FIC: Gathering Gloom, 7/16
Title: Gathering Gloom
Author: houses
Email: houses7177@gmail.com
Universes: Tir Alainn and Merry Gentry
Characters: Morag
Pairings: Morag/Sholto, Meredith/everyone else. No, I’m not kidding.
Narration: Morag, Merry, Taranis, Usna, Sholto
Rating: PG-13
Timeline: Post Tir Alainn trilogy, Post book 4 MG. Disclaimers: Tir Alainn belongs to Anne Bishop, Merry Gentry belongs to Laurel K Hamilton
Summary: Taranis uses forbidden magic to call an assassin he believes will finally settle his Maeve Reed problem. Only thing is, said assassin has a mind of her own and isn’t particularly pleased to be back from the dead.
Act One: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6
Act Two:
Outside was bright after the dark of the sithen and Morag squeezed her eyes closed. She felt the sun on her neck, warming after the cold of the stone, and sighed, tension draining from her shoulders. She spent most of her time before Taranis pulled her into this world away from the magical landscape of Tir Alainn in the sunshine of the human world, and she missed that warmth when she was in faerie, any faerie. This version of faerie was little different, surrounded by dying stone and tamed moonlight instead of the fading, withering world of Tir Alainn.
Not that these versions of faerie and the human world were similar to her prior life in any way. Some small part of her was convinced she had landed in what was surely the Firey Pits. If she believed in that sort of thing, the nonsense that the Witch’s Hammer and the rest of the Inquisitors had been espousing, she would have been convinced she was in hell ruled over by demented monarchs of fire and air. It turned out that hell’s real name was ‘somewhere outside of St. Louis in the state of Misery in the country of the United States of America’.
Who named their lands Misery?
Princess Meredith’s entourage moved down the snowy lane with wary ease, through a double row of large trees, and out to a stone-lined path. Usna had told her that they would have to walk to their transportation since transports weren’t allowed near the mounds. Morag relished the sunlight on her skin and breathed the crisp, frost tinged air deeply, wondering what would happen when she finally arrived at Maeve’s estate.
Maeve. The target. The way out of this half-life. Not that Morag had a clue what to do in this new world, but she would at least be free to make that decision on her own. She had skills, after all: she could hunt, she could dance, she had even learned which shoots were grass and which were peas in the garden. She could survive.
It’s what she did.
And once the obligation to Taranis was lifted, she could answer the Calls and Gather here. It was a stark future, but she didn’t mind. She walked alone even now, when the fae around her had no inkling of her true calling; she was used to it. In fact, she would have said whatever it took to find some peace and solitude during her first night alive again. The magic of these strange fae had crawled over her skin like biting flies. In her exhaustion, she would have agreed to table dancing naked in a human tavern to be allowed to rest. To agree to help the princess…well, that was a small sacrifice. Morag’s suspicions as to what fate her refusal would have condemned her to were confirmed the next day with Andais’s arrival. Cruelty appeared to be the coin of this new realm, too.
Besides, she was almost always alone in her last life if she was away from her sister, Morphia; she had learned that to be alone was not necessarily to be lonely. The birds in the forest were good company, and didn’t care that she could read their future deaths like poetry scratched on parchment. The fear and harsh words of the fae she had come in contact with in her own world were proof enough that one could be very lonely indeed when surrounded by the wrong sort, fae or human. Meredith was kind, in her own way, and Usna had been helpful, but the only person who had treated her like an ordinary creature was Sholto.
He was a different soul; one to whom she could relate. He wore sadness and distance around his shoulders like a cloak, but there was strength there. He waited for Meredith’s entourage at something called an “airport”, and Morag looked forward to seeing him again. Maybe when this was all over, she could talk to him about how to live in this new world as he did. Adaptation was key, and to adapt she had to play her cards close to her chest.
Around her, Morag heard the other fae talking, joking about who had to clean windows or vacuum the carpet, whatever that meant. Casual banter overlay the tension all of the guards felt. The rules here were different, there was no doubt, and the Princess played a dangerous game. All of this was pretense at normalcy, but even Morag could tell their potential happiness was only an illusion deep.
Pity. Some of them seemed like good people, for fae.
