Storm Warned (The Grim Series) (29 page)

The sun was a flame-colored ball just a finger’s width from the horizon, and they’d traveled only partway along the road that wrapped two and a half times around the broad butte. That’s when Liam heard a fiddle. Ribbons of music carried through the air from the hilltop, winding through the air currents like streamers. He felt that if he just squinted hard enough he’d be able to actually
see
the perfect notes floating by. Only Caris’s incredible talent could have produced them—but they didn’t have the passion he remembered.

In fact, none of the tunes he was hearing had the stamp of emotional power—probably because they weren’t from her heart and soul but were being commanded and coerced.

Hope that slows down Prince Asshole’s plans.

Rounding a corner revealed two mounted fae guarding the halfway point, right in the center of the narrow road. Liam reined in Dodge and put a hand on the stock of the rifle—but the guards didn’t react at all. In fact, they looked bored.
What the hell?
While it wasn’t quite broad daylight anymore, Ranyon and Liam were right out in the open, and all the charms jangling like Santa’s sleigh bells.
Nothing.
It was like being a ghost. He hadn’t really believed in that whole spotted-animal magic stuff, but it was tough to argue with the evidence.
I owe the little guy an apology.

Liam looked around only to find that the
little guy
had left the road and was urging Harley straight up the side of the goddamn hill! Ranyon glanced back once, and beckoned him to follow, though it was impossibly steep and treacherous terrain for a horse.
He really
is
trying to be a gorilla.
“Whaddya think, Dodge?” he murmured. “He’s been right about everything else.” The stallion answered by simply following the goat and its rider without any hesitation. Liam quickly laid flat—well, as flat as the saddle pommel would allow—and wrapped his arms tight around Dodge’s muscular neck as the horse climbed at a gut-wrenching angle. Liam didn’t bother looking down. He already knew that what they were doing was absolutely physically impossible, and that if they fell, there’d be no hope for either of them. Instead, he made himself concentrate wholly on the music and on the woman he loved who was creating it.

And the need he had to save her. As long as there was breath in his body, he would
not
leave her in the hands of the fae. She’d suffered that cruel nightmare once already. Not again. Never again.

They came up on the paved road just below the summit. Above them was an ugly assortment of telecommunications equipment, microwave relay and transmission towers clustered on one side of the flat-topped butte. Liam dragged himself off Dodge, grateful to be on level ground. Ranyon dismounted as well, and together they climbed the rock behind the towers, made their way around the fence, and lay flat to look out over the top of the butte.

As a hilltop, it was unimpressive, a small plateau fringed with bushes and rocky outcroppings but otherwise barren. Directly in front of Liam, a paved parking lot stood ready to receive about twenty cars and buses. Thankfully there were no vehicles at the moment—no doubt due to the faery guards stationed at various points along the road. Instead, Liam counted about sixty horses clustered together, as close to the edge of the butte as they could possibly get. At their feet huddled a monstrous pack of the biggest, blackest dogs he had ever imagined. They could only be grims, the death dogs his friends had spoken of.
That Caris had been cursed to be one of . . .

But she hadn’t been this big. Some of the grims looked like oversize wolves, others like immense mastiffs. Immediately he thought of the war dogs spoken of in ancient Roman history—and yet these mighty canine specimens seemed not just subdued but fearful. Stranger still, both horses and dogs were motionless, as if cemented in place. Every one of them faced northeast, their eyes fixed on something at the other end of the—

Liam recoiled, staring in both wonder and horror. He would have sat up without thinking if Ranyon hadn’t yanked him back down into the dirt.

Suspended in the air was a gaping maw with glowing blue edges. Jay had described the Great Way as a rip in the fabric of reality, some kind of wormhole like in a science-fiction movie, but nothing prepared Liam for what such a thing would actually look like. The surreal phenomenon was round like the eclipse of a moon—or Alice’s rabbit hole. Within, however, was darkness so complete that even the dogs looked pale gray by comparison. Liam could swear he felt a punch to the stomach when he realized that the darkness was not the tunnel. Instead, a monstrous shadow appeared to move aside to reveal a shimmering passage of light beyond—and more nebulous shapes moving within it.

What the hell are those things
in there?

As if he’d heard him, Ranyon whispered. “Those are the Anghenfilod—monsters of the Inbetween.”

Liam clamped his teeth together rather than reply, because only curses would come out. He’d expected scary dogs and armed fae hunters and a big dick named Maelgwn in charge of it all.
No one mentioned honest-to-God monsters.
Maybe he should have stuck around for the queen’s planning meeting instead of charging off.
But I had to get to Caris.

