Storm Warrior

Morgan automatically felt at her throat. Ranyon’s charm was gone, twine and all. It had probably fallen off after she crossed the yard. Great, just great.

“You’re far too late, useless mortal,” laughed the fae. “I’ve already changed him.”

The writhing form at the faery’s feet slowly blackened with an eruption of glossy fur even as his limbs flailed and altered before Morgan’s eyes. “No!” she screamed and threw the kitten-shaped bookend with all her strength. Her aim was true enough—but the female simply sidestepped it, and the iron thudded dully to the floor alongside the black shape that lay upon the wooden floor. The dog’s sides heaved hard as if from immense exertion, but otherwise, the massive canine didn’t move. His familiar golden eyes were open but unfocused.

“He’s mine now.” The fae shoved at the mastiff with a finely made boot.

Not even in your dreams, you bitch. Morgan could barely keep her hands from forming fists, and she fought to keep her rage and horror from her expression. Think, damn it, think. What would Nainie tell me to do? Every faery story she had ever read or heard indicated that she had to step carefully with these powerful beings. However, Nainie had said there were a few things that the Tylwyth Teg respected, and one of them was mortal generosity. Morgan hoped like hell it was true…

“Well fought, my lady. Your cleverness is exceeded only by your beauty,” said Morgan, bowing slightly, her words deliberately courteous and deferential although she felt neither. She’d rather be pulling every glossy white hair from that creature’s skull than waste time being polite. “This man belongs to me, but perhaps I could make you a gift of something else. Please come inside, and we’ll discuss it over tea. You’ve had such a long journey. Allow me to offer you hospitality.”

The fae’s glittering smile turned hesitant, a mixture of curiosity and confusion behind it. “You would invite me into your home?” she asked.

A small figure suddenly dropped from the loft in a shower of straw. “They’re not deserving of hospitality,” Ranyon shouted. “The Tylwyth Teg don’t understand kindness or courtesy or even decency.”

The fae sniffed. “What would an ugly little ellyll know of such lofty things?”

“There was a time when the Wild Hunt would mete out justice upon the greedy, the slothful, and the heartless,” continued Ranyon, standing beside Morgan and pointing a twiggy finger at the fae. His Blue Jays cap had a cocky tilt to it, as if it too defied the Fair Ones. “And now you’re naught but bullies.”

Morgan made a subtle shushing motion with her hand at Rhys’s eye level. “My offer stands,” she said to the fae. “It’s the least I can do. This rough stable is not a fit place for the Fair Ones. My house is humble, but it is clean, and you are welcome within its walls.”

“There is still a matter of balance, of payment and satisfaction,” declared the female, and her otherworldly gaze sharpened on Morgan. “Surely, you are not disputing my right to this man?” The fae snapped a length of silvery rope from a hidden pocket and dropped it on the black furry heap beside her. Of its own accord, the rope slid around the neck of the inert black mastiff and dragged him to his feet. The enormous dog shook off his grogginess and erupted into blood-chilling snarls, baring his long fangs and lunging at his luminous captor. She didn’t move an inch. A cruel smile quirked her perfect lips as the silver rope yanked the animal back and forced him up on his hind legs, up and up, until the snarling jaws were level with her flawless face—yet neither teeth nor claws could reach her. “I think he looks better like this,” remarked the fae. “Don’t you?”

Morgan’s heart squeezed hard enough to hurt as her eyes witnessed what her heart had finally been willing to believe. Rhys had indeed been Rhyswr, the dog who saved her life and whose disappearance she had mourned. The knowledge did her little good now, however. All of them were in imminent danger, and she had to choose her words carefully. “I desire to show respect to the Tylwyth Teg, yet as a healer, I cannot violate my sacred oath to protect mortal life, be it animal or human. Therefore, I cannot allow this man to be taken. In his place, I offer any and all of my belongings freely. My truck, my house, my farm…whatever possession you want.”

“No!” Ranyon stood squarely in front of Morgan. “Have the Tylwyth Teg grown so poor that they must need rob mortals? Are ya thieves now as well as tyrants?”