She shook the snow from her boots and sighed. A voice beside her chuckled. “Snow not your thing?”
She turned to see Usna walking a few steps behind, a smirk on his face. She answered, “It has been a while since I have walked in snow. It clings and crunches. I had forgotten.”
“It’s also cold. If you ask me, Los Angeles sounds like a good idea. Warm sun, beaches, and best of all, no snow.” He shook himself like a cat ruffling his fur, and winked.
“Have you been there before, to this ‘Los Angeles’?” she asked, scuffing up a puff of snowfall with her toe.
“No, but I’ve heard the other guards talk. Galen and Nicca love it there; they spoke of great gardens and glass towers. They would focus on the gardens first,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I know Meredith likes it there, and Doyle finds Maeve’s place defensible, so that’s all I need to know. Though, with this many new guards and Maeve’s family growing, we’re going to have to find our own estate.”
The hairs on Morag’s neck stood up at the mention of Maeve’s name, but when Usna mentioned a growing family, Morag though her heart would stop. “What did you say about Maeve’s family?”
Her voice sounded strange, cold and distant as the long dead. She knew Usna must have heard it too because he stopped and touched her arm. “You knew Maeve was expecting a baby, didn’t you? It’s been all the gossip in the Sithen.”
Mute, Morag could only stare. She felt Usna’s fingers on her arm like shackles and briefly closed her eyes. “No, no one mentioned it.” She paused for a few breaths, each one threatening to strangle her voice, until finally she could manage, “Why would they?”
“Are you okay? You look a little…” he trailed off, an inscrutable look on his pointed face.
With a monumental effort, Morag wrenched herself away from him and started walking again. She swirled her cloak tighter around her shoulders with a faint, “I’m fine.”
She must have been somewhat convincing because Usna did not try to touch her again. Morag was glad. She could feel Tarranis’ geas pulling at her, twisting her to its whim, and it made her ill.
A child.
It could not be. Maeve could not be pregnant. It could not be so! That Morag was bound to destroy not Maeve, but the woman’s unborn child? Morag was a rare Gatherer who had done everything in her power to preserve life so she would not have to escort one more broken child to the Summerlands. She had despaired of ever having a child of her own, never to touch the precious spark of life that balanced out her terrible gift.
Well, Morag wasn’t the most powerful Gatherer in recent history for naught. She’d staved off the starving transformation into a Nighthunter. She could find a way out of this. Maeve must die, but only Maeve. Perhaps there was another way.
Her steps increasingly resolute, Morag strode forward, oblivious to Usna’s wary gaze. The walk was over before she expected it to be, ending at a collection of long, metal boxes that smelled of burning and unclean things. She paused, her hands loose at her sides. None of the other guards seemed alarmed; in fact, some of them were opening the boxes and placing objects inside.
“What are those?” she wondered aloud, walking forward to lay a gloved palm on a smooth surface.
“Automobiles, cars, like carriages without horses.”
Morag jumped, for it was not Usna that addressed her, but the white-haired guard named Rhys. He smiled at her, the corners of his blue eye wrinkling. The other eye was covered by a fancy beaded eye-patch, and Morag wondered what had happened to cause him such injury.
“How can they move if there are no horses?” she said, walking around to the end where a large hatch had opened up. Usna and Adair were loading some of the bags into the empty space within, carefully wedging them so they would not move.
“There’s something called a motor, here, under the hood.” Rhys waved her back to the front of the box, gesturing under what she supposed was the ‘hood’. There was a veritable sea of gears and tubes, wires and plugs.
“It’s obscene to look inside its belly this way, isn’t it?” she asked, poking at a wire. “Like seeing the guts of a man spilled in battle.”
Rhys laughed, “I guess. Humans in this world decided they didn’t like walking or riding horses, so they got clever. Made fires that burned inside this motor, and voila, travel is much faster.”
Morag looked around at the bustle and activity and said, “But what of the Shining Roads? Don’t you just travel from point to point in faerie? It’s much faster than traveling the wagon roads of the humans.”
“The which? Shining Roads?”
“Yes, between the realms of the fae,” she trailed off, realizing for the first time that this version of faerie appeared to consist solely of underground mounds of temperamental stone rather than floating on the magic of a clouded past. “You do not have your own retreats in the air?”
