Praise for Seraphim by Michele Hauf

“A rich medieval tapestry woven of fantastic tales of revenge, women warriors, faeries and demon fire. Michele Hauf captures your attention with vivid, powerful, sexy characters. What I wouldn’t do for a man like Dominique San Juste!”

—Award-winning author Lyda Morehouse

“From her first word to her last, Hauf weaves a magic spell. You’ll root for Seraphim and sigh over Dominique as they risk heaven and hell in this heart-stopping adventure.”

—Emma Holly, author of Hunting Midnight

“This book kicks butt—in a lush and lyrical way.”

—Susan Sizemore, author of the “Laws of the Blood” series

“Michele Hauf has taken the ‘Fallen Angels’ myth and embellished it with many a dark and inventive twist, and created Seraphim, a riveting story of a young woman’s quest for revenge and a destiny chosen for her long before her birth. Seraphim is also brimming with intriguing and very strong characters, along with a rich and satisfying blend of medieval history and fantasy. Fine writing only adds more elegance to the story and I look forward to book two of Michele Hauf’s ‘Changeling’ series, due out in 2005.”

—Bookloons

“Seraphim is stunning, an utterly gripping, compelling read that plunged me into fantasies of long ago and far away. Michele Hauf is a consummate pro at the top of her game. If this is any indication, LUNA Books is off to an industry-rocking start!”

—Maggie Shayne, author of Edge of Twilight

Gossamyr
Michele Hauf

For all who Believe

Enchantment is Faery’s raison d’être.

Many moons ago—during a blue moon’s reign—a rift was

cleaved between Faery and the Otherside.

No one-man, beast, or fée—can say how or why,

Only, the act decimated a great source of Enchantment.

The curtain between Faery and the Otherside has become transparent;

fée travel back and forth with ease;

mortals, once banned from Faery after one visit, find return less difficult.

It is a challenge to keep that which should not be in Faery out. And vice versa.

Time wends forward, widdershins, and thus.

Such conditions shall remain until a champion

can restore the Enchantment complete.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

PROLOGUE

Faery—betwixt and between

The revenant swooped down from out of nowhere. Wide gaping maws, fanged and stretched to maul, loosed a shrill cry, shaking Gossamyr de Wintershinn from her petrified stance. She stumbled backward and landed atop the blue marble floor of the circular castle tower. Eyes fixed to the danger, Gossamyr groped blindly at her side, slapping the stone, in seek of her fighting staff.

The very flesh had been stripped from her attacker’s bones. Swathes of tattered muscle clung to the skeleton. Red glowed within the skull’s eyes, molten and dripping, as if blood. The pellicle wings, void of lustrous color, were but a ghostly mesh of flight flapping madly between the shoulder bones. It looked like a winged one—a fée—but it could not possibly be. Never before had she seen the like.

Be this one of the relentless creatures that had been tormenting Faery for a summer of moons?

Tattered wings siphoned the air in foul hisses. The wraithlike thing lunged. A skeletal arm slashed out. Claws cut the air—and flesh.

Gossamyr stroked a finger across her cheek; slippery blood flowed from the cut.

Whence came this creature? ’Twas full sun. She had been tending her own pleasures, looking over the muster of peacocks trampling the wild rose garden below that hugged the inner curtain wall. Why did it attack her?

Shuffling backward, her hand slapped upon something—her fighting staff.

With a hue and cry to strip the senses, the creature again struck. Gossamyr dived to the right. Gripping the applewood staff and, facing down, she kicked back and up. Her bare toes connected with bone. The creature shrieked as it spun into the crystal-white sky.

Pushing up and landing a ready stance, Gossamyr swung the longstaff to mark her periphery—the applewood sang a battle cry—then prepared for a return attack. Keenly, she marked her surroundings for additional threat.

Skeletal arms slashed the air. Bone fingers curled into claws as the creature rushed her. She swung hard, using the force of the staff and counterweighting her body into the defense. The end of her weapon cracked skull. Bits of the creature’s head scattered like a harvest gourd cleaved by elf-shot.

Landing the swing, she steadied her bearing. No time to think, only react. Deft twists of her fingers spun the weapon in a hissing figure of eight as she turned to challenge the opponent. Now headless, the creature hung before her, arms spread—yet the wings flapped. Still alive. If bones could harbor life.

“Remarkable.” Gossamyr stepped back. How to defeat the thing? “Can I kill it?”

“Either that or be killed!” came the unbidden answer.

The stiff barbs of a feathered cape stroked her cheek. The shing of an obsidian blade drawn from a hip sheath sliced the air. One slash of the fire-forged sabre sectioned the creature at the waist, dropping the leg bones to the tower floor in a clatter.

“Shinn—”

“Stand back!” Shinn swung and hacked through the rib cage of the creature. “These things don’t know how to die!”

Frayed wings—severed from the skeletal body—furiously beat the air above Shinn, her father. The dauntless fée lifted his blade up under the left wing, cleaving it asunder, and brought the blade down through the right wing. He spun toward Gossamyr and shouted, “There!”

Pulled from her awestruck stare, Gossamyr jumped as a foot trimmed with muscle shreds stamped her toes. Together, the legs of the creature attacked. Sweeping her staff low, she dashed it across the anklebones, sending them crashing against the marble embrasures. Reduced to dust on impact, the shattered bone glinted as it floated to the tower floor.

“What in all of Faery is it?” Gossamyr called as she swung and caught a disembodied arm with the tip. Fingers clenched the end of her staff. Shake as she might, the evil fist clung. “Shinn?”

Residue from the crushed creature glimmered in a mist about Shinn as his sabre obliterated the wings. “A revenant!” the implacable fée called.

Ill clad for battle, Shinn’s everyday vestments of flowing arachnagoss tunic and elaborately stitched hosen would not protect him from injury. But he did not waver, instead standing proud and defying the thing with a swing of his sabre. He dived to avoid the other arm as it sailed toward him, fingers fisted.

“Let me to it!” Gossamyr cried. An audacious smile crooked her mouth. She had trained for this sort of challenge. Opportunity had finally fallen to her. “I’ve been craving some fight.”

She rushed the attacking arm and connected wood to bone in a hollow crack. “Yes!”

The return swing of her staff proved the attack had not jarred the creepy passenger. Gossamyr slammed the carved applewood upon the tower floor. Finger bones gave loose, but as quickly, scrambled across her toes and gripped her ankle, shaking her off balance. She landed the marble floor with a jaw-loosening dumpf. A skeletal hand scurried up her leg and over her hip moving farther.

Wheezing breaths gasped from her mouth. Dropping her staff, Gossamyr clutched the hand that squeezed about her throat. Probing fingertips threatened to pierce her flesh. She struggled to wrestle the thing off, but it possessed strength immeasurable. It was futile to fight, to kick at the air and pray she connected with some part of an attacker that just wasn’t there.

A murky blackness muddied her thoughts. Shinn—where was he? Needles of numbness loosened her grip on the hand. Her shoulders dropped. She could see nothing, smell not the scent of fresh morning dew and lush rose oil, nor sense the smooth polish of the marble beneath her fingers. An angry peacock mewl echoed Gossamyr’s longing to cry out.

As death crept closer one final sound summoned her audacious smile. The shrill of finely honed obsidian cutting through bone.

ONE

High above the lush cypress and laburnum treetops that encircled the curtain wall Gossamyr followed her father through the carved marble loggia. The castle she had lived in all her life nested at the peak of the Spiral forest as if a bloom upon a verdant bouquet. Pendulous yellow flowers hung heavily on the laburnum that grew only at the top of the forest, contrasting marvelously with the castle. The blue marble was deeply veined with streaks of midnight and palest sky; it mimicked both day and night and shimmered with a fée dust of the ages.

The village of Glamoursiège fit like a twist about the marble screw of the Spiral. Blue marble segued to granite and finally to sand at its lowest where it met the grounds in a mire of marsh and reticulated tree roots. For the entirety was laced with the roots of cypress, ash and hornbeam. The Edge—very few places where the trees did not grow—was ever to be avoided, at least by the un-winged ones.

“I can do this, Shinn! You cannot deny I am the only one able.”

Shinn moved swiftly toward the south tower, speaking his impatience with his strides. “Many are capable,” he called back to Gossamyr.

“Capable, yes,” Gossamyr had to agree.

Faery worked counter to the Otherside, and a war of almost one hundred mortal years had been keeping the mortals to blood and wrath, while Faery enjoyed fellowship and peace. Tribe Glamoursiège had been formed of trooping warriors before the great Peace, a Peace that had existed since long before Gossamyr’s birth.

How long? Time indeterminable, Shinn often answered when Gossamyr would question, for Time was of no concern to the fée.

Though Faery claimed Peace there were still the occasional rises amongst the various tribes. Shinn’s troops were indeed capable and, with the recent arrival of the revenants, increasingly vigilant.

Gossamyr picked up her pace, as well her confidence. “If not for this very challenge, what then has all my training been for? Naught? I am as skilled as any in your troop, male or female.”

