Storm Warrior

It was full dark but unusually warm as Rhys and Ranyon walked up the long driveway of the farm. Although the stars were visible in the black velvet sky directly above, the horizon was obscured with darker clouds that blotted out the rising moon. The occasional flash of heat lightning illuminated the trees in the distance.

Starr and Jay had armed them both, each in their own way. At Jay’s instruction, Starr produced weapons from his collection—two swords that were real, not padded wood or rattan. The blades were truly beautiful, with breathtaking dragons and exquisite lions worked into their hilts and ornamented with gemstones. Such swords must have been costly, but Rhys turned them down.

Instead, he had chosen a very plain sword crafted by a friend of Jay’s. It was short like a Roman sword, and Rhys knew from experience that the length was excellent for close-quarter fighting, for both cutting and stabbing. The sword had no decoration, but its heft and balance felt good in Rhys’s hands. The natural patterns in the blade told him that the iron had been meticulously hammered and folded on a blacksmith’s anvil just as blades had been made centuries ago, tempered and blended with just enough carbon to make strong steel.

He considered taking a round metal shield. It would be a natural choice for the arena against a human or animal opponent, but his battle with the fae was unlikely to last long enough to use it. His only hope was to make a quick decisive assault, and for that, he’d need a weapon in both hands. The sword would be in his right. For his left, he chose a long iron dagger with blades that sprang out at the sides, giving it a trident appearance. The design was highly functional—it could catch the downstroke of a sword blade and perhaps even break it.

Maybe the Fair Ones couldn’t be repelled by the presence of iron, but the touch of it could still wound and even kill them. Rhys was counting on that.

Ranyon was apparently thinking the same. Starr found a length of thick cotton rope that he could tie around his tiny waist. The narrow dagger he stuck in it hung like a great sword against his small frame. The ellyll added first one, then two, of Jay’s small throwing axes to his makeshift belt. “All I need now is a fine great horse like Brandan’s Boo,” he declared.

“A horse like that would mistake you for a thistle in its coat and roll on you,” said Rhys.

Ranyon sniffed. “I’ve a charm fer that.”

Starr’s offerings had been different. She produced small pouches of dried flowers—primroses, Saint- John’s-wort, and marsh marigolds—all offering a measure of protection against faery magic. In the yard behind the house, Rhys and Ranyon helped her cut a fat bundle of ash and rowan branches, with their bright fall berries still attached. Rhys remembered his mother tying bunches of them over the doorframes of the house each year. Perhaps they’d be useful against the lesser fae, he thought. He doubted that any plant was strong enough to shield him from the Tylwyth Teg’s spells.

Starr’s final gift was a pair of small pouches containing several gemstones—hematite, garnet, amber, tiger’s-eye, and obsidian—which she directed them to stuff into their pockets.

After she drove away, Rhys asked the ellyll about the stones. “They’re pretty, but I don’t feel magic in them, not like the bwgan stone. Do I throw them at the fae or use them to bargain with?” He was only half joking.

“No, ya twpsyn.” Ranyon squinted at Rhys from beneath his Blue Jays cap. “Ya keep ’em close to ya fer strength and protection. And they’ll give you a clear head too, so ya can think what to do.”

Rhys snorted at that. “Then they’re not working at all. I don’t yet know what to do.” Not about the fae and not about anything else, he thought, as they passed Morgan’s dark house. The woman he loved thought he was either a liar or crazy, and his best friend was dying of a malicious spell. Things couldn’t be worse.

“Aye, well, it’s like a battle. Ya lay yer plans, then when they go wrong, ya make things up as ya go.”

“I remember my mother saying that life was like that.”

“A wise woman then,” said Ranyon. “Life is naught but battles big and small, and most of them unexpected.” The truth of his words became starkly apparent as soon as they found the stable door wide open.

The horse was gone.

Morgan had her own battle going on as she tried to drive with an enormous mastiff stuffed into the backseat—and part of the front seat—of her little red car. She’d thought at first about going back to the clinic and getting the van, which she’d once used to transport Rhyswr. But she hadn’t counted on Fred’s determination. Having finally made up his mind to accept her, he wasn’t about to let her out of his sight. Rather than stress him, she decided to make the best of it.

Which meant her car’s interior was about seven-eighths occupied with dog.

“You need a breath mint, bud,” she said as she kept trying to shove his massive drooling muzzle aside so she could center herself behind the steering wheel. Thank heavens for power windows. She opened the front passenger one all the way despite the coolness of the night and was relieved when Fred automatically stuck his head out of it. It helped alleviate the thick doggy odor in the vehicle too. Morgan mentally put bath at the top of her list of Things to Do with Fred. Then relegated that chore to second place. Job one was going to have to be finding a bigger vehicle if she was going to have a canine companion of such size.

They thankfully made it to her farm without incident. She got out of the car, planning to go around and open the door for Fred. Instead, he bolted out of the driver’s side behind her and Morgan landed on her butt in the driveway. Of course he thought she was playing…

Morgan decided that letting Fred in the house right away would be a big mistake. While Rhyswr had been dignified and careful—not to mention recuperating from a life-threatening wound—Fred was far too excited at the moment to curb his enthusiasm. Plus, she was willing to bet he had a lot of pent-up energy to spend.

It was dark and moonless, with a distant storm on the horizon, but she had strings of colored lights around the backyard, leftovers from the previous owner. Some of the vintage plastic shades looked like giant flowers, some looked like Japanese lanterns, and many looked like grimacing tiki gods. All were faded by countless summers. The light they cast was more than pleasant, however, even magical. Or maybe the magic was in the simple joy of playing with a dog that so resembled the one she had loved. Morgan pulled a small bin of brand-new pet toys out of the shed, things she’d collected to share with Rhyswr. Now she tossed tennis balls and Frisbees for Fred, played tug-of-war with big chew ropes. A heavy-duty rubber toy shaped like a tire quickly became his favorite, and when he’d had enough chasing, he settled at her feet with it between his massive front paws.

“You look like one of the stone lions on the steps of the library,” she laughed. Wrong color, though. While Fred’s expressive face had the typical black mask associated with his breed, his dark coat wasn’t completely black. Instead, stripes of rich coffee brown and tufts of sandy gray were woven through it to create an engaging brindle color. “Come on, handsome boy,” she said. “Let’s get you a drink, and then we’ll get you settled.” Morgan glanced at the barn, but all was dark. It was getting late enough that if Rhys was there, he was probably asleep.

Or he might have taken her at her word and left.

She grabbed her chest as a pain that was very nearly physical lanced her heart. Crap. She expected that thinking about Rhys would hurt, but not this much. At least not this much still. And for some perverse reason, the man’s words came back to her: It’s not the number of days that decides the strength of the bond.

Her rational mind insisted that Rhys had simply lingered at Leo’s bedside or perhaps even gone home with Jay and Starr so he could be closer to the hospital. Most of all, her mind told her she shouldn’t care so much where the hell Rhys was. Her heart didn’t seem to be buying it, but damned if she was going out to the barn to look for him.

“Come on, Fred,” she repeated and headed for the house. She probably wasn’t going to get much sleep again tonight, but at least she wouldn’t be alone. In fact, she might have more company than she really wanted— Fred probably wasn’t going to be receptive to sleeping in the laundry room.

Lucy’s stall was empty—its gate flung wide as the stable door had been. A quick search of the corral and