“Not for many years, my lady,” rumbled the blue-tinged giant, Barinthus. He had joined them to oversee the loading of the last automobile. He stood beside Rhys and gave her a careful look.
Morag had to fight flushing red in embarrassment. It was difficult to know what was the same and what was different in this new world of the fae. For one, they called themselves sidhe, not fae. Not to mention the idea of royalty and courts. Morag hadn’t even considered that they might have lost the Shining Roads to Tir Alainn.
Rhys touched the back of her hand gently. “We know it’s different now, that many things have changed. Do not feel embarrassed because you are not used to the way things are now.”
“Many of us would give much to be able to remember how powerful we used to be,” said Barinthus, his face sad. “You are a reminder to them of happier times, when we were full of glory, not exiled and living on the kindness of humans. We bound ourselves to survive, but we have tried to forget what we used to be. The pain is easier to bear when you do not dwell on what was.”
“Come,” said Usna, holding the door to the strange automobile for her. “Join us for a ride? Rhys is driving, since he’s one of the few of us who know how to operate these things, and Adair will be joining us. Most sidhe don’t travel out into the human world often and very few know how to operate the modern conveniences, even cars. Don’t be intimidated. Even though we all look like we know what we’re doing. The first time Adair sees a vacuum cleaner, he’s going to wet himself in fear.”
Adair threw a glove at Usna as he slid into the front seat with a laugh. “Don’t you worry, kitty cat, you’ll be the one cleaning the windows. Just you wait.” Adair started at the laugh, as if he’d forgotten how, and settled back with a half-smile. Morag wondered why such a small thing as a laugh should be so surprising.
Grateful for the distraction, Morag climbed in as Usna shut the door behind her and moved to the other side of the car. She felt the smooth leather of the seats, the shiny silver of the door handle, the absolute clarity of the window. Humans must have come far indeed to have made glass this perfectly clear.
She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t realize that the car was moving until she felt the thrum under the hood, and the trees outside lurched backwards.
“Oh!” She exclaimed, smushing her face against the glass. “It’s so smooth! Not at all like horseback, or even the finest carriage.”
She felt Rhys’s blue eye on her through the small mirror attached to the front glass. “I realized this is incredibly forthright of me, but do I know you from somewhere? You feel awfully familiar.”
“Hmm?” Morag tore herself away from the scenery flashing by the window. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Rhys shook his head, curls tumbling over the back of his seat. “I just have this feeling that I know you from somewhere, another life, I guess.”
Morag blinked at him, watching his hands on the wheel that must make the car move. She wondered if she should tell him that she knew what he dreamed of at night, that the deaths he wore like funeral shrouds clung to her when she got too near. She wondered what he would say if she told him his death waited nearby, always watching, but afraid to come forward; he would live as long as he chose and did not despair. She wondered if he would think her mad, or ask her what the other side was like, or refuse to speak to her ever again, turning away as so many had.
She forced her head to shake, and said, “No, I don’t believe we’ve met, in this life or any other.”
Rhys flicked another glance her way, then focused on the road ahead. Adair and Usna had kept up their banter about house work and Morag listened with half an ear as they drove down the road. Even the roads were smooth, black swathes of solid ink that the car moved over nearly silently. It was a surreal experience, like a dream made of metal and fire.
All too soon, it was over, and the cars carrying Meredith’s entourage lined up neatly on a broad stretch of what appeared to be the road material near a cluster of small buildings behind a fence. Morag exited the car and knelt to touch the road. It smelled of ship’s tar and felt like gravel.
She glanced up when a pair of booted feet stopped right in front of her. “Might I offer you a hand?”
She looked up to see Sholto extending a hand downward, and beyond him two of the other guards looking at her like she’d grown horns and a tail. She accepted his hand with as much grace as she could muster.
With a wave toward the ground, she managed a smile. “What is this made of? It’s so smooth, and the car seemed to float.”
“It is called asphalt, and if you thought the car floated, you will enjoy the airplane.” He tucked her hand around his arm and led her after the other guards toward a giant metal thing. As she tightened her fingers around his arm, she thought she felt something brush her wrist, but when she looked closer, nothing was there.
