Walking Dead

apart again. “Your world,” he said of one, and then of the other, “and mine.”

The Hunt leaped forward, and left my world behind.

There were ways upon ways to travel between the worlds, and I was beginning to think the differences in scenery were at least partly imposed by my subconscious. Starscapes littered my idea of the space between Tir na nOg and the Middle World, which normal people would call “the earth.” Those same diamond-cut lights had winked in the void between my world and Babylon, because if I was moving between worlds, there ought to by God be stars. I suspected, though, that I was traveling the Dead Zone when I crossed to different worlds, and that the differences I saw were merely cosmetic.

In either case, this place was as cold as the Dead Zone, too cold to feel heat from the infinite stars streaking by. I buried my fingers in the mare’s mane and hunched against her neck as much for warmth as to simply hang on. Time, space, speed, all apparently meant very little to the Hunt, and I wasn’t sure what would happen to me if I fell off out here in the far reaches of forever. I’d ridden this road before, but never in body.

My heart went into triple time when that thought came home. I’d actually physically gotten on an animal that could break through the barrier between one world and another, and had left my own world behind, all on the offer of a god who’d more than once tried to steal or seduce my soul.

I was a nice girl. Not too bright, but a nice girl.

Cernunnos, under the rush of hooves, murmured, “Home.”

A recognizable longing sprang up in me. It came through the mare, or through the Hunt; came, anyway, from somewhere that lay deeper across time than I did. It clawed at my belly, sinking hooks into me, and drew an image that became more and more real as we rode toward it. A misty world of silver-barked trees with deep green leaves came into focus, and then the scent of good rich earth and clean sea air. Crystalline laughter broke on whispering wind, then died in surprise as the Hunt broke through and trotted into a courtyard shaped from living oak.

So far as I could tell, it had been the trees themselves sharing laughter. Stillness rippled out around us, quiet and comforting until I realized how complete it was. There were no birds twittering, no hum of insects, no crack of sticks or hiss of grass as animals passed through. There was only the mist, peaceful and silent, barely disturbed by the Hunt dismounting. Even the rooks went quiet, settling in trees, some to tuck beak under wing and nap, others to stare with black-eyed interest at the gathered group of demi-humans, gods and mortals. The hounds lay down, stretched out long over dew-ridden grass, and one by one the Riders faded away until I was alone in the courtyard with Cernunnos. “What happened here?”

Tragedy marred the silver god’s face. “Mortals seek eternity. Immortals seek rest. It is the irony of our lives.” He dismounted, the last to do so, save myself, and the stallion melted into the forest as had everyone and everything else. I stayed where I was, swaying in my saddle as he walked to a bower where twined oak reshaped itself to make a leafy seat. He loosed his sword from his hip, then sprawled in the seat, all silver and inhuman, with the sheathed blade across his thighs. “Come, let her go. We cannot do this with her here.”

I put my hand on the mare’s shoulder and asked what seemed like both an obvious and an idiotic question: “Who is she?”

A hint of cruel amusement curved his mouth. “Don’t you know?”

All of a sudden, I did. I blanched and the mare danced, discomfited at my sudden tension. I slid off her back, trying to cobble calm back together, but she pranced away, then galloped into the forest while I stared after her. “Does he know?”

“The boy? He did once. Now?” Cernunnos shrugged, a ripple of quicksilver. “He may have bound me to time and taken my immortality for himself, but his mind is partly human. He forgets things, and in doing so saves his sanity.”

“But she doesn’t.” I swallowed against a tight throat, glancing after the mare again. “That’s why she lets me ride her. She remembers what it was to be human.”

“More,” Cernunnos said softly, “she remembers what it is to become entangled with one such as me. She might have taken your life that night we raced down your highway.”

I looked back at him, strength and low certainty coming into my voice. “Not if she wanted me to rescue her son.”

Cernunnos tilted his head in acknowledgment. I straightened my shoulders, trying to put the mare out of my thoughts. “Okay. So here we are. How do I take Matilda on?”

