarians…

Good grief, why did she have to think of the word fetish with the most attractive man she’d ever met standing naked in her yard? Of course, that attraction was beginning to wane in the wake of the fantastical story he’d told her. She found herself feeling a little sorry for him. Maybe he had missed his medication or had a reaction to something he ate or drank. Maybe he’d suffered a head injury that had left him out of touch with reality—after all, something had happened to him to give him all those scars. Yet, he didn’t seem to be dangerous. If he was, he’d already had plenty of opportunity to do whatever he wanted to her. Yet, he hadn’t laid a hand on her as she lay asleep in her bed. Hadn’t threatened her in the least.

What to do? The truth was, she didn’t want to have Rhys arrested, didn’t want to press charges or cause trouble for him. But Morgan was equally certain there was nothing she could do to help him except to report him as the lost soul he obviously was. I could just mention that he was wandering my property and skip the part about finding him in my house. Maybe there was a missing persons report on him. Maybe someone would recognize him and take him home.