The metal object was huge, many times larger than the automobiles, with strange protrusions on each side.
“What is it for?” she asked, stopping to look up at its bulk.
“It will fly you to Los Angeles,” he said, “Think of it as a car with wings for flying, with much more room.”
Morag raised an eyebrow and laughed, “That thing flies? Like a bird? It’s so stiff, and hard. Do all fae travel in metal objects now?”
“Not all fey. Some of us have…other means,” Sholto looked uncomfortable as they walked around to a ramp leading up into the airplane.
Morag’s hand was still wrapped around his forearm so she could feel his tension rise as they approached Doyle and the other guards at the bottom of the stairway. She had interacted very little with Doyle, and while he seemed honorable, she had no interest in making herself any more obvious than she needed to be. He felt like a predator, and the small part of her that was always in touch with her wild form fidgeted as they drew closer.
“Sholto,” Doyle nodded. “We are almost all loaded and appreciate you coordinating security on this end. Are your people in place in Los Angeles?”
“Yes. They’ll do what’s needed to keep the Princess and her people safe.” Sholto’s voice sounded brittle, like he was holding the pieces together with thread.
Doyle nodded then looked at Morag. “My lady, are you ready to board? We’ll be taking off in a few minutes.”
Morag nodded and turned to Sholto. “Thank you. I’m glad…” she paused, “I’m glad you were here to see us off.”
His gold eyes looked down at her, strangely natural in that pale face with hair the color of snow on the ground. He wasn’t as brightly colored as some of the other sidhe, with their hair of blue and skin of green, but something about him took her breath away. He raised her hand to his lips and barely brushed the back of her glove. She could feel the warmth of his breath through the fabric. “I trust you’ll fly safely under Doyle’s care.”
Morag suppressed a snort and said, “Yes, I probably will.”
The taller sidhe glanced up the ramp and let go of her hand. “Good luck in your new life, lady Morag. May it be more peaceful than your last.”
Morag flinched and gathered her cloak to climb the stairs. She said, softly, “I would wish it so, King Sholto, but wishes have a funny way of working out.”
Part 8
Author: houses
Email: houses7177@gmail.com
Universes: Tir Alainn and Merry Gentry
Characters: Morag
Pairings: Morag/Sholto, Meredith/everyone else. No, I’m not kidding.
Narration: Morag, Merry, Taranis, Usna, Sholto
Rating: PG-13
Timeline: Post Tir Alainn trilogy, Post book 4 MG. Disclaimers: Tir Alainn belongs to Anne Bishop, Merry Gentry belongs to Laurel K Hamilton
Summary: Taranis uses forbidden magic to call an assassin he believes will finally settle his Maeve Reed problem. Only thing is, said assassin has a mind of her own and isn’t particularly pleased to be back from the dead.
Act One: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6
Act Two:
Outside was bright after the dark of the sithen and Morag squeezed her eyes closed. She felt the sun on her neck, warming after the cold of the stone, and sighed, tension draining from her shoulders. She spent most of her time before Taranis pulled her into this world away from the magical landscape of Tir Alainn in the sunshine of the human world, and she missed that warmth when she was in faerie, any faerie. This version of faerie was little different, surrounded by dying stone and tamed moonlight instead of the fading, withering world of Tir Alainn.
Not that these versions of faerie and the human world were similar to her prior life in any way. Some small part of her was convinced she had landed in what was surely the Firey Pits. If she believed in that sort of thing, the nonsense that the Witch’s Hammer and the rest of the Inquisitors had been espousing, she would have been convinced she was in hell ruled over by demented monarchs of fire and air. It turned out that hell’s real name was ‘somewhere outside of St. Louis in the state of Misery in the country of the United States of America’.
Who named their lands Misery?
Princess Meredith’s entourage moved down the snowy lane with wary ease, through a double row of large trees, and out to a stone-lined path. Usna had told her that they would have to walk to their transportation since transports weren’t allowed near the mounds. Morag relished the sunlight on her skin and breathed the crisp, frost tinged air deeply, wondering what would happen when she finally arrived at Maeve’s estate.