“Ah.” The god slipped his sword from its sheath, dropping the latter to the side and rebalancing the short blade across his thighs, fingertips light against its broad side. “Tir na nOg is a dying world, little shaman. A dead world, perhaps, but I am its king. What magic left here is mine to command.”

At least half of me listened, I swear it, but my mind hitched on the sword he’d laid across his lap. It had no crossguard worth mentioning, and the hilt was wrapped with silver wire that turned into a heavy pommel. Tir na nOg’s magic being his to command was obviously important. I could see how that might affect both Matilda and myself in a battle of wits, or what have you. Instead of following that opening, though, I said, “That’s a different sword.”

Cernunnos turned a dry green gaze on me. For a moment I forgot about the sword, too, and just had a dizzying moment of breathlessness. He was a god and a monster who had changed his son’s mother into a horse, trapping her as part of his Hunt for eternity, and yet my brain still short-circuited when he wanted it to. I needed therapy. In a voice as dry as his gaze, he said, “You stole mine, little shaman.”

“Stole? You stuck it in me, not—” That wasn’t actually true. I’d impaled myself, if you wanted to get technical about it. I bit my tongue to keep from getting technical, and tried another tack. “You had a broadsword at the Seattle Center in January. I thought you’d have that, or another rapier. That one’s…” I had no intention of using the word that came to mind, for fear the Horned God would disapprove.

“Primitive?” he asked flatly, and since that was the word I hadn’t been going to use, I gave a jerky nod. “I could not return to Tir na nOg to fetch this when you stole mine, and was obliged to use the broadsword as the only blade available to me in your world. As for this, Nuada of the Silver Hand is disinclined to present the careless with new gifts, and so this is the first sword he made for me, so long ago to name the number of years would be meaningless. The rapier was the second, fashioned at my plea for a weapon of more…”

“Elegance,” I whispered. The rapier was elegant, and suited Cernunnos’s clean, almost alien lines beautifully. So did the brutal short sword, but it made him a different manner of creature entirely. With the rapier and his silver horse, he was dangerous seduction; with the short sword, he was just dangerous, a wild god barely constrained by the shape of his calling.

I met his eyes again, found green fire burning there, and felt color suffuse my face. A smile curved his beautifully shaped mouth, and I knew all over again that it would be too easy to forget the world and join the Hunt forever. I could live in that fiery gaze, and never care that I’d have to die to do so. Seduction didn’t have to be elegant to be effective.

Cernunnos lifted his fingertips from the blade and turned them up in a smooth, inviting curl. Another of Suzanne’s futures flashed through my thoughts, a future where, reckless creature that I was, I stepped forward and put my hand in the god’s. My power in that future rivaled his, taking me beyond humanity and the constraints put on me by my Makers. I was bound to my world just as Cernunnos was bound to Tir na nOg. Partnered together, we rode from his world to mine at will, sowing dissent like the agents of chaos we were. The Hunt rode with us, collecting the souls of those who followed old faith and older magic, and in time the child we made together battered down the walls between all the worlds. Then we were free indeed, riding to the end of the universe, hounds and rooks crying at our sides. It was beautiful, that future: beautiful and free and cold.

“Familiar temptation, my lord master of the Hunt.” I took a step back, not without regret. “I’m sorry, but no.”

He kept his hand extended, green fire in his eyes ablaze with undeterred hope. “A shaman is a trickster, Siobhán Walkingstick. Tricksters are things of chaos, as am I. Your path lies close to mine. Walk it with me.”

“Order and learning and lessons come from trickster stories, Horned God.” I wished I knew his real name, less to pull rank as to even the playing field. Honorifics were fine and well meant, but he had no compunction against pulling out Siobhán when there were no ears to overhear us. It only seemed fair that I should be able to return the favor.

Life, as it turned out, wasn’t fair. “You ride and collect the souls of the dead. It’s my job to make sure there