Jack, the giant-killer (4 page)

That brought a frown. She brushed the short stubble with her fingers. She wished Will had kept his opinions to himself.

Still fingering the cap, she stretched it between her hands, wondering if it would fit. It would hide the ruin of her hair. She put it on, then blinked. A quick sensation of vertigo almost made her lose her balance. When she recovered, the night had changed on her again.

The otherworldly feeling was back. The silence. The cat-soft sense of something waiting. She turned to look at the empty house and saw him again, the watcher, standing at his window, studying the night, looking at her, beyond her. She turned to look out at the park where he was looking.

It had either grown lighter, or her night vision was sharper tonight. She could see straight into the heavy shadows under the trees by the river, see the splayed branches, each leaf and each bough, and there… She sucked in a quick breath. Sitting silent on his Harley was one of last night’s riders—a black figure on his black and chrome machine, a shadow watching her as well.

There was a connection between the riders and the man in the house. She knew that now. She didn’t quite dare approach the rider—last night’s wild plunge from her hiding place had been an act of bravado that she wasn’t prepared to repeat sober—but the watcher in the house might not be beyond her. She could call to him, talk to him through the windows. She started to push her way through the low cedar hedge.

“Hssst!”

She turned quickly, looking left and right. Nothing. A pinprick of fear snuck up her spine. Before she could move again, a low voice sounded almost in her ear.

“Don’t be so quick to visit the Gruagagh of Kinrowan— there’s some say he owes as much loyalty to the Unseelie Court as he does to his own Laird.”

This time she looked up. There was a small man perched in the branches of an oak tree that grew on the border of the park and the back yard of the watcher’s house. She could see him very clearly, his blue jacket and the red cap on his head like the one she was wearing. He had a grim sort of face, a craggy expanse between his beard and cap, nose like a hawk, quick feral eyes.

“Who…?” she began, but her throat was too dry and the word came out as a croak.

“Dunrobin Finn’s a name I’ll answer to. Here. Take my hand.” He reached down a gnarled hand, veins pronounced, the knuckles knobbly.

Jacky hesitated.

“Quick now,” Finn said. “Or do you want to be the Big Man’s supper?” He pointed in the direction of the rider as he spoke.

“Do…do you mean the biker?” Jacky managed.

Finn laughed mirthlessly. Before Jacky knew what he was up to, he was down on the ground beside her. He hoisted her up under one arm and scrambled back up the tree. She was shocked at his speed and his strength, and clung desperately to the trunk of the tree when he set her on a perch, her legs dangling below her. It was a long way down.

“That one,” Finn said, “is one of the Wild Hunt, and you don’t have to be afraid of them until all nine are gathered.” He pointed again. “There’s the Big Man—

Gyre the Younger.”

Jacky’s gaze followed his finger and she drew in a sharp breath. Standing with his back to them, facing the river, was a man who had to be at least eighteen feet tall. He was close to the trees that rimmed the riverbank and she’d taken his legs for tree trunks, never looking higher. Dizzy now, she clung harder to the tree she was in.

“Where… where are we, Dunrobin?” she asked. It still looked like Windsor Park, but with giants and little gnome men in trees, it had to be a Windsor Park in an Ottawa that wasn’t her own.

“Dunrobin’s my clan name—it’s Finn you should be calling me. That’s the way we hobs pair our names—at least our speaking names. And this is still your own world. You’re just seeing it through different eyes, seeing how you’re wearing a hob’s spellcap and all.”

“It doesn’t feel like my world anymore,” Jacky said slowly.

“There
are
Otherworlds,” Finn said, “but they’re not for the likes of us. We’re newcomers, you know. The Other-worlds belong to those whose land this was before we came— same as our own Middle Kingdom in the homeland belongs to us. Now that cap you’re wearing—it belonged to Redfairn Tom. I know him, for he’s a cousin, on my father’s side. Where did you get it?”

“I…”

She didn’t know what to say. What she’d seen two nights ago… If she’d tried telling anyone about it, they’d have looked at her like she wasn’t playing with a full deck. But this little man… He’d believe. The problem was, she wasn’t all that sure that he was real himself. God, it was confusing.

“Give me your jacket while you’re telling the tale.”

She looked at him. “What?”