Maeve. The target. The way out of this half-life. Not that Morag had a clue what to do in this new world, but she would at least be free to make that decision on her own. She had skills, after all: she could hunt, she could dance, she had even learned which shoots were grass and which were peas in the garden. She could survive.
It’s what she did.
And once the obligation to Taranis was lifted, she could answer the Calls and Gather here. It was a stark future, but she didn’t mind. She walked alone even now, when the fae around her had no inkling of her true calling; she was used to it. In fact, she would have said whatever it took to find some peace and solitude during her first night alive again. The magic of these strange fae had crawled over her skin like biting flies. In her exhaustion, she would have agreed to table dancing naked in a human tavern to be allowed to rest. To agree to help the princess…well, that was a small sacrifice. Morag’s suspicions as to what fate her refusal would have condemned her to were confirmed the next day with Andais’s arrival. Cruelty appeared to be the coin of this new realm, too.
Besides, she was almost always alone in her last life if she was away from her sister, Morphia; she had learned that to be alone was not necessarily to be lonely. The birds in the forest were good company, and didn’t care that she could read their future deaths like poetry scratched on parchment. The fear and harsh words of the fae she had come in contact with in her own world were proof enough that one could be very lonely indeed when surrounded by the wrong sort, fae or human. Meredith was kind, in her own way, and Usna had been helpful, but the only person who had treated her like an ordinary creature was Sholto.
He was a different soul; one to whom she could relate. He wore sadness and distance around his shoulders like a cloak, but there was strength there. He waited for Meredith’s entourage at something called an “airport”, and Morag looked forward to seeing him again. Maybe when this was all over, she could talk to him about how to live in this new world as he did. Adaptation was key, and to adapt she had to play her cards close to her chest.
Around her, Morag heard the other fae talking, joking about who had to clean windows or vacuum the carpet, whatever that meant. Casual banter overlay the tension all of the guards felt. The rules here were different, there was no doubt, and the Princess played a dangerous game. All of this was pretense at normalcy, but even Morag could tell their potential happiness was only an illusion deep.
Pity. Some of them seemed like good people, for fae.
She shook the snow from her boots and sighed. A voice beside her chuckled. “Snow not your thing?”
She turned to see Usna walking a few steps behind, a smirk on his face. She answered, “It has been a while since I have walked in snow. It clings and crunches. I had forgotten.”
“It’s also cold. If you ask me, Los Angeles sounds like a good idea. Warm sun, beaches, and best of all, no snow.” He shook himself like a cat ruffling his fur, and winked.
“Have you been there before, to this ‘Los Angeles’?” she asked, scuffing up a puff of snowfall with her toe.
“No, but I’ve heard the other guards talk. Galen and Nicca love it there; they spoke of great gardens and glass towers. They would focus on the gardens first,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I know Meredith likes it there, and Doyle finds Maeve’s place defensible, so that’s all I need to know. Though, with this many new guards and Maeve’s family growing, we’re going to have to find our own estate.”
The hairs on Morag’s neck stood up at the mention of Maeve’s name, but when Usna mentioned a growing family, Morag though her heart would stop. “What did you say about Maeve’s family?”
Her voice sounded strange, cold and distant as the long dead. She knew Usna must have heard it too because he stopped and touched her arm. “You knew Maeve was expecting a baby, didn’t you? It’s been all the gossip in the Sithen.”
Mute, Morag could only stare. She felt Usna’s fingers on her arm like shackles and briefly closed her eyes. “No, no one mentioned it.” She paused for a few breaths, each one threatening to strangle her voice, until finally she could manage, “Why would they?”
“Are you okay? You look a little…” he trailed off, an inscrutable look on his pointed face.
With a monumental effort, Morag wrenched herself away from him and started walking again. She swirled her cloak tighter around her shoulders with a faint, “I’m fine.”
She must have been somewhat convincing because Usna did not try to touch her again. Morag was glad. She could feel Tarranis’ geas pulling at her, twisting her to its whim, and it made her ill.
A child.
It could not be. Maeve could not be pregnant. It could not be so! That Morag was bound to destroy not Maeve, but the woman’s unborn child? Morag was a rare Gatherer who had done everything in her power to preserve life so she would not have to escort one more broken child to the Summerlands. She had despaired of ever having a child of her own, never to touch the precious spark of life that balanced out her terrible gift.
