Dani Harper - Storm Warrior

“A lovers’ spat hardly qualifies as a lawful disavowal.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not, and so we have bided our time until the mortal woman tried to send you from her on three occasions. With the power of three, our claim is restored.”

Rhys kept his face impassive, but he was thinking frantically. Three? Once, certainly, when he awoke in his human body, and Morgan had him taken to jail. Two, probably when she stormed from his bed, because he wouldn’t recant his story. But three? Dear gods alive, she’d said it again when he met her at the hospital. He cursed in several languages in his head. On the outside, Rhys remained crouched in his fighter’s stance, sword and dagger at the ready. “I’m not going with you.”

“But we miss our faithful dog so. Think how happy the entire court will be to see you!”

“The court keeps many unwilling humans in the guise of dogs. One more or less hardly matters to you. What about the other grims? Like the one you deliberately sent to Leo Waterson when it’s not yet his time, in a place where the Fair Ones have no dominion. That goes against your own laws. What would your queen say if she knew?”

“Do not quote the laws to me, mortal,” Daeria hissed.

“Do not consider yourself to be above them,” he snarled back.

The fae with the wounded face ran at him with an upraised sword and from beneath the straw, an army of iron nails stood upon their heads, points up, courtesy of one of Ranyon’s charms. The faery’s momentum carried him forward two steps too far…Cursing as the poison metal penetrated both his boots and his feet, he hurled his sword. The copper blade buried itself to the hilt in a bale next to Rhys’s head—but not before Rhys’s thrown dagger caught the fae full in the throat.

Daeria screamed in rage at the loss of another of her soldiers, and Tyne was swift to throw one of his many knives. Rhys’s instincts sent him diving to the left barely in time. The move saved his heart from the dagger’s point, but not his shoulder. The blade pierced it through and lodged solidly in the bone. He yanked it out before it could spill its aggressive magic into his system, but it took a couple of tries and cost him precious seconds. Just enough time for Daeria to fly across the space and seize him by the throat. His sword tumbled to the floor as his head spun, as skin and bone and tendon suddenly tore away from their moorings and distorted…

Despite the strangeness of the night and the terrifying proximity of the Wild Hunt, Fred neither barked nor whined. Alert and watchful, the great dog stuck to Morgan’s side as if he were a presidential bodyguard. Perhaps she should get him some dark glasses too so he could look the part…

She led her canine companion to the small side door of the hired man’s quarters and slipped inside. There was less of the blindingly white light here, meaning that its source was in the stable area. She clutched Fred’s collar for balance and crossed the little apartment in a low crouching walk, made more difficult by all the metal she was carrying. Partway there, she stopped and slung her vest over Fred’s broad back, hoping he wouldn’t mind being a pack mule for a while. Her own back was relieved without the weight of the iron bookends to carry.

Immediately she could hear Rhys’s voice somewhere on the far side of the door. She could hear other voices too, but there was something odd about them, a crystalline quality, like broken glass beneath the rippling surface of a stream. The unnatural sound sent a shiver through her.

Taking a deep breath, she sat with her back to the wall and reached over and turned the doorknob slowly, slowly, until the latch was free of the strike plate. She allowed the door to fall open a crack. Brilliant light blazed through the slender opening immediately. Her eyes could no more adjust to it than they could adjust to staring directly at the sun. She patted the upper pockets of the vest and thanked all the stars that her sunglasses were in one. Donning them with relief, she waited until she was sure the strange voices she heard weren’t immediately near the door. The entrance into the stable led first into the half-walled section where the feed and grain was kept. Praying that no one was looking squarely in her direction, she made her way through the door on her hands and knees. It was harder than she thought it would be—she still had a skillet and a poker to carry. Fred padded patiently behind her, apparently unaffected by the weight he carried and looking as if he wore quilted red vests every day of his life. She pulled the door to, so it would appear closed to any casual observers, then continued her awkward way over to that half wall that separated her from the open stable.

Morgan edged along until she found a vantage point—a place where a large knot in the rough wood had split and fallen away. Here she could see and still remain hidden. But she was not prepared for what she saw and clapped her hands over her mouth to keep from making a sound.

The light was coming directly from them —three tall, slender beings who were arguing with Rhys. They were breathtaking to look at, with fine, pale features and iridescent eyes that were blue one moment, then green, then violet. Shimmering white hair flowed over their shoulders, and their clothes were exquisitely made. There was no question who they were.

The Fair Ones.

Omigod.

As she watched, the sword-wielding fae fell to the floor. The unearthly shriek of the female fae was as sharp and violent as a flood bursting through plate glass windows. It hurt Morgan’s ears but wasn’t nearly as horrifying as the sight of a faery dagger appearing in Rhys’s shoulder.

As the female lunged for the wounded warrior, Morgan was over the wall. The male fae had glinting copper daggers in each shining white hand, ready to attack again if need be. Anger surged through Morgan’s system, coupled with stark fear for Rhys. Silently, she ran up behind the tall male and swung the iron skillet with all her strength. It smashed him in the back of the head and he fell to his knees. She drew the heavy pan back like a baseball bat, ready for another swing, but the luminous being swayed and fell forward onto his face. Morgan didn’t know if he was unconscious or dead—she’d never hit anyone before, much less a fae—and the surprise made her hesitate for a split second.

Fred didn’t hesitate, however. He leapt onto her back, knocking her flat just as a pair of copper daggers struck the stable door above them. The dog’s momentum sent the red vest sliding off with a heavy clunk. Morgan jumped up into a crouch with one of the bookends cradled in her hand like a shot put. It was another middle school event in which she’d never excelled, but fury and adrenaline were giving her a massive boost—and the mocking fae was less than twenty feet away. The otherworldly creature was looking right at her, however, and Morgan automatically felt at her throat. Ranyon’s charm was gone, twine and all. It had probably fallen off after she crossed the yard. Great, just great.

“You’re far too late, useless mortal,” laughed the fae. “I’ve already changed him.”

The writhing form at the faery’s feet slowly blackened with an eruption of glossy fur even as his limbs flailed and altered before Morgan’s eyes. “No!” she screamed and threw the kitten-shaped bookend with all her strength. Her aim was true enough—but the female simply sidestepped it, and the iron thudded dully to the floor alongside the black shape that lay upon the wooden floor. The dog’s sides heaved hard as if from immense exertion, but otherwise, the massive canine didn’t move. His familiar golden eyes were open but unfocused.