“Child of mine, you know well you have been groomed to sit the Glamoursiège throne,” Shinn said over his shoulder. “It is not an idle, benevolent woman who can rule in my absence, but one who possesses all the martial skills I have taught you, and the mind for diplomacy, honor and valor.”

“I will not neglect my duties to Glamoursiège, but…I want this, Shinn. It is such an opportunity!” She hurried up beside him. Where did he go in such a hurry?

“Convince me it wise to send my daughter on such a singular and dangerous quest.”

Ah, there, he had not given an unequivocal no. This gave Gossamyr hope.

“Your fée warriors will not survive the Red Lady’s seductive allure. As you’ve told me, she seduces Disenchanted fée into her clutches. They have not the fortitude to resist!”

Any fée who left Faery for the Otherside risked Disenchantment. Necessary trips to the mortal realm were swift, coached in the knowledge that glamour dissipates quickly and Time could not be trusted. A risky venture for a fée warrior.

A risk chosen by some.

There were those rogue fée, who, seduced by the lure of the mortal, and that intricate city called Paris, chose to remain on the Otherside. To stay meant sure Disenchantment; a condition that saw the fée completely drained of glamour, and often they lost their wings to a shriveling malady attributed to the baneful touch from a mortal. Enchantment gone, they became nothing more than a shell that survived as any mortal. Return to Faery was difficult but not impossible. But never again could the Disenchanted regain Enchantment whole.

Of course, one did not have to be fée to fall under the seductive spell of the Otherside. Gossamyr had lost her mother to the mortal passion ten midsummers earlier. The lure of the unknown was ever beguiling, but Veridienne de Wintershinn had always known the Otherside, for she had been mortal complete.

Shinn stopped abruptly, causing his daughter to collide against his back. Savoring the faintest scent of hyacinth that marked her father, Gossamyr stepped back.

The south tower overlooked a riot of white roses and speckled foxglove in the gardens below. Overhead, the carved marble openwork cast a lattice of shadows across Shinn’s tightened jaw. His blazon, an iridescent tribal marking, curled down his chin and neck and across his upper chest, and shimmered in the blocked patches of sunlight. Glamoursiège blazons showed on neck and upper extremities; placement varied from tribe to tribe.

For all his stern posture and commanding demeanor—even the recent announcement that his marshal at arms should marry Gossamyr—Shinn would ever occupy a soft place in Gossamyr’s heart. All planes and hard slopes his face, only in his eyes could she ever find compassion. And such a find was a rarity to be hoarded. Shinn’s manner switched from cool to disinterested, and then suddenly to genuine concern with such ease. One moment he was gentle and attentive, the next, the battle commander wore a fierce mien. Gossamyr had not known him to be any other way. Attribute to his trying history, she could only assume. They had both loved and lost. Love being one of those mutable words the fée toyed with in exchange for lust, hunger or envy.

“I listened last night to the council’s discussion,” she said. Shinn required she sit as a silent member at council, for her future demanded she take an active role in Glamoursiège matters. “The revenants’ presence in Faery increases. But I was surprised to learn about the rift.” She bent to meet Shinn’s straying gaze. “It has never before been discussed by council. Why did you not tell me of it sooner?”

“It is just something that is…known. The rift has existed since before your birth.”

“That long? And all this time you haven’t once thought to—”

“It has never been in my mind, Gossamyr. Until recently. There are none who can name the reason for the rift cleaved between Faery and the Otherside; only we know it exists. Such a tear in the fabric that separates our worlds allows the revenants to return with ease. I am sure I mentioned it when I explained the revenants to you.”

“You did not.” Hand to her hip, she paced in short turns, pointing the floor with the tip of her staff. Shinn had explained the revenants two midsummers earlier when she had witnessed a natural fée death. Normally the fée essence leaves the body and experiences the final twinclian. But there are those fée—those of darker natures—who do not twinclian to the Celestial. Instead, their essence merely pops, and the revenant follows, its destination—the Infernal. It is a rarity.

The sudden appearance of revenants in Faery—not newly emerged from a natural fée death—had given clue someone on the Otherside was stealing the essences. And so was discovered the Red Lady.

As frustrated as Gossamyr was to just now learn something she should have known about, she took it all in. Knowledge was required for a successful mission. “Still, I do not understand why, or how, those skeleton creatures return to Faery. Are they not dead?”

“Did that creature look dead?”

Actually, yes. However, not if death implied stillness. “So it was alive, yet…I don’t understand.”

“That thing I killed—”

“We killed.”

“Yes. We.” A nod verified her participation in the event. But too brief, Shinn’s reassuring smile. “The Red Lady stole its essence, leaving the revenant in limbo. Somehow she can feed off the essence of another—the essence holds the former body’s glamour—delaying her Disenchantment interminably. The revenant is a shade of the fée that cannot find final rest without the essence, so it returns to Faery in seek of a new essence.”

“But why Faery? Can it not locate a fée on the Otherside?”

“It is compelled back to Faery. The rift literally sucks them back home. I don’t believe it could remain in the Otherside if it wished.”

“This essence…” Gossamyr leaned against a blue machicolation, tapping the cool marble with a thumb. “When I witnessed the fée death something blue rose from the body. Is it something the Red Lady can draw out and…possess?”

“Yes and no. Inside the body it is our very being. Outside the body, well, it either twinclians or it pops.” The elegant fée lord tilted his head to look upon his daughter. A sigh hung in the air between them, a resolute pause. “The essence is akin to…a mortal soul.”

“Ah.”

There was so little Gossamyr understood about mortals. About that part of herself.

Her mother had been mortal, but Veridienne’s sickness—the mortal passion—had kept her focus from her family and eventually lured her home to the Otherside, leaving Gossamyr alone to comfort her heartbroken fée father. And to ever wonder. Why had not her mother taken her daughter with her? Surely she might have wished to raise her own child? Had it been so easy to leave her family behind for the mortal world? She had once begged to stay in Faery—but that desire hadn’t lasted long.

Of course, in terms of emotional distance, Veridienne had much over Shinn. Likely, she had not seen beyond her own self-satisfying desires.

Following her mother’s abrupt departure, Gossamyr had vowed not to become mired in her own selfish wants. And what better way to prove it than to track the Red Lady and protect Faery from further torment?

So this sought-after essence was like a mortal soul. What did it mean to have a soul? And mortal, at that. Gossamyr had known no other way but of the fée. Fathered by Shinn, would she possess both a soul and an essence?

“There are things I would have liked to give you,” Shinn said, looking off into the sky, avoiding her gaze. “Truths.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There is no time for confessions. The revenant is single-minded,” Shinn said, “focused on obtaining that which was stolen from it. So much so, it will kill to obtain the final twinclian.” He focused briefly on her cut cheek, but gave her injury no verbal regard. The fée were not so emotionally delicate as mere mortals. “They are becoming more frequent, the encounters. Streklwood was attacked last eve.”

“The cook?”

Shinn nodded.

A lump the size of an uncooked goose egg formed in Gossamyr’s throat at memory of this morning’s still-shelled offering. She’d thought to complain, to send her maid, Mince, marching down to the kitchen…

“The revenant must be reduced to a fine glimmer,” Shinn continued. “For to leave a single bone intact will not defeat the creature’s quest for wholeness. They are difficult to kill.”

“I noticed. But it felt good, the challenge.”

Avoiding his daughter’s enthusiastic declaration Shinn strode the curve of the tower, hands akimbo, his raven-feather cape flitting gently above the length of his folded wings.

This demesne of Faery was not so much ruled by Shinn as protected and guided—a position Gossamyr knew she would one day fill. Descended from a long line of trooping fée, Shinn had once commanded the Glamoursiège musters. He’d become lord over Glamoursiège following his father’s death. And he’d trained his only daughter to follow in his footsteps, should he cease to stand upon the Glamoursiège throne.

Much as she did not like to consider that fate, Gossamyr realized it would happen some day. And she was prepared to take Shinn’s place, physically. Mentally, she wondered if her lack of battle experience would make her a weaker ruler. She could sit council and talk politics with the best. But would they respect one without time spent in the musters?

Pressing her palms to a cool marble crenel cut into the tower, Gossamyr leaned forward. A swirl of white cottonwood kites billowed out from the dense forest spiraling the castle. Laughter smaller than a bird’s tweedle glittered in the air like sunshine upon purling waters—a few skyclad piskies clung to the tails of the seed-kites, stealing a ride.

Despite the fées’ frustrating lack of regard for Time, she did know it governed the Otherside. Veridienne had been the one to explain to her how the mortal realm used Time to measure everything. During that conversation, she’d told Gossamyr she was eight years in measurement, and that a year could be marked once every mortal midsummer. Which meant Gossamyr was twenty-one mortal years now. It filled her with pride to know that one mortal measurement, but she did not mention it to Shinn. The fée did not measure a lifetime with tangible numbers of years. Once on the Otherside, the fée struggled against Time, Veridienne had said. Time stole Enchantment.

To race against Time would afford a challenge.

Faery needed a champion to defeat this vicious succubus.