Well, Morag wasn’t the most powerful Gatherer in recent history for naught. She’d staved off the starving transformation into a Nighthunter. She could find a way out of this. Maeve must die, but only Maeve. Perhaps there was another way.
Her steps increasingly resolute, Morag strode forward, oblivious to Usna’s wary gaze. The walk was over before she expected it to be, ending at a collection of long, metal boxes that smelled of burning and unclean things. She paused, her hands loose at her sides. None of the other guards seemed alarmed; in fact, some of them were opening the boxes and placing objects inside.
“What are those?” she wondered aloud, walking forward to lay a gloved palm on a smooth surface.
“Automobiles, cars, like carriages without horses.”
Morag jumped, for it was not Usna that addressed her, but the white-haired guard named Rhys. He smiled at her, the corners of his blue eye wrinkling. The other eye was covered by a fancy beaded eye-patch, and Morag wondered what had happened to cause him such injury.
“How can they move if there are no horses?” she said, walking around to the end where a large hatch had opened up. Usna and Adair were loading some of the bags into the empty space within, carefully wedging them so they would not move.
“There’s something called a motor, here, under the hood.” Rhys waved her back to the front of the box, gesturing under what she supposed was the ‘hood’. There was a veritable sea of gears and tubes, wires and plugs.
“It’s obscene to look inside its belly this way, isn’t it?” she asked, poking at a wire. “Like seeing the guts of a man spilled in battle.”
Rhys laughed, “I guess. Humans in this world decided they didn’t like walking or riding horses, so they got clever. Made fires that burned inside this motor, and voila, travel is much faster.”
Morag looked around at the bustle and activity and said, “But what of the Shining Roads? Don’t you just travel from point to point in faerie? It’s much faster than traveling the wagon roads of the humans.”
“The which? Shining Roads?”
“Yes, between the realms of the fae,” she trailed off, realizing for the first time that this version of faerie appeared to consist solely of underground mounds of temperamental stone rather than floating on the magic of a clouded past. “You do not have your own retreats in the air?”
“Not for many years, my lady,” rumbled the blue-tinged giant, Barinthus. He had joined them to oversee the loading of the last automobile. He stood beside Rhys and gave her a careful look.
Morag had to fight flushing red in embarrassment. It was difficult to know what was the same and what was different in this new world of the fae. For one, they called themselves sidhe, not fae. Not to mention the idea of royalty and courts. Morag hadn’t even considered that they might have lost the Shining Roads to Tir Alainn.
Rhys touched the back of her hand gently. “We know it’s different now, that many things have changed. Do not feel embarrassed because you are not used to the way things are now.”
“Many of us would give much to be able to remember how powerful we used to be,” said Barinthus, his face sad. “You are a reminder to them of happier times, when we were full of glory, not exiled and living on the kindness of humans. We bound ourselves to survive, but we have tried to forget what we used to be. The pain is easier to bear when you do not dwell on what was.”
“Come,” said Usna, holding the door to the strange automobile for her. “Join us for a ride? Rhys is driving, since he’s one of the few of us who know how to operate these things, and Adair will be joining us. Most sidhe don’t travel out into the human world often and very few know how to operate the modern conveniences, even cars. Don’t be intimidated. Even though we all look like we know what we’re doing. The first time Adair sees a vacuum cleaner, he’s going to wet himself in fear.”
Adair threw a glove at Usna as he slid into the front seat with a laugh. “Don’t you worry, kitty cat, you’ll be the one cleaning the windows. Just you wait.” Adair started at the laugh, as if he’d forgotten how, and settled back with a half-smile. Morag wondered why such a small thing as a laugh should be so surprising.
Grateful for the distraction, Morag climbed in as Usna shut the door behind her and moved to the other side of the car. She felt the smooth leather of the seats, the shiny silver of the door handle, the absolute clarity of the window. Humans must have come far indeed to have made glass this perfectly clear.
She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t realize that the car was moving until she felt the thrum under the hood, and the trees outside lurched backwards.
“Oh!” She exclaimed, smushing her face against the glass. “It’s so smooth! Not at all like horseback, or even the finest carriage.”