He forced his gaze away from the gaping tear in the landscape to study the figures on the far side of the entrance of the tunnel—and noted with relief that the woman he loved was indeed there. As far as he could tell from a distance, she was okay, but it scared the hell out of him that she was standing so close to that hulking anomaly with goddamn monsters living in it.

Caris was still playing, swaying slightly in time to the music, but not dancing as she usually did. Maybe she was tired?
More likely she’s just holding back.
She wasn’t the type to cooperate one bit more than she absolutely had to, and she definitely wouldn’t put her heart and soul into this forced performance.

The prince’s followers, close to sixty strong, were as strangely motionless as their animals. Seated in a great half circle, they formed an impromptu stage for Maelgwn—and he was definitely putting on a show. Hands upraised, he chanted strange words in a loud voice. His wine-colored leathers had been covered with a golden robe, and his white hair hung in a long, thick braid behind him. Wisps of scented smoke curled up from some sort of squat bronze kettle at his feet.

“That idiot prince is trying to close the Great Way,” said Ranyon. “And he’s draining the magic from every fae creature on this hilltop to do it. Ya see how strange they are?”

No kidding.
Liam watched as a pair of ravens landed near one of the fae and plucked silver beads from her clothing. She continued to stare straight ahead, even when one of the birds yanked a shiny pendant from her throat. “Christ, that’s creepy,” he whispered. “They’re not dead, are they?”

“They’re alive fer now. But there’s not a one of the Tylwyth Teg that would volunteer to part with their powers, not even if Maelgwn promised them the earth itself. He’s tricked them fer certain, and he’ll kill them all if he’s not careful.”

Liam couldn’t help but flinch as Ranyon continued to speak in his normal tone of voice. Yet a quick glance at the grims, who should have been the first to hear, revealed no reaction at all. Only the occasional quivering of their flanks revealed them to be anything more than statues.
Definitely spooky.

“So if he’s sucking in power, will
you
be okay?”

The ellyll snorted. “I have a charm fer that, a’course! Besides, I’m thinkin’ the fool may have overreached himself—leaned too much on that fancy breastplate o’ bwgan stones that Rhedyn told us about. And counted on Caris’s music to make up the difference.”

“Let’s tip the scales a little further then.”

“Aye, it’s time,” said Ranyon. “The Way is beginning to close.”

The new king of Tir Hardd sucked in great lungfuls of air, yet it felt as if he wasn’t getting enough. The atmosphere of the mortal world wasn’t of the same purity as the fae realms, but it should have been adequate. It was the spell—the spell was exhausting him. So was the pain. The thirty-three bwgan stones were searing his skin to the point that he could smell it, and the silver breastplate that held them had heated accordingly. He wanted to claw the metal from him, peel it off before his skin became fused to it. But he wanted Tir Hardd more, and he fisted his hands until his nails made his
palms bleed. He let the blue drops fall into the brazier at his feet as he continued the chant. All he had to do was seal the Great Way, and he would have all the power he’d ever dreamed of, including the power to heal himself of terrible burns if need be.

The spell should be working by now. It
has
to be working.

He was close to completing the first recitation of the spell when the perfect roundness of the portal distorted, one side indenting the way a full moon wanes to a lesser one.
Finally!

Maelgwn redoubled his efforts even as he strained against the excruciating pain. He’d taken such care to create perfect conditions for the spell, particularly since it had never been tried on such a large way. The brazier at his feet contained great nuggets of pure amber from long-ago forests and the ground bones of dead bwganod, to facilitate and enhance magic. He’d ensured that he had more than his own powers to draw on too. His ambitious followers all thought they’d chosen him, but he’d been grooming each one of them for years, cultivating only the allegiance of those who possessed large natural wellsprings of magic—magic he was now using.

He
knew
he was performing the incantation correctly. He’d studied the bloodstained parchment every day since he’d first snatched it from the aged sorcerer’s broken fingers. Maelgwn had practiced the archaic language it was written in, and memorized not only every word but every nuance. The lengthy spell had to be recited perfectly three times—once to initiate the process, once to close the Way entirely, and once more to seal it for
all
time.

The music was wrong. That had to be it. Music should have eased the entire process. In fact, the mortal-spun melody should have caused things to happen far more quickly, should have delivered more power than everything Maelgwn was drawing from his followers and his breastplate combined. He finished the first recitation to the last syllable, then whirled to regard the small human woman playing the
ffidil.

