The Outcast Prince

Lydia double-checked the trunk of diaries, then put the key to the lock and a copy of the list in an envelope. She’d come around early to meet the representative from the historical society, who was thrilled to be getting his hands on the Callaway diaries—some of them, anyway. The more recent ones Lydia had already separated and put away. Caspian had been right about their interest in the diaries, but also their concern about the contents. One woman’s life through a couple of wars and various changes in government and policies was a rare collection. Lydia was glad they’d be valued and hoped something useful would come of them instead of the endless speculation and threats. No wonder Gran had never mentioned them.

A sharp rap on the front door made her jump. While she might be doing the right thing, her stomach was still in knots. What if Mr. Johnson looked at the diaries and decided not to take them? Then she’d have to find a way to take the scandal out of them and make the contents public herself, take the risk herself. Was it right that she was letting someone else shoulder the burden? She let out a slow breath and opened the front door. A thin man of less than average height waited on the step. Not what she’d pictured when talking to him on the phone. He’d sounded older.

“Mr. Johnson?”

“Yes.” His pale blue eyes glimmered and she felt herself nodding.

“Come in and I’ll show you where the diaries are.” She stepped aside and let him into the house. As she did a shiver of warning rolled down her spine. Her gaze tracked him as he walked past the painting in the entrance. His reflection caught in the glass… and it looked nothing like the man she was seeing.

Her throat closed. In the reflection was a gaunt pale face, like life had hollowed him out, and his eyes were as cold and pale as ice. The same menace she’d felt when the fairy had arrived for Caspian now lodged in her gut, only bigger and sharper. This man who was pretending to be Mr. Johnson wasn’t here to talk. He was a Grey.

The Grey didn’t seem to have noticed that his reflection didn’t match or maybe he didn’t care. She took a step back. But the door slammed and locked behind her.

“No!” She pulled on the handle and tried to turn it. Lydia spun back to face the Grey.

Her heart thudded, but all he did was look at her and shake his head. “I thought we’d wait for Caspian together. I can’t have you running around outside. You might get hurt.” Hurt was emphasized as if she was safer in here with him.

Her handbag was in the kitchen, along with the landline. But she had iron tucked in her bra, and the hat stand was iron. All she had to do was keep him talking and then what? Whack him with the hat stand? Press it against his skin until he burned? Her stomach tightened. Could she do it?

“What does Caspian have to do with this?” Maybe she should just pretend she didn’t know this man was a fairy. Isn’t that what Dylis had told her to do first? No, that was ignore and it was too late for that.

She glanced at the man’s reflection again and bit her lip at the unsightly visage. How had he tricked her into thinking he was Mr. Johnson when he looked like a walking corpse? The grim reaper come for tea?

“Everything. I asked him to do something for me and he failed.”

Her heart hiccupped. “Well he’s not here. He’s at his shop.”

He sneered. “He’ll be here soon enough. He’ll come to protect you and then he’ll give me what I want.”

She didn’t want to be used in a fairy game, and certainly not as a pawn to force Caspian to do what this Grey wanted.

“I don’t think so.” She grabbed the hat stand and swung it at the Grey. It connected with a sickening crunch against his face, but she didn’t stop to assess the damage as she ran past the howling fairy. Straight for the kitchen for her phone and more iron.

He yelled and cursed and his footsteps pounded after her.

Lydia slid around the dining table. She flicked on the tap. Running water. Fairies hate running water. Then she grabbed her cell phone from her handbag and turned to face the Grey. Half his face was blistered and bleeding and he’d dropped the illusion of being human. This was the scary Caspian faced every day. This is what he saw and pretended not to. Being fairy, even part fairy, was so much more than she’d ever thought.

“What do you want?”

He laughed. “So you know what I am.” He stalked toward her, his clothing dull and frayed, his fingers bony claws.

She flicked a handful of water at him and he came no closer.

The Grey narrowed his eyes. His gaze darted from the iron to the tap and back to her as if weighing his options.

“What do you want?” she repeated. Then she remembered she shouldn’t be talking to him at all. What if he tricked her out of her soul, or she tripped up and made an accidental deal? Oh God, she was in over her head. Where was Caspian? Where was Dylis? Where was anyone who could help her?

“I want the Window. I want to go home.” He watched her but didn’t move closer.

“The Window? Which window? You can have whatever window you want.” She played dumb, and hoped he’d fall for it.

“Not a window, stupid. The Window. A doorway back to Annwyn.”

“Oh.” This was the Grey that had filled her yard with mirrors, the one who had forced Caspian to make a deal that had gotten him hauled off to Annwyn. Shea ap Greely. This wasn’t any old Grey.

Was he desperate enough to kill? She suddenly felt very mortal and very insignificant.

The doorbell rang. Mr. Johnson from the historical society. She gasped with relief and opened her mouth to call out, but the words caught in her throat. She tried again, but her throat closed as if she were silently choking.

Shea wagged his finger at her. “You might have iron, but I still have magic.” If it was possible he began to look worse, deep pits hollowed his cheeks and the burn began to weep. “The man at the door won’t bother us again.” Wasted and angular Shea got uglier by the minute.

Lydia swallowed. “What did you do to him?” Her voice was croaky as if it hadn’t been used in too long. What had he done to her?

“Encouraged him to think no one was home.”

“Uh-huh.” This was a bit of a stand-off. Behind her the tap ran on.

Shea pulled out a chair and sat. “Shall we wait?”

No, she’d much rather leave, but that didn’t seem like an option and she was trying to limit what she said. She leaned against the kitchen counter. “For what?”

“Caspian.”

Lydia waved her cell phone. “I could just call him.”

Shea tilted his head. “That will bring him?”

Or send him running. She dialed his number and prayed he’d answer. She didn’t know how long Shea would be willing to wait.

* * *

Glass shattered. Caspian looked up. Another window broke. There was the unmistakable sound of singing silver as Bramwel drew his sword. Caspian bolted for the shop front. And stopped. He’d been expecting human kids making trouble, not a bunch of five-foot-high ugly banished fairies… trolls to a human mind.

They stood outside the shop, rocks in hand. There wasn’t much more glass to break, but the rocks could still damage the furniture. He looked at Bramwel, his sword hummed ready for use as he stalked toward the doorway and the trolls. He may not want to help Caspian personally, but at least he took his promise of looking after the shop seriously.

The trolls swaggered closer like any overconfident bunch of teens looking for trouble. Except it was broad daylight and no one had been drinking. At least he hoped they hadn’t been drinking. There was nothing more bad tempered than a short, ugly fairy fuelled by a bottle of wine.

“Are you glamouring?”

Bramwel gave him a withering glance. “Of course.”

At least if people saw anything it would be a bunch of troublemakers, not something best left under a bridge to make trouble for travelers.

“I’m going to call the cops.”