A thump to her chest thudded against the arachnagoss-stuffed pourpoint Gossamyr wore when practicing—which was more often than not. “You know I am fit for this mission,” she said with conviction.

She had absorbed Shinn’s lessons on the martial arts until he had declared her more skilled than he. Since childhood her father had honed her skills to counter the true glamour birth had denied. (She had a bit; her blazon shimmered as bright as any other.) But she knew he would balk. Always Shinn had forbidden her from visiting the Otherside. (Forbid was a favorite word of Shinn’s.) Forbidden to journey beyond the marsh roots, forbidden to take the sinister curve to market, forbidden to court a Rougethorn, forbidden to even suggest a visit to the Otherside.

Mortals who left Faery could return, but their swift loss of Enchantment—and the fact they could never again regain such Enchantment—made their return visit to Faery dangerous and unthinkably fleeting.

Time, Gossamyr thought, the true evil.

But Gossamyr was only half mortal. Might she risk a trip to the Otherside and then return without fear of never regaining her Enchantment? Shinn twinclianed there often.

“And if you look beyond my skills,” she said, “there is the obvious—my mortal blood. The Red Lady is not interested in mortals, or females, for that matter.”

“But—”

“I am not a man. I can easily—”

“Gossamyr.”

“—gain her lair and take her out!”

Gossamyr twisted her neck to find the glint in Shinn’s vivid violet eyes. The trace of a grin bracketed his pale mouth. Always his emotion manifested in small measure.

Reaching for the applewood staff—her vade mecum—she turned from Shinn, spun the weapon in her fingers, then swung it out before her, spanning a full circle before she snapped it back to rest against her shoulder. She may not be able to shape-change or twinclian at sign of danger, but Shinn had made sure his half-blood daughter could stand and fight. Much as he forbade her to participate in the Glamoursiège tournaments, she had managed a few on the sly.

Gossamyr had developed a penchant for adventure. Danger even. Unfortunately danger had eluded her. Until now.

The thought of this mission verily sizzled inside her. She wanted this! For many reasons. But fore, she wanted to protect her homeland from the threat of the revenants.

“It is the mortal passion, be that so?” Shinn’s quiet words made Gossamyr wince. “It blinds you to the real danger.”

“But I crave danger!”

He caught the end of her staff as she swung it in declaration. The tension strumming from end to end of the staff—Gossamyr’s grip to Shinn’s—felt palpable. Unwilling to concede, she lifted her chin defiantly.

“You have not experienced real danger.” Her father’s stern tone curtailed her swagger a bit. “Bogies and hobs—”

“And that core worm a few days earlier! The thing spat dirt balls the size of a spriggan’s head.”

Shinn turned a wry smirk upon her. “Gossamyr, core worms do not spit.”

“It was spitting at me.”

“Think about it, daughter. How is it a worm exudes dirt from its body?”

“Well, it—” Throws up casts. Oh. She hadn’t thought of that. So the thing had been—Ah. “Don’t you trust I’ve the ability? You have trained me for this opportunity.”

Her father released the end of her staff with a gentle shove. “You are skilled, this I know.”

“Then I am ready. I will return to you—”

“Will you?” So much unspoken in those two words. And the sigh that followed.

“Yes. Of…of course I will return.”

Did he worry that her mortal blood would prevent her safe return? Gossamyr had ever coached herself to resist the mortal passion. If it had seduced her mother, she, as well, risked such temptation, for Veridienne’s blood coursed through her veins instead of Shinn’s ichor.

Or was it that he could not abide her to leave him? The pain of losing Veridienne had changed Shinn, closed his heart. Emotion was difficult to mine from the stalwart fée. Gossamyr would not bring further heartache to her father.

And yet, Shinn had bruised her heart with his own cruel indifference. The memory of a Rougethorn’s kiss would for ever live in Gossamyr’s being, and for evermore close her heart to the mutable love faeries feared.

But it was all for naught. Love was not to be hers. Shinn had already announced her engagement to a most frustrating man, his marshal at arms, Desideriel Raine. Frustrating to Gossamyr’s heart, but certainly deserving where skill and knowledge of the Glamoursiège musters were concerned. When Shinn had first suggested such over a meal the diffident fée had suppressed a sneer as he’d looked across the table to Gossamyr. She had read the young warrior’s look—she is not true fée. The humiliation had prompted her to excuse herself before the final flower course.

She was perfectly capable of ruling Glamoursiège on her own, but tradition required marriage—marriage being reserved for royalty and the upper-caste lords and ladies. And, Gossamyr suspected, Desideriel would represent true fée blood when all in Glamoursiège merely tolerated Gossamyr’s half blood.

“Truth,” Shinn said.

Drawn from her troubling thoughts, Gossamyr approached Shinn.

Truth? Studying the sun-laced tower floor, the blue veins purling through the marble like cold blood, Gossamyr vacillated on admitting the truth. A truth that sat in her heart like the pulses of mortal Time that fascinated her so. How to do it gently?

“Truth,” she murmured. An exhale released reluctance. “I do long to visit the Otherside. You know that.” She met Shinn’s gaze, half-concealed by a fall of his long raven hair. He sought the truth of her, and yet he would hide behind his own hard emotions. “I want to understand that part of my heritage most alien to me. I want to…experience.”

She followed Shinn’s pace to the tower’s edge. The evening primrose that grew in the roots attracted night moths, which then attracted frogs. He nodded. “And find.”

Frustration, muted and held back far too long, oozed throughout her. He would not close out her desires. Not this time. Even more, Gossamyr would have her father know her heart. She whispered, “Love never dies, Shinn.”

“You think to know love?”

“I…yes.” And not the fickle love faeries know. “I know the fée cannot truly—”

Too fragile, the memory of Veridienne, to speak of it. And so Gossamyr would not. But what of her lover? The one her father had banished from her very arms? Then, he had claimed she could not begin to know love. Did they both fool the other with their secret longings for fulfillment?

To continue would gain her no ground.

“Here is my home, Shinn.”

“Yes, because you believe.”

Yes, yes. Always he repeated the mantra to her: Believe and you Belong. She believed. She belonged! Nothing could change that.

“Faery is your home,” he said. “Should you venture away…you must then return.”

To marry Desideriel was the unspoken part.

“Indeed. And my home is no longer safe unless someone stops the Red Lady. I want to help Faery. How will I ever stand in your place if there is naught a place to stand?”

The summer breeze lifted Shinn’s jet hair over his shoulders and twisted fine strands around the horns at his temples. Gossamyr read the pain in his tightened jaw. His own memories haunted. It had been much simpler for her to place aside the memories of an always-distant mother.

“Grant me this opportunity, Shinn. I will return to you.”

“You vow to me?”

A father’s fear: violet eyes unwilling to focus upon hers; hyacinth, heady and oozing with an expectant pulse.

“You won’t lose me, Shinn. I vow it upon my fée essence.”

Gossamyr noted the twitch at the corner of her father’s mouth. Suppression always tightened his features. “This mission is deadly. Time cannot be tricked or defeated.”

A stab of her staff rang against the marble. “I am skilled.”

“A—” Shinn looked to the summer-pale sky “—champion is needed.”

A champion. “Oh.” Her bravado mellowed, Gossamyr bowed her head.

Indeed, a champion.

When had she ever proven herself in battle? Fighting dirt-casting core worms and drunken bogies? Night-creeping spriggans rarely offered more than a few moments’ struggle before scampering away from challenge. Werefrogs were vicious but stupid. Tournaments offered her but display of singular combat skills. There had not been opportunity for real challenge here in Glamoursiège. And she’d never been off the Spiral, not even a near fall from the Edge.

The touch of Shinn’s finger lifted Gossamyr’s gaze up to his. His eyes glittered. With tears? She had not thought to ever see the like. Certainly it was a mirage created by the sun and the glimmer of his blazon.

“Of course you do know champions are not simply ready and able?”

She lifted a brow.

“They are made. Truly, you are the only one for this mission, Gossamyr.” He bowed his head and clasped his fingers, the moue of his mouth frowning. But in a remarkable recovery he lifted a confident eye to Gossamyr. The former commander relayed battle details. “The Red Lady is malicious and is unlikely to rest until her penchant for feeding off fée essence restores her ability to return to Faery. She scents them out, newly arrived in the city, just as Disenchantment has begun to set in, for then the essence still retains its glamour.”

Gossamyr touched the faint blazon curling up her neck in a manner of twisting design. Would Disenchantment steal her blazon?

“But most important…” Another heavy sigh released what Gossamyr guessed to be regret and fear and the intense compulsion to protect his only child. “You are ready.”

A champion? Gossamyr straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. Have at me.

Eagerness uncontained, she blurted, “How will I know the Red Lady? Is she…red?”

Shinn’s smirk teased at a genuine smile. “You will know her when you see her. Banished long ago, she bears the mark.”

The mark. Yes. Horrid memories flooded Gossamyr’s mind. She had witnessed a banishment. The curl of red pinpricks boring into flesh. A cri de terroir. The suddenness of expulsion. And her bruised heart.

“You have seen the mark,” Shinn had the audacity to remark.