TWENTY-SEVEN

C
aris swore she could feel her very bones chill as the prince suddenly turned his attention to her. His gaze seemed almost mad, his perfect features drawn tight as if in pain, and his breathing ragged and gasping. Still she made certain her bow never hesitated, that tunes were drawn from the strings of the instrument without ceasing—he must not suspect that the faery fiddle could not compel her. Silently she thanked Ranyon for the blue-stoned charm she wore around her neck, and she was doubly grateful that fae eyes could not perceive the pendant. She still had no idea how she was going to escape, however.

Meanwhile, the prince snarled at her like a feral animal. “You,” he hissed. “You’re playing like an ungifted student, when I know you have far superior talents.
I will have your passion, your heart!
Play like your life depends on it, like the lives of those you care about depend on it—because surely they do.”

“You generously gave me your royal word, good sir,” she said quietly, not wishing to incite him further, although the title of
good sir
tasted foul on her tongue. Truly, there was nothing good about him. Even Rhedyn, who knew the prince better than anyone, had admitted he was both ruthless and cruel, and ever had been. Like most of his followers, she had been foolishly drawn to his rapidly growing power, willing to endure his foul treatment of her in exchange for the elevated position it provided, and the chance to rise even further with him.

Maelgwn laughed at Caris. “Ah yes, that little
gift
to celebrate my coronation. You forget that your friends are protected only if they do not leave their dirty little farm—and you know they will not stay there forever. My men will be waiting to seize them and then I will have a gift for myself—their skins taken while they yet live.
All
of your friends, four-legged and two-legged”—he pointed at her—“and you will watch.”

Caris’s stomach lurched, but she dared not show any reaction. Nor did she dare interrupt the vibration of the strings beneath the press of her fingers and the glide of her bow.

“Animal skins are useful, of course,” he continued. “Human skin is another matter. It’s far too flimsy to be made into saddles or boots. Shall I have soft cushions covered with them? Perhaps make them into fine clothing?” His eyes narrowed. “You hold their fates in your hands. Play from your mortal heart,
now
.”

She couldn’t stall him any longer, could buy no more time. Caris slid skillfully from the song she’d been playing into “
Dacw ’Nghariad
.” It was an old Welsh folk song, a sweet lover’s tune, but she made it a bold anthem as she faced Maelgwn. He grunted in satisfaction as she poured her heart into the notes without further bidding. In her mind, she sang the words:

Away is my sweetheart, down in the orchard

Oh how I wish I could be there myself . . .

Here is my harp and here are my strings

Who am I without him to play my songs to?

She watched the prince take up his position before the brazier and begin chanting once again.
What am I going to do?
She knew her music was strengthening him and energizing his spell, the very thing she’d sought to avoid. When should she play the songs that Ranyon had so carefully taught her? He’d told her to wait until help reached her—but as yet, she saw no sign.

She allowed herself to dance a little as she played the song over again, thinking of Liam the entire time.
I’ll wait in the shade until my love comes . . .
Caris twirled near the stony lip of the plateau and bent low . . .

She was so astonished by what she saw, she nearly stopped playing. There was Liam himself, perched on a small rocky ledge on the steep hillside just below her—
with a fiddle in his hand
.

He grinned as Caris’s eyes widened in surprise. She brilliantly managed to render her tune without missing a beat, even as she risked a glance over her shoulder to where Maelgwn was shouting words at the Way in a language Liam didn’t recognize.

She looked back at Liam.
“
’Tis time for Ranyon’s songs. Can you follow me?” she whispered.

He nodded and tucked the fiddle beneath his jaw—and he could swear both heart and soul jerked as if electrified into life. There was no time to practice, no time to find out if he could still play. Everything he cared about was on the line. Knowing Caris had been the last one to touch the bow, he kissed it quick for luck. And hoped like hell that the ellyll knew what he was doing.

Liam’s own plan had been simple: bring his rifle to bear, take out Maelgwn, and whisk Caris off the summit with Dodge. The ellyll had had to explain twice over exactly why that would
not
work. Apparently fae princes weren’t that easy to get rid of with human weapons. In fact, even an Apache helicopter with laser-guided missiles might not do the job. So Liam had agreed to Ranyon’s scheme even though he didn’t understand it in the least. But the little guy hadn’t been wrong yet.

