The Dark Huntsman: A Fantasy Romance of The Black Court (Tales of The Black Court Book 1) (32 page)

He trusted Stephan. Maybe. The man had his back, but jealousy still niggled at the back of his mind. The jealousy that said she was with him because he was her only choice. Give her a different one, and she’d be gone.

His latest informant had indicated this particular ring of stones would take him where Aoife lived. It would save him the energy of opening up a portal and he’d been in and out of portals all day, trying to find some trace of her. Now, he had solid information, but the day’s travel had taken its toll. He was tired and all he wanted to do was go home to Trina. Even an angry Trina. He forced himself to empty his mind of everything but the stones ahead so he wouldn’t inadvertently create anything out of the mists that stretched creeping tentacles up the hill.

Once within the circle, he would have no need to worry about such tight mind control. Inside the ring, the elder magic provided safety. A glowing smear of power clinging to the stones told him that this ring had been recently used. Perhaps the elusive Aoife herself. He was close. He knew it. Adrenaline and danger pulsed through his bloodstream.

Logan finished checking the base of the hill and began the climb back up to the stones, his mind wandering, wondering what Trina was doing now. Probably be taking advantage of the running water at Stephan’s and bathing in the hot water, the wet, hot steam making her face shine and beading into rivulets of water running down her chest. Her hair piled up, tendrils coming loose, getting water on her shoulders. A hard push in his side knocked him off balance.

“What the …”

“Get your head on straight!” Solanum’s red eyes lit with anger.

Just down the hill from Logan, three cloudy female figures had formed from the mist. Beguiling hands reached out from the soft sensual shapes.

He let a bitter laugh escape. “I’ll get focused on the hunt.” He shook himself free of his fantasies and Trina, and the female shapes dissolved back into the mist.

“You’d better, or who knows what you’ll conjure up.” Solanum snorted. “Women! Now you know why they’re best used, then forgotten. You’re going into enemy territory and you have your noggin full of her tits and ass. Not very bright, are you? The Golden King won’t hesitate to kill you. Maybe I should just let him.”

“Hardly a threat since you face worse than the king if you fail in your pledge to me.”

“Worse than thousands of years stuck with the imbeciles in your family?” Solanum laughed. “I may take the alternative. Now, let’s get this over with. I’ve skipped more meals since you returned from the dungeons than I missed in the fifteen years you were gone. I might not want you dead, but the dungeons are beginning to seem like a good alternative.”

Logan mounted and they rode up the hill into the stone ring, triggering the Gate. They exited in an old, established area of Underhill. Down the curving lanes, hidden in the lush green hills, were the country estates of the fae who attended Oberon at his lavish court.

Logan’s nostrils flared and his heartbeat increased as his Gift pulled him through the early morning fog to a low stone wall surrounding a charming French chalet. The wrought-iron gate was wide open. His neck itched, all his instincts warning of a trap.

Gates like that one should be closed and locked, the iron keeping trouble out and peace in. He was expected.

“Well, isn’t this a pretty picture,” Solanum said, the skin on his flanks tightening and flinching as they passed through the iron gates. The extensive gardens beyond the wall were the image of a French country estate, complete with statues and bizarre topiaries lining the long drive that led into the courtyard in front of the house. Flower faeries, from unimaginably tiny to the size of small children, zipped to and fro, playing and feasting on their favorite flowers.

A short Rubinesque fae laughed. “Hey, big boy. Come play.” She winked and rolled her eyes at Logan as he dismounted next to the large, central fountain.

Solanum took a big bite of the nearest of the fawn-shaped topiaries. “Yeah, why don’t you go play, big boy?” He snorted at Logan, dark green leaves dangling from his lips. “Just because their brains are the size of a walnut doesn’t mean they aren’t fun.” He swatted his tail at the buzzing fae fluttering around his flanks, and they fled back to the safety of the fountain.

“Behave, or I’ll make sure you can’t destroy the foliage.” Logan said, shooing the amorous fae away and heading for the imposing double-door entrance. At his knock, they swung open.

His Gift surged. This was it. The end of the hunt.

He fought the giddy surge that came with success, he wasn’t there yet, and he needed to keep his head on straight. There was no way he would waltz in here without any challenges. He extended his senses to feel for traps and snares. Just because he didn’t sense a trap, didn’t mean he wasn’t walking into one. It was more likely that he would be caught in something he couldn’t see or detect. The wide open gate and the easy access were definite reasons to stay sharp.

A melodious voice called out, “Come in, Logan Ni Brennen.”

He peered into the wide entry hall. Once again, someone called his name. His adrenaline surge as the near success of his hunt turned into the overwhelming instinct to run.

Logan gritted his teeth.

Solanum was right. Women were better left alone. But now he was committed to Trina’s hunt. No matter what happened, he wasn’t turning back. Cursing women, he pulled Singer out and stepped all the way into the house, not even turning when the doors swung quietly shut behind him.

Following the invitation to the back of the house, he entered a modern, spacious living room. There, he found Aoife seated on a low, white couch and dressed in a casual track suit. Her stylish bob of white hair and tiny lines around her deep blue eyes were a surprise. He had a vague memory of her as a slender, tall fae with long blonde hair. She’d cast a glamour to look older. Why?

“Welcome Huntsman, I’ve been expecting you.” She gestured to the low couch opposite. “Put that silly sword away and sit down.” A teapot with service for two was on the table between the couches.

“How did you know I’d find you?” He slid Singer into its sheathe.

She smiled, the confident smile of an older woman in the company of an awkward, younger man, and he felt suddenly like a gawky adolescent.