A nod confirmed Gossamyr’s understanding. Bile stirred in her throat. “Speak no more on it; I will know it when I see it.”

Swallowing back memory, Gossamyr sorted the facts. A succubus fée. Red. Banished. An unmistakable mark. Paris. Her father never elaborated beyond the necessary information.

“How long ago was she banished?”

“Before your birth.”

“Ah.” And yet, only now the succubus had begun to havoc the Otherside? Hmm…

“Mortal time is different than in Faery,” Shinn commented. “You will find it faster, startling. But most important, you know much about the Otherside; that will serve well.”

“I have gleaned what I can while studying Mother’s Bestiary of Humans—” Gossamyr stopped. Shinn did not appear startled by her confession. She had ever used stealth to steal into the locked study to snoop, much to the horror of her maid, Mince.

Veridienne had been detailing the mortals, magnifying them on amphi-vellum in the most remarkable detail, diagramming their manner and social ways from memory—re-creating her natural history. Gossamyr pored over the articles any chance she could find. The drawings were marvelously rendered in gild and such pigments created from madder, azurite and verdigris. Text gave splendid descriptions of clothing, food and custom.

I know you are half-mortal, Gossamyr. Your brown eyes intrigue. You are exotic…

Shucking off the cloying memory of a Rougethorn’s enraptured voice, Gossamyr looked to her father. He studied her, his jaw tight. Ever visible, the hurt in Shinn’s eyes.

“I wanted to touch a part of her,” Gossamyr offered in a quiet voice. “It was difficult trying to get close to her. She was ever busy.”

“Veridienne loved you, Gossamyr. The mortal passion led her astray. Nothing more. You two are devastatingly alike, so…passionate about life. Rebellion runs like ichor through your veins.”

Ichor? Not in this half-blood’s veins, she thought wistfully.

Gossamyr felt her father’s sadness ran far deeper than he would ever show. Had Veridienne’s departure been rebellion? To journey to the Otherside had always been her dream, but a dream tainted by the reality of her mother’s absence.

“I have been nothing but clear regarding your never Passaging to the Otherside.”

A shiver prinkled up Gossamyr’s spine. Would he yet deny her this mission? Forbid her from yet another enticing fragment of life? Champions were made, not hired! And such an experience for the future lady of Glamoursiège! There was yet opportunity…

She scuffed her palms across her leather braies and scanned the gloss shimmering in her father’s violet eyes.

“It is dangerous. We both know that.” Shinn’s breaths settled in the air between them, heavy with something akin to dread. “But the time has come to release you from a father’s protective obsession.”

Apprehension tightened Gossamyr’s limbs so she stood boldly erect.

“Yes, you see, even I have my obsession. I cannot protect you once you leave Faery.”

She needn’t protection. With staff in hand and a keen eye for danger, Gossamyr invited the experience.

“Just remember,” he said. “Always Believe—”

“And I will Belong. I know, Shinn. Worry not, I will never lose mind of my home. Will there be revenants on the Otherside?”

“No, they flee to Faery as quickly as the essence is stolen.”

“Which is why you must remain here.”

“Indeed. A fée can only travel to the Otherside on so many occasions before Time masters his body. I have journeyed there many a time. Would that I could accompany you.”

“You mustn’t risk it.”

“I will muster my troops and prepare for a sure battle. I sense their numbers will only increase as the Red Lady remains unstopped. I have been witness only to those who return to Glamoursiège. I expect other Faery tribes have been attacked, as well.”

“These revenants, what happens when one does manage to obtain an essence?”

“That would leave an innocent fée dead, and the revenant would have its final twinclian.”

“Would not the innocent become revenant?”

Shinn nodded. “You understand this vicious cycle could cripple Faery.”

Further reason to avoid delay. Time must be faced. “I can do this.”

His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I know.”

Why did a prinkle suddenly cleave to Gossamyr’s spine? This is what she most desired.

“I should not send you alone.”

“There are none in Faery who can accompany me.” For there were none with mortal blood to protect them from the Red Lady’s seeking lure. “You’ll need your troops here to fight the revenants.”

“Perhaps a pisky guide—”

“What of Mince?”

“She is far too aged, and honestly, much too plump to keep your pace. The Disenchantment would take her swiftly.”

Indeed. Gossamyr would not risk the matron, even as she dreaded leaving her maternal influence. The only kind arms she had known following Veridienne’s departure, for Shinn did not express his concern with sympathetic touches but with stronger actions, such as teaching her to fight.

“I will fare well on my own.”

“Mayhap a fetch?” Shinn nodded, pleased with his notion. “Indeed, I will send one along to repeat back to me your successes.”

She liked that he already thought of her success.

“Now, Disenchantment occurs quickly,” he warned. “Once you set foot on the Otherside you’ve perhaps less than a day before you lose all glamour.”

“I have no glamour!”

“You’ve a cloak of glamour.” He splayed his fingers before her face, raising a sensation of warmth in her flesh, drawing the shimmer of the fée to the surface. There in the blazon tracing her collarbones and upper chest did she feel the magic, the innate being of her kind. The prinkles dancing on Gossamyr’s spine subsided.

“It has seeped into you over the years,” Shinn assured.

So she twinkled. That did not mean she could perform twinclian. Hers was a false glamour. No flight, no twinclian, no glamour. Lousy fée she had turned out to be. Half-blooded was nothing more than mortal.

Gossamyr tightened her grip about the staff and strummed her fingers across the clutter of stringed arrets dangling from her braided-leather hip belt. “What of my skills, my speed?”

Shinn set a hand on her shoulder. Violet eyes looked into hers, as if to leap into her being. “The skills you have honed over the years are yours to own, Gossamyr. Nothing can strip your physical prowess or your battle technique.”

She nodded and slid a hand upon the Glamoursiège coat of arms that she also wore on her hip belt, her family’s sigil, it was carved from the same applewood as her staff. “What of my essence, er…my soul? Do I have both? Can the Red Lady take either from me?”

“Your mortal blood—as well, the fact you are female—will serve a boon. The succubus will not have the slightest interest in you.”

Her father’s voice, deep and strung with a melodious harmony, vibrated within her. Ever and anon he had protected her—even when that protection had hurt her heart. When all other fée would look upon her with a strange reluctance that would keep them an armshot away, yet still amiable, Shinn stood at her side, his pride in her apparent in the determination that pressed back the naysayers.

“Desideriel will be glad of my absence,” she remarked.

“He is a fine match, Gossamyr. We have discussed this overmuch.”

“I do not like him. Do you not sense his distaste for me?”

“You see things only you wish to see.”

With a sigh she offered a silent agreement. So, too, did Shinn see only what he wished to see.

So little to look forward to with her marriage to a man who saw only her faults, and yet, she did anticipate taking the Glamoursiège reign.

“I have groomed him.” Reluctance cautioned Shinn’s voice. “He understands what is expected.”

“As well do I.” A marriage for Glamoursiège, her heart be cursed to suffer for it. But she did respect her father’s choice.

She would speak to Desideriel Raine. Perhaps look again into his eyes and determine if it truly was only her that thought to see his reluctance.

Shinn reached for her staff and drew it between the two of them. One toise in length, the steel-hard applewood had been carved by the Glamoursiège sage and fire-forged by dragon’s breath. Intricate ribbons weaved into a crosswork of roses and flame about the rich wood.

“I will not bid you farewell,” he offered as he pressed the staff into her hand. “Because you are unable to twinclian, you will have to Passage. There is no way to place you immediately in Paris, so a journey awaits. Take this purse of coin, purchase a swift horse and make haste.”

Slipping a leather pouch from his hip, he then tied it to her belt. His fingers lingered on the coat of arms before relenting and stepping back.

Gossamyr spread her fingers around the ample pouch, feeling rich with its weight. Never had she required coin, for her father’s steward and Mince had seen to her needs and desires. How she would miss Mince!

Shinn touched her forehead with his thumb and closed his eyes, imprinting the whorls of his life upon her flesh, connecting with her hidden eye, the all-seeing and all-knowing. No lack of glamour could dispel intuition.

“Come back to me,” Shinn whispered.

A sudden hollowness in her chest forced her to swallow back a strange sense of loss. It wasn’t as if she would never again see him. And Mince, the fretful matron, would only worry should she seek her for a farewell. Such discovery waited her on the Otherside!

“I will,” she promised. “Set me off, and I shall succeed.”

“I send you forth with my blessing, child of mine. Make right what you shall, and may you discover the solace to the ache that has been your nemesis.”

With a nod, Gossamyr silently vowed that ache—the mortal passion—would not defeat her.

The soft press of Shinn’s lips replaced his thumb. Gossamyr lifted her head and in the violet gaze looming over her she found all the strength she would ever need. “I am off, then?”

Shinn stepped back and nodded.

“Very well, but I’ve no twinclian. How shall I enter—”

TWO

France—1436

“—the Otherside?”

The droning alarm of a cicada announced her arrival. Wobbling off balance, Gossamyr swiftly recovered. She bent her knees and, hands spread, scanned her surroundings.

