Dani Harper - Storm Warrior

He’d never left the damned arena.

Rhys wanted to scream out his rage and frustration, hack and gouge at a flesh and blood opponent. Tear the forest down with his bare hands. Anything to channel the fury that roared through him. Anything to wreak vengeance and retribution upon his former captors. Taking a deep cleansing breath and then another, he fought to get control of his temper. Anger leads to folly. He paced back and forth along the fence line, calling on all the disciplines he’d ever learned in battle and in the ring. There can be no revenge without a plan. He needed a clear head; he needed to think.

Always do the unexpected.

Surprise had been Rhys’s greatest weapon when he fought the Romans. He had survived in the arena by utilizing the element of surprise there too. So if the Tylwyth Teg expected him to follow the path they’d made into the forest, then the best tactic was to do precisely the opposite. It rankled to leave Lucy in the hands of the fae—the steadfast mare deserved better—but Ranyon was right. The poor ceffyl was out of his reach and likely to be already dead or dying. As in battle, he ordered himself to feel the pain of her loss later, to focus on the demands of the present. Deep inside, however, he vowed that the Fair Ones would pay dearly for their cruelty.

Slowly, carefully, he sheathed his sword and dagger as he sheathed his smoldering anger, and addressed the ellyll. “Will the Tylwyth Teg bring Lucy back to her stall? Is the Law of Benthyg yet great enough that even they will honor it?”

“The Fair Ones are as prideful as ever. The mare will be returned by dawn—if the lesser fae don’t feast on her first.”

Rhys cursed again. The idea of the big gray horse, lame and bleeding, being trailed by a motley collection of hungry creatures from the faery realm was horrifying. By all the gods, he should have dispatched the leering, hissing misfits that snarled at him as he’d hammered iron nails into the fence posts. Instead, he’d pitied them. They’d been used and then betrayed by the Tylwyth Teg, just as he had. But he should have considered that, though the creatures were small, they still needed to eat, and the gods alone knew what they might prey upon. “We need to close this fence against the unnatural beasts.”

The two of them walked back and forth along the break in the fence line, sprinkling Starr’s dried primroses and marsh marigolds over the ground where the fallen wire lay. Rhys dared not blunt the edges of his weapons trying to cut the coils, but Ranyon donated one of the throwing axes to the cause. Used as a hatchet, it quickly freed the wire from the fallen posts, and Rhys threw the tangled mess safely aside. The way was clear through the trampled grass if Lucy came this way again—and was brave enough to cross it. She had to be terrified of wire by now. But if she made it back to Morgan’s land, any lesser fae would be unable to pursue her farther.

“That’s all we can do for poor Lucy,” Rhys said at last and began jogging back the way they’d come. He caught hold of Ranyon’s twiggy hand and swung him up to his shoulder once more. “We need to hurry and prepare a fit welcome for the Fair Ones.”

“Aye,” said the ellyll, setting his hat low over his eyes. “Ya can wager I’ve a charm fer that.”

Morgan lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She’d expected to have trouble sleeping, but it wasn’t the massive dog’s snores that were keeping her awake. Fred hadn’t tried to climb in with her either, thank heavens. Instead, he seemed perfectly comfortable at the foot of her bed, on the giant dog pillow that had once been Rhyswr’s. Perfectly content too. At bedtime, he’d laid down immediately with what sounded like a happy sigh, and was snoring moments later.

A big day for a big dog , she thought, especially after so little activity for over a month. Traveling to what Ellen had charmingly called his forever home, and then exploring it, had tired him. Not to mention playing for an hour in the yard and then inhaling dog food as if he’d never seen it before. If he has his appetite back, he’s feeling pretty good.

She felt good too, at least about Fred. Everything else, however, was weighing heavily on her. Morgan was worried about Leo. And seeing Rhys at the Ren fair had bothered her more than she thought. As had that last encounter at the hospital.

Have faith in me , he’d said. Have faith in us …We have much to say to each other yet, anwylyd.

Tears started in her eyes, and she scrubbed them away angrily on the sleeve of her pajamas. She was so done with crying. Hoping for a distraction, she got up as quietly as she could and padded down the hallway in the dark. She’d barely reached the kitchen before Fred was at her side, an enormous shadow in more ways than one. He was quiet, however, and simply lay at her feet as she sat at the table.

Nainie’s photo in its oversize frame was illuminated by the kitchen night-light. It lent the picture a rich golden glow and highlighted parts not usually apparent in the daytime. Morgan turned her head slowly from side to side, studying the photo from different angles. The camera had reflected on a narrow glimmering line just inside the neck of Nainie’s dress. That had to be the chain of her necklace—the one that Morgan was now wearing beneath her pajama top. She patted the medallion beneath the flannel, chuckling a little at the silly cartoon cats and dogs that adorned the fabric. It was an irreverent setting for such exquisite jewelry. Yet Nainie had never spoken of the value of the necklace, at least not in monetary terms. She’d never cautioned her granddaughter to be careful of the priceless item, or to wear it only on special occasions, or to even hide it. It was clearly a tool and meant to be used. But for what?

Her eyes still on the photograph, Morgan drew the medallion from its resting place against her skin. It’ll help you to have faith…and show you truth …

Faith in what? The truth of what, exactly?

Rhys’s words came unbidden. Have faith in me. Have faith in us.

She studied the medallion in her hand, its glittering silver chain draped over her fingers. The mysterious central stone gleamed in the soft light. “Nainie, what am I supposed to do? What on earth is the truth in all of this?” she asked aloud. “I’m so darn confused.” Morgan knew, when all was said and done, that what she felt for Rhys was far more than just physical attraction. Though that itself was powerful, it wasn’t why she thought about him constantly. Why she was both furious with him and lapsing into crying jags at the drop of a hat.

“I love him. I want to be with him, even if he is crazy. And— even if he isn’t .”

There. She’d finally said it out loud. Confessed it before her grandmother’s photo that looked down from the wall like a kindly icon. Spoken the words before the great dog that lay at her feet with his guileless soul in his eyes as he looked up at her. The medallion, naturally cool, felt warm in her hand as she considered what she’d just said.

For the first time, she allowed herself to freely examine the strange events that had unfolded ever since she first visited Wales, and all the evidence she’d insisted on dismissing and denying. The mysterious arrival of her beloved black dog, Rhyswr, and his equally strange disappearance. The dog’s unique collar, created from soft silver made impossibly strong by unknown methods. The timing of Rhys’s appearance in her laundry room—not to mention his lack of clothing. Rhys’s uncanny proficiency with both animals and ancient weapons. And of course Morgan recognized her own work on Rhys’s body. It was as unique as a signature. Her instructors at veterinary college had always been able to pinpoint her tiny careful sutures, teasing her that she could have a successful backup career as a tailor. That the incision was now on a man’s body rather than a dog’s didn’t negate the fact that it was her handiwork.