“Shut up, Ranyon!” she whispered through clenched teeth. To offend the Fair Ones could get both of them changed into dogs, or worse. Far worse, if Nainie’s stories were any indication. Morgan studied the shining being before her, unable to discern her mood. Was she truly angry or just enjoying the drama? Nainie had once said the Tylwyth Teg suffered from eternal boredom, and mortals were one of their few sources of entertainment.

“What need have we of your silly possessions?” The fae gave a dismissive wave. “Your little house? Your tiny piece of land? Shall we leave the splendor of our kingdom beneath the hills to till the soil above it?”

“It is all I have to offer,” said Morgan, and bowed again for good measure.

The female laughed, a cold slurry of crystal shards in arctic waters. “My dear foolish mortal, there are much better things to barter with. What will you give up for this man? Your beauty perhaps? Your youth?”

In a move too fast to follow, Ranyon leapt astride Fred and charged the fae with Morgan’s poker in his hands like a lance. His target leapt aside, laughing, but the sound was abruptly cut short. The ellyll must have worked some magic upon the iron tool because it had sliced open the female’s upper thigh as he passed. Glistening droplets of pale-blue blood flew as the fae threw out her hand toward Ranyon. The hapless ellyll was hurled from Fred’s back and slammed against a wall with such force that the thick wooden planks cracked from the impact of the tiny body. He slid to the floor in a boneless heap, and Morgan was certain he was dead. Rhys, still bound by the silver rope to an upright position that strained his canine form, howled long and loud.

Damn it. She held the tears inside—it wasn’t the time for them. Nothing was working, and the situation didn’t seem to be following any of the stories. Now she was facing a truly pissed-off fae, alone, with no idea of what to do. She could see the female’s smirk of triumph, knew the creature believed she had won. Morgan tried to keep her own face impassive even as her thoughts whirled frantically. She rested a shaking hand on Fred’s broad head, grateful he had returned to sit in front of her. Grateful he’d been able to do so, unlike Rhys or poor Ranyon. How long would it be before the fae tired of playing and simply destroyed them all with a flick of her elegant fingers?

What would Nainie do? Morgan grasped the pendant through the material of her shirt for comfort—and suddenly she knew she had one more card to play.

“I would offer a gift to Queen Gwenhidw,” she declared loudly, hoping not only that the faery queen of Nainie’s stories was still on the throne, but that she was pronouncing the name right.

The female snorted. “What dirty little trinket could she possibly want from you?”

“In exchange for Rhys’s freedom, for a promise that the Tylwyth Teg will consider all debts satisfied, I would give the queen this.”

Morgan drew the pendant from its hiding place. She kept the long chain around her neck, but held the carved stone medallion up in front of her. In the living light of the fae, it began to glow. In moments, its fiery blue light had eclipsed hers utterly.

“The Sigil!” hissed the female as she slowly sank to her knees, her gaze riveted on the medallion. The mocking smile had completely disappeared from her beautiful face. The silver rope she had used to bind the black dog slackened, and the great creature shook itself free. For a split second, Morgan thought he was going to savage his adversary, but instead, he bounded over to Morgan and planted himself squarely in front of her, alongside Fred.

“I see you recognize this,” said Morgan, pretending she knew what the hell it was, although she hadn’t the faintest notion.

A gasp came from her left, and she saw that the fae she had hit with the skillet had half risen from the straw. He too was staring at the medallion as if hypnotized by it. “Good lady, the Sigil has been lost to the royal house for many mortal lifetimes.” His voice was weak but full of wonder. “It is the symbol of their power, the seal of the realm itself. How came you by it?”

“It has been guarded by my family for generations. My grandmother gave it into my keeping.”

“It has been stolen by your family!” The female pointed a long delicate finger at Morgan, and her words fairly dripped with venom. “It is obvious now that your ancestor used her friendship with the queen in order to rob us of our greatest treasure! You have brought certain death upon yourself and a curse upon—”

“I think not.”

The new voice startled them all. Morgan glanced around until she spotted a pulsing bead of silver light