Every pore on her body sensed the world had changed. The air smelled verdant. Tightly sown moss, plush in density, cushed beneath her bare toes as they curled into the thickness. The musty vapor of earth rose about her. ’Twas a muted aroma of decaying wood and fetid bracken, similar to Faery but…different.

Gone, the Glamoursiège castle of blue marble.

Gone, the crystal Faery sky devoid of cloud or shadow.

The Spiral forest, why…it was gone. She stood on horizontal ground, not a mass of forest and marble and reticulated roots all twined and flowing at the slightest of angles.

A squeeze of her fingers reassured her staff was to hand. The carved ribbons pressed into her palm tingled with glamour. She had not natural glamour, but over the years Faery had seeped into her being, imbuing her with a latent glamour that could be briefly utilized.

Gossamyr touched her hip belt, clasping a narrow arret string. Scanning the ground she sighted within the brushy grass bright red toadstools dotted with white warts, closing her into a complete circle. Amanita muscaria; long ago her mother had taught her the strange name for the mushroom; Latin, she’d named the identifying language.

Names possess power. A litany fed to her every day since she could remember. Use that power wisely.

The toadstool circle had risen up below the castle tower overnight. Gossamyr had marveled that the peacocks had walked a wide berth about it. She had been standing in the tower immediately above the circle—indeed, a Passage.

A copse of pendulous cypress rose to her left, shadowing the thick grasses with a silky gray lacing. Pine and earth and grass flavored the air in a pale mist. Gossamyr drew in a breath. Gone, the sweet aroma of hyacinth. Shinn did not stand beside her, his hands clasped before him. The glimmer in her father’s violet eyes was but a twinkle in the air, a breath of fée dust shimmering to naught.

She reached out, grasping at the absence of all she knew, all she had come to depend upon—Faery. Opening her palm upward, she spread her fingers. Gone.

But still there.

Faery was neither here nor there but betwixt and between. Though she could not see him Gossamyr knew Shinn could see her. I will send a fetch. She looked about, but sighted not a hovering spy.

According to what she had read in Veridienne’s bestiary, mortals did have ways of peering in to Faery.

Indeed?

A mischievous tickle enticed Gossamyr to test that theory. Tilting her head forward, she peered back through the corner of her eye. Swiftly, she jerked her head the opposite direction and narrowly stretched her gaze.

Hmm. Not a glimmer or vibration in the sky. No flutter of iridescent wings, not a single flicker as fellow fée twinclianed elsewhere.

A trickle of panic tittered in Gossamyr’s belly. She rubbed her palms up and down her bare arms—the quilted pourpoint stopped at hip and shoulder—and turned about, eyeing the ruffled canopy of treetops. Grapelike clusters of bright yellow laburnum flowers speckled the greenery. ’Twas clearly the edge of the same forest that limned her father’s castle. There! She recognized the hollowed-out yew stump—a youngling’s favorite hiding spot. But this forest edge was no Edge. There was no risk of falling to a crush of bones amidst the marsh roots should she step off the Edge, for the land beyond this forest stretched on. The Bottom. Everywhere.

Gossamyr gulped. The Bottom was a dangerous place. But where there were no marsh roots there would be no kelpies. No kelpies meant no werefrogs. Blessings.

But what situation was she in now?

She had asked for this mission. And wonder upon wonders Shinn had relented. What was once forbidden now lay before her. The Otherside was hers to explore.

But not to forget: the fate of Faery relied on her success.

A decisive nod stirred courage to her surface.

“Champions are made. I will return to Faery the victor.”

Until then—“Achoo!”

Spreading her arms to adjust her balance, Gossamyr settled a few steps from where she had landed. “Achoo!”

What tickled her senses?

Sniffling, she thought briefly her watery eyes were tears. Tears were a sign of weakness, of unfettered emotions. One could not Be amidst a fury of conflicting emotion. She had once cried enough tears for a lifetime, so it surprised now there should be any left.

Mayhap they were tears caused by the mortal atmosphere?

“It is merely the dust.” For indeed motes of dust floated, and close loomed a skein of buzzing gnats.

Turning, Gossamyr scanned the dark emerald lacework of the forest canopy and the blackened trunks of oak trees she recognized, but had known in a more spectacular image. No exposed roots twisting and trailing down the length of the Spiral forest. ’Twas her favorite activity to swing and climb amongst the network of roots, chasing night moths. And where be the canorous frog song that so twinkled from amidst the shadowed roots?

Shrugging her hands up her arms, she scanned the forest. A rabbity moan brewed in her throat. Gossamyr pressed a hand to her chest. Calm yourself.

How to return when her mission was complete? She wasn’t sure how she had entered the Otherside. Born without twinclian—the ability to twinkle in and out from a place—she could only imagine the task had been accomplished via Shinn’s glamour.

Perhaps she should have gotten the return method clear with her father before setting off on adventure. Always, Shinn had tried to crush her penchant for rushing blindly into situations. A warrior must assess and plan. But Gossamyr liked the danger, and the thrill of dashing into the fray—as much as the peaceable kingdom of Glamoursiège had allowed. There were the occasional vagrants from the Netherdred that crept into the Spiral; excellent opportunity for Gossamyr to put her training to use. Always, though, Shinn had been there to aid.

Mayhap she had leaped a bit too far this time? Who would catch her should she stumble?

The buzz of a large insect spun Gossamyr about to spy a harnessed dragon fly. Pale blue wings spanned the width of her forearm. Zip, zip here; zip, zip there. The bejeweled harness glinted in the sunlight. It hovered before her—see me, I am near—then jet-tied up into the forest canopy.

“So he did send a fetch.” A bit of Faery close by to reassure.

A breath of confidence filled Gossamyr’s lungs. “Shinn would have never sent me did he not trust I would be successful. I will find the Red Lady and put an end to her vicious reign. If more of those revenants return to Faery, my father will have a full-scale battle on his hands. I must make haste.”

Which way lay Paris? Perched high atop the Spiral in her father’s castle down was the only direction she had ever learned. To navigate horizontally instead of vertically would prove…interesting.

Gossamyr searched her memory and envisioned a finely detailed page from Veridienne’s bestiary, a map of the mortal city with the various tribes of Faery inscribed over all. Glamoursiège sat downsouth of Paris.

Lifting her foot, she remembered the Passage. A precarious position for one just arrived. Stabbing her staff outside the circle, she swung her legs up and out and landed the ground.

She stared wistfully at the empty ring of toadstools. ’Twas how the Dancers arrived in Faery. A Passage should, by rights, work both ways.

Should she? Just a test?

Gripping her staff, Gossamyr lifted her foot and pointed a toe toward the circle, then…she stepped inside. One foot firmly planted on the ground. Shallow breaths quietly exhaled. The chirring finale of the cicada’s song rattled to silence.

Nothing.

“Hmm…”

Removing her foot from the circle, she then tried the other foot, and waited, breath held.

Again, naught but the pulse beat of her heart inside her ears.

Looking about she did not spy the fetch. It saw all, she knew. Dare she jump inside with both feet? What if it did work? She would return to Faery. To Mince’s sheltering arms. And Shinn’s disapproving eyes.

Her father had granted her this opportunity. She must to it!

“I can do this,” Gossamyr said. A shrug of her shoulders and a loosening shake of her limbs summoned bravery. “I will do this. I know how to protect myself. I know how to track and defend. Oh yes—” a smile crooked her mouth “—I want some adventure.”

A few strides put her to a narrow wheel path gouged along the horizontal purlieu of the forest. The packed red dirt felt warm beneath her bare feet. She must have landed the edge of Glamoursiège territory, for the Spiral forest spun down to the border between tribes.

The Netherdreds inhabited the perilous flatlands that surrounded large mortal cities, for their kind thrived in the unstable atmosphere that separated Faery from the Otherside. (Faery simply did not exist in the large cities. Densely populated mortal lands tended to tamper with the Enchantment. As well, the mortals’ use of magic drained any Enchantment that seeped too close.) Gossamyr would have to traverse the Netherdred, albeit, she now stood on the Otherside, so there was no fear to encounter any from the nefarious tribe.

However, if she had come to the Otherside, what then, prevented a Netherdred from doing the same?

Flicking a keen eye about, Gossamyr assessed her surroundings. Alone. And keep it that way.

The fetch buzzed overhead, its wings glinting copper against the settling sunlight.

“Not alone,” she reminded. And was pleased for it.

A skip to her left and she scampered onward. A smile was unstoppable. Her high spirits lended a lightness to her steps. Gossamyr splayed her arms out to her sides. A shimmy of her hips nearly lifted her bare feet from the ground. She felt…less heavy.

“So light,” she marveled.

Always in Faery she had fought her natural awkwardness. Cumbersome in the air there, and often tripping over roots or rocks. Yet here? The air barely skimmed her being. Performing a spin, Gossamyr let out a squeal and set again to her pace.

A tilt of head took in the vast horizon. Fascinating to view the sunset from its parallel and not above.