His back against the rocky hillside, Liam held the bow poised and waiting, ready to jump into whatever song Caris played next. He glanced down only once. It wasn’t a cliff, but it was the next thing to it—the steepest side of the entire hill. The good part was if he fell, he wouldn’t roll all the way to the bottom. The bad part? It would be a toss-up as to whether the jutting rocks would break his fall or the narrow strip of road even further below. Either way, it would definitely leave a mark . . .

There!
Caris had launched into something Celtic, and he listened intently for a moment, then drew the bow long over the strings, the sound strong and true. He followed her lead, every sense he possessed straining to hear, to anticipate. Caris fed him the notes, and he picked them up, scarcely a heartbeat behind her, his tune an underlying counterpoint to her song. By the second verse he was improvising, and by the third they took turns leading.

He could still hear Maelgwn’s voice, and it seemed to him there was a note of desperation in it. Was he already feeling the shift in the music, or was it the strain of the task he’d undertaken?
Just keep on chanting, asshole
, Liam thought. Ranyon had said that the words to a spell could not be interrupted. When it was done, however, all hell would surely break loose.

Lurien, his hunters, and every last Cŵn Annwn from his kennels, emerged onto a grassy slope. Like all the hills at this time of year, it was dried and golden, the color of a lion’s pelt. He scanned the tawny landscape until he spotted Steptoe Butte looming higher than the surrounding hills—and he cursed when he saw the glittering black tear hovering at the edge of its summit. How in Hades was he going to get there in time without a mount?

“Lord Lurien?” It was Trahern. “The hunters I left here, Emrys and Heulog—they’ve got something you’ll want to see.”

What else is wrong?
he wondered, but followed Trahern around the curve of the hillside. The men in question stood in a swale between the hills. And with them was a large herd of tall, heavily muscled creatures with great sweeping antlers. The humans called them elk.

For the first time since the attack on Gwenhidw, Lurien smiled. “It would seem that Arthfael himself is watching over us.” The king had always preferred his great gray stag, Hydd, to any fae horse.

“Collect the hounds and keep them silent,” he ordered. “Every man mount up and follow me. Don’t sound the horn until my signal.”

The twilight had faded to full dark, and the glowing rim of the Great Way was vivid against the night sky. The portal’s shape now resembled a half-moon—and remained so, despite all of Maelgwn’s efforts. He faltered slightly, struggling to continue the spell. He was weak and dizzy, and for the first time he wondered if he’d miscalculated just how much power was needed to seal the Great Way. He could see more and more anghenfilod gathering near the entrance he was trying so hard to close—and they seemed agitated. Undoubtedly it was the immense volume of magic he was wielding that was attracting them. Shouldn’t the Wild Hunt have galloped into the shining passage by now? Where were all the indignant fae seeking vengeance for their dead queen? They should have been racing by the hundreds down the throat of the Great Way. He’d promised the Anghenfilod a fine feast, and then they would be free to spill out into the Nine Realms to hunt at will.

Instead, several more of the featureless creatures appeared—and some were poking dark appendages through the glittering aperture.

If only he could get the twice-cursed way
shut
.

At least there was no more pain from the stones or the breastplate. A small voice in the back of his mind suggested it was because the flesh beneath it had been burned away, and he hushed it immediately. Dizzy or not, weak or not, burned or not, he would continue the spell. Another thought occurred:
the little mortal . . .

He’d obviously been successful in frightening her, as her music had burst from her with unfettered power ever since. Who knew but that it was the real reason his pain had stopped? Yet . . . Surely it sounded as if there was a
pair
of fiddles, not one. No doubt a trick of his hearing, considering the state he was in, or the sound was being affected by the magic it contained. He shook his head and doggedly continued to recite the ancient words, though the Great Way gave no appearance of closing any further.

That’s when it occurred to him that there was an unusual tone to the woman’s now-passionate songs, a resonance, a repeating cadence that . . .
The little witch is stealing my power!
The realization shot through him like lightning.
His increasing weakness was not because of the difficulty of his task but because her music was draining his magic away!

Blinded by temper, he abandoned the spell and took a step in the human’s direction, freeing the light whip at his side with a single smooth movement. Tiny blue-tinged fingerlets of energy crackled along its length, a far cry from the streamers of raw lightning he had once called down. Knowing he had so little power left planted a cold thread of fear within him, and his rage immediately swelled to cover it.
I require no magic to wield this weapon!
The snap and bite of leather could still remove tender flesh from mortal bone.