Dani Harper - Storm Warrior

The power flickered and went out.

Morgan peered out the kitchen window toward the barn. Nothing moved in the yard—although, it was hard to be certain with the strobing effect of the lightning. She squinted her eyes and grabbed a pair of sunglasses from the shelf over the coatrack. Who’d have thought she’d ever need them in the middle of the frickin’ night? She studied the farmyard and the area around the barn, but nothing appeared to be lurking there. The field behind the far side of the barn was another story.

The thunderstorm appeared to be hovering low just beyond the fence line. Inky black clouds roiled continuously as if the storm were alive somehow, and the lightning illuminated it from within with strange unnatural colors. Morgan was about to look away from the bright spectacle when she spotted something within the storm. Several somethings. She stared, letting the poker and the skillet slide to the floor unheeded, as the images became clear to her.

A flurry of horses and riders circled the field in the very midst of the storm, a furious and dreadful host: riders in faded finery and tarnished saddlery, riders in rags riding bareback. Riders with the appearance of flesh and blood on wild-eyed steeds. Skeletons astride ivory-boned mounts. Ghostly riders on phantom horses. All were subject to the shining figures on red-eyed horses that drove both riders and mounts with crackling whips of light. The furious host circled round and round in the field, the pounding hooves creating the thunder that even now shook the floor beneath Morgan’s feet. Massive hounds, some blackest black, some white, some red as blood, bayed at the heels of the captives.

The Wild Hunt was here.

Both fascinated and terrified, Morgan watched as the spectral figures dashed at the fence and away again, over and over, as if the simple wire were a barrier they couldn’t cross. It wasn’t until Fred nudged her repeatedly with his nose that she was able to shake free of the vision. She turned and slid down the door until she was cross-legged with her back against it, breathing hard. Omigod, omigod. What was she going to do? What made her think that she could go up against something like that? She was no warrior.

But Rhys thought she was. The best of healers are warriors at heart. She wasn’t sure about the best of healers part, but she did know she was a fighter. She didn’t quit. Not on her patients in the clinic, and not now on the man who held her heart. She fingered the charm that Ranyon had given her and hoped like hell it would work. She swallowed hard, gathered up the poker and the skillet, nodded at Fred, and charged outside.

Nothing threatened her as she jogged across the open yard. The thunder and lightning seemed to let up somewhat—a relief when she was carrying so much metal. Her biggest danger was being beaten to death by the iron bookends in her vest pockets, and she clamped her elbows against them to stop them from swinging. It slowed her down not to be able to move her arms, and her collection of iron implements felt as heavy as cannonballs as she headed for the dark barn.

She was two-thirds of the way there when she stopped so abruptly that she had to flail her arms to keep her balance, and both skillet and poker tumbled to the ground. There were only two incandescent light fixtures in the stable that worked, and the power was currently out. So why was brilliant white light suddenly pouring from the open doorway of the stable and spilling out the windows? The powerful light radiated outward in all directions from every crack and crevice in the entire building. There were even tiny beams and rays shooting skyward through what she had assumed was a solid roof.

Rhys and Ranyon might be in the stable, but so was something else.

Without warning, the big double doors at the rear of the barn slammed open, and the entire building shook with the impact. A large pale horse appeared at the threshold, its head hung low, and its nose nearly touching the ground. White froth bubbled at its mouth and nostrils, and its coat was lathered with sweat. The exhausted creature swayed as it shuffled forward on three legs, lame and limping. Blood ran from fresh stripes and gouges on its flanks as well as from the all-too-familiar wounds on its limbs.

Lucy. It was all Rhys could do not to break from his hiding place. The door of her stall swung open as if by unseen hands, and he gritted his teeth as the mare took halting painful steps to it. She could barely lift her head, but managed at last to bury her nose in her water bucket and drain it. There was ample grain and hay, but she was too spent to eat. With a heartrending groan, she simply collapsed in the straw. It sickened Rhys to know that the ill-used mare would likely never get up again.

Still he held his position, knuckles white on the grip of the sword, certain that the horse hadn’t come alone. Waiting. Waiting.

And then they were simply there . Seven shining figures stood just inside the threshold. The living light that emanated from the flawless skin of the Tylwyth Teg was the same as it had always been. Their flowing white hair was bound back for the hunt, however, and their bright clothing had been traded for dark riding leathers studded with many daggers. In their beautiful hands were copper weapons of war. Rhys recognized Tyne and Daeria from the visitation in Morgan’s laundry room on his last night as a dog. Daeria was clearly leading this party, and it was plain by the way she hefted her sword that this was no friendly visit.

Which suited Rhys just fine. He didn’t plan to be a gracious host.

In silence, the Fair Ones glided forward, their booted feet not deigning to touch the floor of the barn. The broad walkway along the stalls compressed the party into a loose diamond formation, and Rhys held his breath as the fae crossed each straw-strewn floorboard. Until the leader passed an innocuous fist-size lump of blue livestock salt—

With a war cry that had chilled the blood of many a Roman, Rhys leapt from his hiding place and slashed a taut rope in two with his sword, then took a battle stance. With their eyes on him, the Fair Ones failed to see the harrow swinging swiftly down from the loft behind them, its heavy iron frame covered with ten-inch iron teeth, until it was too late. The farming implement proved as effective at breaking up a faery formation as it was in breaking up clods of dirt in a field. Four of the center fae were impaled outright, their copper weapons clattering to the floor as they died. A fifth stayed on his feet, his unearthly beauty marred by a swipe from an iron spike along the side of his face. Half blinded by his own pale-blue blood, he still sighted Rhys with his bow and released a gleaming silver arrow that curved in midair after its quarry, revealing its enchantment.

Rhys dropped and rolled, barely in time. The projectile looped and dove back on him, and he leapt straight up this time, bringing the sword down upon the arrow’s shaft as it passed. The pieces clattered to the floor, the spell broken. Rhys was still in motion, however, and hit the floor running. Three more arrows followed and met the same fate as the first.

“Such sport you give us!” said Daeria, clapping her hands as if in delight. “You see why we simply must have you back.”

Rhys didn’t miss the deadly overtones in the seductive voice. “You have no claim here,” he said. “I am sworn to protect Morgan Edwards, and I am hers by your queen’s own decree.”

Daeria simply laughed, a cascade of tiny bells in a tomb. “The agreement was that you were hers only until she relinquished her claim. We clearly heard the mortal woman tell you to leave.”