Fragile wings skimmed the scabbed cut on her cheek, and the skitter of legs tapped at her nose and forehead. Faster than a wing-beat, Gossamyr lashed out, capturing a damselfly by the wings. She dangled the annoying insect before her face and tilted a defiant smirk at the pivoting jade eyes.

“Thought you possessed swiftness, eh? The air here is better suited to me—Achoo!”

Nearly toppled from her feet by that powerful sneeze, Gossamyr stumbled and stabbed her staff into the red dirt.

The damselfly escaped in a spiraling ascent through the crystal sky, a sleek distraction for the fetch.

A silly grin followed Gossamyr’s explosion. While the air seemed to fit her like a charm, it did not want her to get too comfortable.

Of a sudden, a strange, mournful tune touched her ear. The small clink of saddle furnishings punctuated the song with syncopated notes.

Gossamyr spun to eye a horse and rider ambling down the path. Her right hand stiffening and fingering the waxed cord of an arret, she homed in on the approaching target and crouched to strike.

Paris—downnorth

Aaee aaaa…mmm…oooo….

The melodious call beckoned him along the rough limestone garden wall, arms stretched to flatten his body and meld with the twilight shadows. Wings scraped against stone, but for the task he did not mind the pain.

Again came the sonorous call, a seductive beckoning. He closed his eyes and rode the shiver that vibrated his very bones and bubbled his blood. A strange and overwhelming desire always transpired at the call. For a moment it blocked those just-beneath-the-surface longings to flee, to mutiny.

Down the alley the door to an inn opened to emit or eject. The beat of drums, pounding to a rhythm of the Indian isles, escaped and fixed a tempo inside his breast. It synchronized with his heartbeats and played dull tympani to the succubus’s call.

His fingers curling around the corner of a darkened cobbler’s shop, he peeked to spy the nondescript black lacquered carriage across the empty market square. Red curtains of heavy plush covered the glassless windows; a thin, painted red line danced an arabesque across the gut of the carriage. The equipage, plumed in even more red, stood motionless, sleeping upon their feet. The coachman slept as well; a forced rest, that.

Aaee…aaaaa…mmm…

He dived into the shudder that swelled in his muscles and centered in his groin. Moans leaked from his tight lips, aching for her touch, to be controlled by his mistress. Though the call spoke of private pleasures and selfless devotion, he knew this one was not for him. He only received the call in the privacy of his lady’s manor.

So he watched as from out of the shadows crept a lone man, tall and armed at his left hip with a sword. They always approached with cautious steps and plumed hats pulled low. Elegantly dressed in doublet and thigh-high boots, a chain of ornamental gold hung heavily about his shoulders—rich, then.

Fée, the watcher deduced, for their kind betrayed themselves with their carriage. Ever haughty and slim, unable to sulk under the oppression Paris pressed down upon all. Regal rogues. Yet Disenchantment had melted away this one’s wings.

Not mine, the watcher thought. Puppy still has wings.

The fée ran a glove, palmed in mail, along the carriage body, inexplicably tracing the fine red line—when a lithe hand swept out from the window. Flinching as if singed, the fée’s hand recoiled, but as quickly dashed back to clasp the female’s fingers. He bent to inhale the aroma of lemon soaking the fine kidskin glove.

The watcher rubbed together his bare fingers. Dry cracks from squeezing lemons to extract the oil from the slippery rinds tormented his flesh. Good Puppy.

One final call. This melody lingered, wrapping its music about the fée’s volition and securing hold.

As the carriage door creaked open, the watcher hated her. Slipping a hand into the leather sheath at his hip he drew up a long thin needle of silver, capped with a smooth, perfect ball of winter-forged iron.

Pin man.

No. I am your puppy, yes?

Moonlight danced on the pin’s tip. Fixing to the thin shimmer of silver he mesmerized himself, falling into the moment and the singular admiration of the narrow shine. Anything to avoid thinking of her…and what absence denied him.

Moments later the carriage door again creaked open. One long leg thrust out, followed by a torso and the other leg dragging closely behind. The fée stumbled, catching himself upon the ground with his gloves. Mail clished across the cobbles. The tip of a steel-capped sabre sheath drew a metallic line in the wake of the clatter. Curious, the Parisian fée choose metal weapons over the finer stone instruments. Did the Disenchanted no longer fear the bite of iron or the burn of steel?

The watcher pressed his back to the wall and closed his eyes, clutching the pin near his thigh. Silver, yes, but a strange magic protected him from its devastating burn.

The fée managed to right himself, wobbled as if soused, then sauntered toward the shadows. Boots, spurred and jingling, trudged closer. A racket of riches announced the fée’s approach. The watcher felt the wind of movement as a gloved hand smacked the wall near his ear—steadying, grasping a moment to catch a breath that from this moment on could only be a dying cry.

The fée passed without notice. Almost.

The pin held firmly in his palm, the long needle sticking out between his first and second finger, tugged at fine silk hose and pierced. The small cry from the fée preceded his jerk to swing and eye his attacker. He stared at the pin man for but a second—memorize those strange-colored eyes and smooth silvery skin dotted with red—then staggered onward.

Drawing the pin along his torso, one deft twist tilted the point to his nose. The pin man drew in the scent of the fée’s blood, savoring it as if a bung-cork plucked from the cask of aged Bordeaux—not so much sweet as sour, and laced with an earthen origin. Scent of Faery. Had he ever lived there? Yes! But…when?

He dashed across the way, and lifting the carriage door open without making a single creak, entered the dark box. Crawling upon the carriage floor and coiling his legs up under him, he stretched an arm along the soft, sensuous damask skirts, feeling beneath all the frill and lace her thigh, the sharp curve of her hip and waist. Burying his face into her lap he sighed and snuggled into salvation.

The tips of sharpened fingernails grazed his scalp as his mistress raked a hand through his long hair. “Such a good puppy you are.”

He snuggled his face deeper into the warm thickness of bone-colored damask and lemon and the cloying aroma of woman. Always she allowed him this small moment. A reward for a task begun.

But not completed.

THREE

The horse seemed more a mule for it did not span half so high as the eighteen-hand destriers Shinn’s troops had once ridden into battle. Gossamyr loved to ride the stallions across a flower-dappled meadow, her arms stretched wide to catch the wind—it was as close as she ever came to flying. But never too close to the Edge.

The careless tune suddenly ceased and a dark-hooded head looked up at the block in the road.

“Well met?” called Gossamyr, waving to appear unthreatening. She had no intention of attacking until she determined a menace. “Be you friend or foe?”

The male snorted. “You shall have to divine that for yourself.”

Taken aback, Gossamyr straightened and unhooked an arret. It wasn’t so much the rude reply but the tone of it. Harsh and deep, and not at all friendly.

The man heeled the mule toward Gossamyr until they stood but two leaps from her. Truly a mutant, the beast. For what purpose did so small a horse serve when its master’s feet toed the grass tops?

The rider remained astride, unconcerned the proper greeting should see him bowing before her. Green-and-black horizontal-striped hosen, tight as spriggan-skin, emphasized his long legs; a shock of pattern weeping from the blur of black wool cloak and hood. His pale face was severely scored by a thin beard and mustache the color of burnt chestnuts. Following the length of his blade nose, Gossamyr focused on his blue eyes filled with more white than color. Eerie. She had not before looked into eyes of such color.

“I…offer you no bane,” she tried. How to address a mortal? “Er…kind mortal.”

“Oh?” He leaned forward, balancing his palms on the saddle pommel. “And do all ladies fair welcome a weary traveler with such a big stick? And wielded in a manner as to appear threatening?”

Gossamyr stabbed the staff into the moss at foot and shrugged. “You offered no answer to my query, so I cannot be sure if I face friend or foe.”

“I am neither,” he said and stroked a hand over his bearded chin.

Those eerie eyes assessed her from head to bare toes, a gaze that boldly brushed her being. The sensory assault unnerved her for she was still startled by the tone of the man’s voice. So rough. Not at all melodious. The urge to step forward and scent him was strong, but she remained. Caution, her instincts whispered.

“What is that dangling from your hand?”

She gave the arret a twirl; the sharpened obsidian tip cut the air with a hiss. A simple weapon she fashioned herself. Not fire-forged, but deadly in its swift and accurate flight.

“Looks like that device would hurt,” the man bellowed in notes that knocked at the insides of Gossamyr’s skull. “At the least, leave a mark, should a man find it lodged in any portion of his anatomy.”

Amused by his jesting tone, Gossamyr agreed with a smirk. She had never placed an arret to any part of a man’s anatomy—mortal or fée—but there was always a first time. She lowered the weapon but kept it in hand.

She hadn’t expected to encounter a mortal so quickly. She had just been getting her bearings! Nor was she prepared in any way to converse with him. Did all mortals emit such raw and echoing sounds when they spoke? Gossamyr was accustomed to the musical lilt of fée speak; she had never guessed that mortals would not sound the same.

Well! Her first mortal. (If she did not tally Veridienne—whom she did not—for she, too, had worn a blazon of glamour). The fascination with standing so close to one did stir her blood. She had only ever dreamed to meet another mortal besides her mother. There wasn’t much physical difference between mortal and fée in body height or appendages, save the fée’s defining swish of wings, horns, scales and the occasional spiked spine. And the telling blazon.