She felt Rhys’s blue eye on her through the small mirror attached to the front glass. “I realized this is incredibly forthright of me, but do I know you from somewhere? You feel awfully familiar.”
“Hmm?” Morag tore herself away from the scenery flashing by the window. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Rhys shook his head, curls tumbling over the back of his seat. “I just have this feeling that I know you from somewhere, another life, I guess.”
Morag blinked at him, watching his hands on the wheel that must make the car move. She wondered if she should tell him that she knew what he dreamed of at night, that the deaths he wore like funeral shrouds clung to her when she got too near. She wondered what he would say if she told him his death waited nearby, always watching, but afraid to come forward; he would live as long as he chose and did not despair. She wondered if he would think her mad, or ask her what the other side was like, or refuse to speak to her ever again, turning away as so many had.
She forced her head to shake, and said, “No, I don’t believe we’ve met, in this life or any other.”
Rhys flicked another glance her way, then focused on the road ahead. Adair and Usna had kept up their banter about house work and Morag listened with half an ear as they drove down the road. Even the roads were smooth, black swathes of solid ink that the car moved over nearly silently. It was a surreal experience, like a dream made of metal and fire.
All too soon, it was over, and the cars carrying Meredith’s entourage lined up neatly on a broad stretch of what appeared to be the road material near a cluster of small buildings behind a fence. Morag exited the car and knelt to touch the road. It smelled of ship’s tar and felt like gravel.
She glanced up when a pair of booted feet stopped right in front of her. “Might I offer you a hand?”
She looked up to see Sholto extending a hand downward, and beyond him two of the other guards looking at her like she’d grown horns and a tail. She accepted his hand with as much grace as she could muster.
With a wave toward the ground, she managed a smile. “What is this made of? It’s so smooth, and the car seemed to float.”
“It is called asphalt, and if you thought the car floated, you will enjoy the airplane.” He tucked her hand around his arm and led her after the other guards toward a giant metal thing. As she tightened her fingers around his arm, she thought she felt something brush her wrist, but when she looked closer, nothing was there.
The metal object was huge, many times larger than the automobiles, with strange protrusions on each side.
“What is it for?” she asked, stopping to look up at its bulk.
“It will fly you to Los Angeles,” he said, “Think of it as a car with wings for flying, with much more room.”
Morag raised an eyebrow and laughed, “That thing flies? Like a bird? It’s so stiff, and hard. Do all fae travel in metal objects now?”
“Not all fey. Some of us have…other means,” Sholto looked uncomfortable as they walked around to a ramp leading up into the airplane.
Morag’s hand was still wrapped around his forearm so she could feel his tension rise as they approached Doyle and the other guards at the bottom of the stairway. She had interacted very little with Doyle, and while he seemed honorable, she had no interest in making herself any more obvious than she needed to be. He felt like a predator, and the small part of her that was always in touch with her wild form fidgeted as they drew closer.
“Sholto,” Doyle nodded. “We are almost all loaded and appreciate you coordinating security on this end. Are your people in place in Los Angeles?”
“Yes. They’ll do what’s needed to keep the Princess and her people safe.” Sholto’s voice sounded brittle, like he was holding the pieces together with thread.
Doyle nodded then looked at Morag. “My lady, are you ready to board? We’ll be taking off in a few minutes.”
Morag nodded and turned to Sholto. “Thank you. I’m glad…” she paused, “I’m glad you were here to see us off.”
His gold eyes looked down at her, strangely natural in that pale face with hair the color of snow on the ground. He wasn’t as brightly colored as some of the other sidhe, with their hair of blue and skin of green, but something about him took her breath away. He raised her hand to his lips and barely brushed the back of her glove. She could feel the warmth of his breath through the fabric. “I trust you’ll fly safely under Doyle’s care.”
Morag suppressed a snort and said, “Yes, I probably will.”
The taller sidhe glanced up the ramp and let go of her hand. “Good luck in your new life, lady Morag. May it be more peaceful than your last.”
Morag flinched and gathered her cloak to climb the stairs. She said, softly, “I would wish it so, King Sholto, but wishes have a funny way of working out.”
Part 8