“Your jacket. I’ll stitch a spell or two into it while we’re talking. Walking around like you are, anybody can see you plain as day. The Host is strong now—

getting stronger every day. They see you wearing a hob’s redcap and they’ll just as soon spike you as ask you the time of day. Come, come. You’ve a shirt on, as I can plainly see, and it’s not so cold. Best give me your shoes while you’re at it.”

“Please,” Jacky said. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“Well, that’s plain to see, walking about in the Big Man’s shadow with never a care. Planning on calling in on Kinrowan’s wizard and not a charm on you but a redcap and while that’ll let you
see
, it won’t mean a damn if he decides to find out what sort of a toad you’d make—do you follow my meaning?”

“I… No. No, I don’t.”

“Well, what don’t you understand? And do give rne that jacket. All we need now is for the Big Man to turn around and see you sitting here, like a chicken in its roost, waiting for him to pluck it.”

“I don’t understand anything. This Kinrowan you’re talking about—my name’s Rowan, too.” She took off her jacket as she spoke, warily balancing herself on her branch, and passed it over.

“Is it now? That’s a lucky name, named for a lucky tree, red-berried and all. Red berry, amber and red thread—now that’s a charm that would stop even a bogan, you know. Do you have just the one speaking name?”

She shook her head. “It’s Jacqueline Elizabeth Rowan— but my friends just call me Jacky. What’s a speaking name?”

“They’re usually boys,” Finn said to himself.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He had just produced a needle and thread and was stitching a design on the inside of her jacket, the gnarled fingers moving deftly and quick. “A speaking name’s the one you’ll let others speak aloud, you know? As opposed to your real name that you keep hidden—the one that a gruagagh can use to make spells with.”

“I don’t have a secret name—just the one I told you.”

“Oh? Well, you best keep the rest of your name to yourself in future, Jacky Rowan. You never know who’s listening, if you get my meaning.” He looked up from his work and fixed her with a glare that, she supposed, was meant to convey his seriousness. What it did do was succeed in frightening her.

“I… I’ll remember that.”

“Good. Now let’s start again. The cap. Where did you get Tom’s cap?”

Watching him stitch, Jacky told him all that she’d seen— or thought she’d seen—two nights ago. Finn paused when she was done and shook his head.

“Oh, that’s bad,” he said. “That’s very bad. Poor Tom. He was a kind old hob and never a moment’s trouble. I didn’t know him well, but my brother used to gad about with him.” He sighed, then looked at her.

“and it’s bad for you, too, Jacky Rowan. They’ve marked you now.”

Jacky leaned forward and lost her balance. She would have tumbled to the ground if Finn hadn’t shot out a gnarled hand and plucked her from the air. He set her back down on her branch and gave her a quick grin that was more unhappy than cheerful. It did nothing to set her at ease.

“Who… who’s marked me?”

“The Host—the Unseelie Court, who else? Why do you think I’m talking to you, girl? Why do you think I’m helping you? I’d sooner take a crack in the head from a big stick before letting anyone fall into their clutches.”

“You’ve mentioned them before. Who or what are they?”

Finn tied off the last stitch on her jacket and passed it over. “Put this on first and give me your shoes.”

“What did you do to my jacket?” she asked.

“Stitched a hob spell into it. Now when you’re wearing it, mortals won’t see you at all, day or night, and neither will faerie, not the Laird’s folk, nor the Host.” He took her sneakers as she passed them to him, one by one, and went on. “Now the Laird’s folk—those who follow Kinrowan’s banner here—are sometimes called the Seelie Court. That comes from the old language, you know, and it means happy or blessed. But the Unseelie Court is made up of bogans and the sluagh—the restless dead—and other grim folk.

“We followed you here, followed your forefathers when they first came to these shores. Then we shared the land with the spirits who were here first, until they withdrew into their Otherworlds and left this world to us. We live in the cities mostly, close to men, for it’s said we depend on their belief to keep us hale. I don’t know how true that tale is, but time has played its mischief on us and we dwindle now—at least the Laird’s folk do—while those of the Unseelie Court—

oh, there’s scarce a day goes by that doesn’t strengthen them.”

“But I don’t know
anybody
who believes in any of you,” Jacky protested.

“Now, that’s where you’re wrong. There’s few that believe in the Laird’s folk, that’s too true, but the Host… I’ve seen the books you read, the movies you see. They speak of the undead and of every horror that ever served in Gyre the Elder’s Court. Your people might not say they believe when you ask them, but just their reading those books, watching those movies…

Jacky Rowan, every time they do, they strengthen our enemy and make us weak.