Gossamyr gripped her throat. Was it noticeable? Is that why curious blue eyes fixed to her?

“You are alone, fair lady of the strange costume?” Not so grating as the initial tones.

“I am,” she replied. Strange costume? Her arachnagoss pourpoint? It was certainly very average. Mayhap he did not notice the sheen of glamour on her flesh. Better even, mayhap her blazon was concealed?

Two steps took her right up to the mule’s side. She gazed up into the mortal’s hooded visage. Musk and earth and a curious scent of sweetness intrigued.

“Remarkable,” the rumble-toned man said. “And most bewildering.”

“Why so?”

“My lady, do you not fear attack?”

A short burst of laughter preceded Gossamyr’s cocky grin. A spin of the longstaff cut the air in a swift gulp and she stabbed the tip to ground near her foot. “As you have remarked, I carry a big stick.”

“Indeed. As well you could take a man’s eye out with that spinny thing.”

“It is an arret,” she explained, then tucked it away on her braided amphi-leather belt. “Achoo!”

“Bless yo—my lady? Did—did you just…twinkle?”

“What?” Twinclian? She hadn’t moved. Well, the sneeze had shaken her fiercely—

“You just glimmered!”

Impossible—ah! So her blazon was visible!

A step back was necessary. A tug of her pourpoint did not lift the soft fabric any higher than her collarbone. The blazon started under her chin and flowed to the bottom of her collarbone, wrapping around her neck to under her ears.

The fée did not reveal themselves to mortals. Nothing but ill could come from discovery. Another step placed her in the shade of a fat-leaved mulberry.

Yet another startling thought unsettled: this mortal could see her. Mortals were not capable of seeing the fée. Not unless they possessed the sight. Hmm…Unless—no, she knew the fée visited the Otherside completely unseen.

Mayhap a half blood was visible to mortals?

So long as he did see her, she had better distract attention from her blazon, the only telling sign of Faery.

She summed up the man’s attire, long dark cloak, striped hose and an open white shirt with blue peacocks embroidered around the neck. About his fingers danced colors of ruby, sapphire and gold. Various silver symbols hung from a leather cord about his neck. Alchemical symbols, she surmised. A sure sign of the sight. And that she must beware, for surely he dabbled with magic. “You are…a wizard?”

“Far from it.”

“A mage?”

“Are they not two of the same?”

“What are you?” That you can see me!

“Why, I am a man.” Still sitting upon his mule he bowed to her and introduced himself. “Jean César Ulrich Villon III.” Casting a wink at her, he said, “But you may call me Ulrich.”

Ulrich. Who saw her. And whose voice blasted inside her skull and rippled through her body like tiny sparkles of sunlight heating her flesh. Everything about him called to her attention.

Was it the same for him? Did she sound so different? How soon before her blazon faded? Surely the Disenchantment would wipe it away?

And until it did, and she could walk undetected by mortal eyes?

“I shall call you gone.” Gossamyr nodded over her shoulder and made show of spinning the staff in a twirl of defiance.

“The lady is not a conversationalist. And I must heed she is well armed.” The man heeled his mule and ambled past her. “Very well. This forest remains the same. The trees are the same. All…is well.” His hood did not conceal the curious eyes drinking her in from crown to toe. Bare toes, Gossamyr realized as she turned her toes inward. “Fair fall you, my lady. Good…day.” He paused, blatantly staring at her, then, snapping his attention away, nodded. He muttered to himself, his parting words low but audible, “Could she be?”

Gossamyr watched until the man disappeared beyond a rise on the red clay path and the whistles of his renewed dirge became but a figment. Only then did she release her held breath. And only then did she realize she had been holding her breath.

“What sort of skittish maid am I? He presented no threat. He was but a man. A mortal man. I should have…asked him things. Questioned him!” She kicked a tuft of grass.

For all her frustration she had not been trained on mortal relations. Shinn had ever made it clear a trip to the Otherside would never occur. Martial skills served well against the spriggans, hobs and werefrogs of Faery. One did not have to converse with the rabble, merely lay them out.

So what hindrance had befallen her tongue? ’Twas not as if she had never before stood so close to a male. So close as to once kiss, she thought wistfully.

You are exotic…A Rougethorn’s wondrous declaration to love.

Yes, I can love. It is the mortal half of me who loves, I know it!

My lady, did you glimmer?

Ah! ’Twas the man’s notice of her blazon that had thrown her off! That is why she had sent him away so hurriedly. She had not expected to be seen. And if so, she required time to plot how she would move about in this new and alien world.

Yet, for as strange as she suspected her surroundings, the man had made an odd remark about the sameness of the forest. Verily, in a stretched-out, horizontal manner. And yet, far removed from all she had ever called home.

Fact remained, the mortal had seen her. Mayhap they all could? Her half blood had never before been tested by unEnchanted eyes. And if all could see her then all would remark the blazon.

A disguise must be summoned to cloak her fée shimmer. Shinn had told her of those mortals who would keep fée as pets. A caged spectacle to be presented at fêtes and in market squares, forced to wallow in the Disenchantment until they literally shriveled to bone.

She had not true glamour, though by merely living in Faery she had absorbed a bit of the skill. With a decisive nod, Gossamyr closed her eyes and began to concentrate, to summon her latent power of glamour. If she simply thought plain that would mask the blazon.

“Ho!”

Drawn prematurely from her attempt, Gossamyr twisted at the waist. There he was again. The man with the eerie blue eyes and clinking silver charms about his neck. Had he traveled a circle? This forest, dense and large, would surely require any casual traveler much time to circumnavigate—even should his journey spiral. Was mortal time so spectacular then?

Time is the enemy.

“What sort of witchery be this?” the man said as he heeled his mount beside Gossamyr.

Her fingers toyed with the carvings on the staff, and one hand flattened to her throat. “You jest with me.”

“I beg that I do not, my lady. I traveled straight; there was not a turn in the road. And yet—”

“No time passed?”

“Exactly.” Pressing a hand over his brows to shade his view from the setting sun, he peered at her. A flicker of ruby flashed in his ring. “I do not believe your sparkle is merely the sun—”

“Impossible you did not turn and cut back through the forest.”

He shrugged, and the hood of his cloak fell to his shoulders to reveal a scatter of tangled hair and a trickle of crimson running from temple to ear. Might have been scratched by a branch, so small the cut. Yet there, to the side of his right eye, a bruise the color of crushed blackberries tormented the flesh. What had the man been to? Fighting? Defense?

“Be gone with you, stranger,” Gossamyr said. She had enough to sort through without him tangling her thoughts, making her wonder when wonder was best abandoned to focused attention.

The buzz of the fetch zoomed past her face, too quick for a mortal to regard as any other than an insect. Shinn kept watch.

“Ride straight and do not look back.”

With a surrendering splay of his hands, the man huffed out a grand sigh. “As the lady wishes. I’ve my own sorrows to keep me this day.” He again heeled the mule. With a bristle of its dirty hide the beast carried its master onward.

Over the rise in the road, Gossamyr watched and listened keenly for his return, for a signal he veered from the path and into the underbrush that paralleled the pounded dirt. A bluefinch soared overhead, chirring a greeting that made her smile. Exactly as the birds in Faery. The bird verified the traveler neared the edge of the forest—

“’Tis a spell!”

Behind her, Jean César Ulrich Villon III reined the beast to a halt and jumped to the ground. Fists planted akimbo, he looked over the mule, then up the verdant wall of the surrounding forest. Gossamyr thought she heard him mutter, “The same.”

“Be you a witch?” he called.

“Most certainly not.” That would imply she dabbled with forbidden magic! She stomped over to him and jabbed her staff under his chin. “Tell me true, you traveled straight?”

He nodded, raising his spread hands to his shoulders to keep them in view. Small cuts gashed his palms and wrists. Had the man battled his way out from a prickle bush? Where then had he found such a nasty bruise?

Gossamyr scanned the forest, seeking a tear in the curtain to Faery where perhaps a sprite might be seen spying on his mischievous deed. Wide hornbeam leaves remained still as stone. Tree trunks gripped the earth, silent stately sentinels. Pale ivy twisted about the grasses and journeyed toward the toadstool circle. Not a dryad in the lot.

Gossamyr could not be sure if it was because she no longer stood in Faery, or simply, the Disenchantment befell more quickly than expected. She saw nothing out of sorts. Save that everything was horizontal.

“Pisky led,” she decided, then snapped the staff away from the man’s chin.

“What?” Ulrich followed her as she turned and stalked down the rough path away from him. “I’ve not seen a pixy.”

“Pisky,” she corrected sharply.

“Piskies, pixies, what have you!”

“They are very different. Piskies fly, pixies…they trundle. As well, pixies do not glimmer.”

“Only thing I’ve seen that glimmers of the enchanted is you, my lady. On your neck there—Oh, Hades!” He clamped a palm to his forehead. The action resulted in a yelp, for obviously his bruised face pained him. “Not again! Pray, tell you are not a damned faery.”