“Did you think you could ask for me and not have it come to my ears well before you arrived? You may be the Black Queen’s huntsman, but I have connections that are far older than either you or the queen. Don’t discount befriending the smallest of our kind.”

Logan took a cautious seat opposite her with a good view of the room and exits. Aoife poured tea and offered him his choice of cups. He cast a small hidden spell to check for poison. She might look like a hip grandma, but this was a being far older and far cannier than he, and he still smelled a trap.

A small, knowing smile played on her lips and she regarded him evenly over the rim of her teacup. She knew he’d checked her hospitality.

His ears flushed hot.

“What does the queen wish of me? I have been away from her court for some time now,” she asked and sipped her tea.

“I’m here for information about the MacElvy tribe,” he said, and put his cup down on the table’s glossy surface.

“And why would her majesty think that I would provide her with any information now? I certainly didn’t before.”

“Actually, I’m here to get some background on the situation. I found it prudent to ask elsewhere than the court.”

“I’m intrigued.” She took a sip of tea. “What sort of background?”

“There’s a rumor that you know of a prophecy associated with the MacElvys. I would appreciate it if you could tell me what it contains.”

“The queen didn’t send you?” She frowned.

“I never said the queen sent me.”

“But you are her man.”

“I am my own man.”

Aoife’s eyes gleamed. She sipped her tea and waited for him to slip and say more.

Irritated by her assumption that he was at the queen’s beck and call, he shifted uneasily on the sofa. He was out of his depth. Out in the woods, he was in control, but this was too much like the quicksand of the court for his comfort. She looked like some human’s grandma, but he had a sudden suspicion she was a spider in disguise.

“I have heard,” he began again, when it became apparent that she would wait until he spoke, “that you are a friend of the MacElvy’s. Or were a few years ago.”

She regarded him over her teacup. “Is that the best you can do? Come, come, Huntsman, I will tell you nothing for that sort of disclosure. You’ll have to show me your full hand.

He had no choice. He, Trina, and the prince, were running out of time.

Cracking his neck he said carefully, “All I would like is the wording of the prophecy.”

“And why do you need this? Has not the queen this information?”

“I would prefer not to answer that.” He knew she wanted more, but he refused to tell her anything that would put his prize waiting for him at Stephan’s in any more danger.

She took one more excruciating sip. Then another. He schooled himself to sit and listen to the small noises in the quiet room; an old grandfather clock ticking away, birdsong, the distant sounds of the fairies in the fountain shrieking outside as Solanum misbehaved.

He’d out-waited prey before. He could wait a long time.

Aoife put her cup down and broke the silence. “If I give you this information, I will require something of you in the future. It will not be something you cannot give, but it will be perhaps more than you will be willing to give.” She leaned back, millenniums and more of patience in her eyes.

Here at last was the trap. Logan let himself relax a small amount.

He evaluated his opponent as she waited for his response. He knew she’d stood up to the queen for the MacElvys. He knew she’d opted for a quiet life, outside the machinations of the queen’s court, and possibly the king’s. He weighed the risk of taking her bargain against going back to Trina and confessing failure.

Telling Trina that she might never know why her family had been persecuted. Telling her that she needed to give up on the last few members of her family and consider them dead. Telling her she’d lost any chance at a normal life and must remain imprisoned with him.

And he knew that’s what it would be, imprisonment.

He would never know if Trina loved him, or if she had no choice but to stay with him or risk death. She would hate him for the loss of her family, and if he didn’t solve the problem, he might have to bow down to the queen and kill the rest of the tribe. And if he killed her family, she would never forgive him.

Whatever price Aoife would exact from him, it would be better than watching the woman he loved grow old and die, hating him for a life trapped with him.

A dizzy spiraling rose up in his brain. He struggled to remain upright and hide from Aoife that inside, he’d begun to fall into a thousand pieces as he discovered what he truly knew.

He loved Trina.

Solanum would be laughing his head off, telling him it was foolish to love a woman who would die thousands of years or more before you. Foolish to love someone whom he was responsible for killing. Foolish to love at all.

“Are you all right, Huntsman? You’re looking a bit pale.”

He stared at Aoife, but all he could picture were Trina’s green eyes imploring him to save her family. He made his decision.

“You’ll have your forfeit when you call for it,” he said. “Now give me the prophecy.”

She smiled and took another sip of tea.

Chapter Nineteen

Haddon always found the queen to be the most beautiful when she was happy and engaged in her favorite activity. Her cherry purple hair swayed lightly, her eyes glowed, and her teeth clenched in excitement as she hummed a happy little tune and used her favorite golden pair of tweezers to extract the prisoners’ toenails, one-by-one. Each scream echoed away into the corners of the dungeons before she extended her tweezers to pull out the next bleeding scrap.

When he saw her relaxed and busy like this, he almost wished he could keep her after he was king. Having the leader of the gypsies offer to take care of the MacElvy witch had been like having a ripe apricot drop into her lap. She’d savored the delicious flavor and taste of knowing this was the end of the MacElvys and had been easily diverted to the dungeon, leaving the intricacies of the court to him and him alone.

Unfortunately, he knew life would not stay like this. This was the calm between storms. Now he had to give her news that was not going to be well received. He would delay a little longer, until the prisoner had no toenails left. It was only fair.

The decrepit Owen had been under the weather since losing his quarters and being relocated. Really, they must find a replacement soon. It had taken him too long to report on the gypsy leader’s attempt at assassination. The queen would not be pleased when she found out that the old woman had failed to kill the girl.

He watched the queen play with her victim for a few minutes longer, then took a deep breath. Maybe he would tell her while he was still outside the cell. That way, she would have the prisoner to take her anger out on. Yes, that would be the best. And then he could tell her of the alternative plan that was already underway.