“We’re few and very few now, while the Host has never been stronger. They’re driving us from the cities and you’ve seen the Big Man yourself, just standing there, waiting for Kinrowan’s Gruagagh to fall, if he hasn’t already sold his soul to them. It’s a bad time for us, Jacky Rowan. And a bad time for you, too, for now they’ve marked you as well.”

“Marked me as what?” she asked.

“As one of us.”

He was stitching designs on the insides of her sneakers now, first one, then the other, reminding her of all the stories that her mother had read to her of fairy tailors and shoemakers.

“But I’m not one of you,” she said.

“Doesn’t make no differ—not to them.”

“Then the bikers… they’ll be after me?”

Finn shrugged. “I don’t know. These’ll help,” he added, holding up a sneaker. “I’m stitching swiftness into them. You’ll run so fast now that even a Big Man’ll have trouble catching you. But the Wild Hunt?

I don’t know. Not yet. But soon, perhaps.”

“They’re part of the Unseelie Court, too?”

“No. But Gyre the Elder has the Horn that

commands them, so when he bids them fetch, they fetch. When he bids them kill, they kill. They must obey the Horn.”

He was quiet then, concentrating on his work. Jacky peeked at the biker through the leaves, but she wouldn’t look at the bulk of the giant keeping silent watch on something across the river.

“There’s seven of those giants in this Unseelie Court,” Finn said suddenly, “and each one’s nastier than the one before. Just the two Gyres and Thundell are here now, but the rest are coming. They want the Gruagagh’s Tower first, for there’s power in it. And then they’ll want the Heart of Kinrowan. And then—

why then, they’ll have it all, Jacky Rowan. You and me and every seelie one of us there be, damn their stone hearts!”

“But can’t… can’t you stop them?”

“Me? What am I to do? Or any of the Laird’s folk?

We’re weak, Jacky Rowan—I told you that. We’re not strong enough to stop them anymore. Now we must just hide and watch and hope we can stay out of their way. Pray that they don’t find the Laird and spike his heart. But we don’t have much hope. The time of heroes is long gone now.

“But what about the Gruagagh?” she asked,

stumbling over the word.

“Well, now.” Finn finished the second of her sneakers and passed them over to her. “He’s a queer one, he is. A Kinrowan as well, on his mother’s side, but there’s not a one of us that trusts him now, and there’s nothing he can do anyway.”

“Why? What did he do?”

“No one knows for sure, but it’s said he turned the Laird’s daughter over to Gyre the Elder.”

“Did he?”

“I don’t know, Jacky Rowan. He was escorting her home to the Hill, just the two of them, you know, and the next thing we know, she’s gone and we find him on the road, hurt some, but not dead. Now you tell me: would they let him live if he wasn’t one of their own?”

“I…1 don’t know.”

“No one does.”

“What happened to the Laird’s daughter?” Jacky asked.

“No one knows that either. Some say Gyre the Elder ate her. Others say he’s got her locked away somewhere, but no one knows where. The Wild Hunt could find her, but Gyre the Elder’s got the Horn, so only he can command them.”

“You should get the Horn then,” Jacky said.

“Couldn’t the Gruagagh get it for you?”

“The Gruagagh can’t leave his Tower,” Finn said.

“That’s the only place he’s safe. And he must be protected for the way to the Laird is through him, you see.”

Jacky didn’t and said so.

“In peaceful times,” Finn replied, “the Gruagagh sees to the welfare of Kinrowan itself. He sits in his Tower, weaving and braiding the threads of luck that flow through the earth by the will of the Moon—ley lines. Do you know what I mean?”

“Vaguely. I mean, I’ve heard of leys before.”

“Yes. Well, his Tower… Think of it as a great loom that he uses to gather the luck we need, the luck that he weaves into the fabric of the realm. When there’s a snag or tear in the luck threads, it’s the Gruagagh who solves the problem, sometimes by a simple spell to untangle a knot in the thread, other times by directing the hobs and brownies of the Court to remove the obstruction. The luck gave us life and sustains us, you see, while the tides of your belief strengthens or weakens what we already are—at least that’s what I heard the Laird say once. He said that without the lines of luck, we would be wholly dependent upon your belief and soon gone from this world.