Gossamyr winced at the unfamiliar word. Not a favorable oath, she guessed from his tone.

“You are not? You cannot be. Dragon piss!” He pressed beringed fingers between them in an entreaty. “Have they sent someone to bring me back? Where are they? Do they lurk? No! I will not go. I refuse!” He curled his fingers and wrung the balled fist at Gossamyr. “Your kind have done enough to foul my life.”

“I am n-not a faery,” Gossamyr managed. She pressed a hand to her throat where the blazon was visible. They keep them chained in cages. “No, not faery,” she reiterated more confidently.

“You lie, trickster! Your sort never speak the truth, only in circles.” The man drew tiny frantic rings in the air before him. “Circles, circles, circles. Oh, but those damned circles! It is not the same! Changed, damn them all. It has all changed!”

“Believe me or not,” Gossamyr said over his ranting. “I am m-mortal, like you.” A quick twist of her fingers clasped the highest agraffe on her pourpoint, closing the vest to an uncomfortable tightness.

“Mortal?” He jerked a sneer at her. “My lady, we mortals do not have occasion to call ourselves mortals. We are men, women, coopers, bakers, fishermen—but never do we say mortal. Tavern keepers, tanners, magi and—”

“Enough! I am…a woman then.” Yes, he must see that! She managed an awkward curtsy—a quick bend of one knee—and forced a smile. “Are you well pleased?”

“Pleased? To stand in the presence of a faery?”

“I am not!”

“What of your clothing?”

“What of it?”

He peered closely at her. Gossamyr controlled the urge to reach for the discoloration on his cheek. Did it feel hot? Tender? What did a mortal feel like? His face was such a display of movement and lines and sighs and outburst. So emotional!

Oblivious to Gossamyr’s curiosity, Ulrich eyed the sleeveless pourpoint, slid over the applewood sigil propped on her hip, then stretched his gaze back up her neck. Stuffed with arachnagoss and sown in a fine quilting, the garment protected from sharp or slashing weapons.

He finally said, “Are those leaves sewn together?”

Clutching the rugged fabric fitted snugly to her body, Gossamyr lifted her chin. “Mayhap,” she offered stubbornly, thinking a lie would be just that—so obvious. Lies served nothing but to prolong the inevitable bane. But the truth of her was a necessary misappropriation, lest she find herself in a cage rotting in a market square.

“Leaves! Marvelous!” A brilliant smile revealed white teeth and he clapped his hands together—but the smile straightened sharply, as did his mood. “Well, I am not going with you.”

“I did not ask your accompaniment, mort—er, Ulrich.”

“So be off then.” He shooed her with a flip of his fingers. “Back to Faery where you belong.”

“Do you not hear well?”

“Perfectly.”

“Mayhap you are daft? I said I am n-not a faery. It is ridiculous of you to assume as much.” Gossamyr crossed her arms over her chest and assumed a defiant stance.

“What then places you here in my path, charming my mule to return at your bidding? If that is not faery glamour, I don’t know what is. Have not your kind toyed with me enough?”

“What torments have you suffered at the hands of Faery?”

“You don’t know?” A skip to his right, his feet nimble and sure, twirled him around once and ended with a mock bow. The man changed moods so quickly he was either barmy or a lackwit.

He blew forcefully from his mouth, which fluttered his lips into a slobbery sound. “Is not a dance of the decades damage enough? Oh!” He thrust up his arms, then as quickly, snapped into a wary crouch and scanned the dense forest. “Am I in Faery now? If you mean me no harm then get me gone from here. I command it of you, wicked faery!”

Gossamyr rolled her eyes at his dramatics—then narrowed her gaze on him. The remarkable thing about the man was not the bruises and blood but that contour of hair above and below his mouth. Fée men did not sport facial hair. It wasn’t necessary, for, unlike dwarves, they did not require body hair to protect from the elements. And those eyes. Blue, a color Gossamyr had never before looked into. Her mother’s brown eyes were the only anomaly from the fée violet. And her own. So much color twinned on the man’s face, and yet, that color drowned in a sea of white.

“We stand in the mortal realm, Jean César, er—”

“Ulrich Villon. The third—hell, what am I doing? I have just given my name complete to a faery!”

If he only knew how little glamour she could wield with that information.

A poke of her staff into the ground spoke her impatience. “Not a single faery taunts you this day.” Or so he must believe. But he seemed to know about her kind. And the forest, it seemed not to want him to leave her side.

Hmm…An enchanted bane or boon? She must…test. If he could leave her, then it was mere coincidence. If he again returned to her side, then they were meant—for reasons beyond her grasp—to travel together. It is all she could figure with so little experience of this realm.

“Get back on your mule and ride off. I will follow you over that ridge in the path to ensure your success.”

“She is not a mule,” the man offered as he mounted. His shoes, strapped and circled in thin leather ties, grazed the grass tops. “Fancy is a rare breed, yet while lacking in height makes up for it in endurance.”

Fancy? A miserable waste of horseflesh. But Gossamyr did not speak her annoyance. Surely the only reason for the man’s return to her twice over was that someone or thing in Faery saw to make mischief with her. But to speak to Faery—the trees, as the man would view it—would not put her to advantage. And where was the fetch when she needed to communicate?

Gesturing the mortal and his mule follow, Gossamyr walked up the path. At the rise, she saw the forest stretched ahead for endless lengths. Not a visible root or marsh kelpie in sight. Impossible he had traveled the distance and returned to her side in so little time.

Could Shinn be behind this? What reason had her father to place this man in her path? He had wanted her to accept a guide…

“You are a faery,” Ulrich muttered, the mule ambling to make pace with Gossamyr’s light-footed strides. “I know it. I am not going with you, foul one.”

“Suits me fine and well. I have no need of such misery to accompany me on my travels, you barmy bit of breath. Go. Once more,” she said as the man passed her by. And then he was gone.

Assuming a defiant stance, shoulders back and one knee slightly bent, Gossamyr counted her breaths, waiting, wondering. A strum of her fingers across the dangling arrets produced a multitude of obsidian clicks. Deadly aim, Shinn had once remarked of her skill. She’d taken the prize in tournament three years consecutive.

With a sigh, she shook away the sudden rise of apprehension created by her encounter with the mortal. Time threatened. Her father and his troops must battle more revenants even as she stood here.

She felt a familiar presence first at the base of her skull, the prinkles of warning, of sure knowing.

Gossamyr reluctantly turned to face where she had started her adventures in the Otherside. There lumbered her pisky-led mule and rider. It was too ridiculous to wonder. And so she loosed a chuckle and splayed her arms out in surrender.

“It appears I am destined to remain at your side,” Ulrich called. “Oh, to tap into the source of such magic!” Then he narrowed his blue gaze on her and muttered, “Mayhap I will, luck be with me.”

“I possess no magic.” And that was truth. Magic was a mortal device, forbidden in Faery. (Though there were those who dabbled.) For every use of magic, be it good or for evil, tapped Enchantment. Mortals literally stole Enchantment (most unknowing) to conjure their spells and charms and bewitchments. Should a fée be accused of dabbling, banishment was immediate.

“I do not know why you lie, faery, but I will allow you are a lone woman who must protect herself. Of course, lies be the way of the faery.”

“Faeries do not appeal to you?”

“Faery circles, my lady. And we are far from—Yei-ih!” He flicked his gaze back and forth between Gossamyr and the ground. “What is that? It’s…that’s it. A toadstool circle?” Ulrich heeled the mule, but it remained stubbornly stationed beside the Passage from which Gossamyr had disembarked. “Move, beast! Get thee gone!”

Gossamyr reached out. A tweetering whistle enticed the mule to wander toward her as she walked widdershins down the path. “They are merely toadstools. No harm will come to thee.”

“Speaks one who has not danced!”

A Dancer? Gossamyr peered at the mortal, seeing him newly. Much as she loved her parents and her home, she had ever been curious about the mortal realm. A curiosity that had flowered since the day she’d witnessed a Dancer. So very much like herself. Wingless and clumsy, with a lumbering body that had made his dance steps wobble—almost as if the air was too heavy for him to acclimate.

Had this man really Danced? Or did he merely babble nonsensities? To make a determination proved yet difficult. Too new this mortal realm, and this man but her first mortal. Nothing to compare him to. He could be luna-touched for all she knew.

But he had returned to her side, thrice over.

“You have been placed in my path for a reason. I must accept and move on, for urgency is fore. Come!” The mule followed as she walked onward. “Do you ride to the nearest village?” she asked, her pace slowing to mirror the mule’s laborious trudge.

“Mayhap I do.”

“I’ve great need to know how far away it lies. What is the time from here to the next village? How many suns will rise before I arrive?”

The horizon held his attention. Young, he appeared, though the gashed flesh on his hands lended to hard labor, or struggle. Definitely struggle, to gauge from the condition of his face. He could well be her peer.

“Aparjon,” he offered, without looking her way. “That be the next village. And following…who knows.” His heavy sigh intrigued Gossamyr. “I go where I am led. Tell me true, you have not been sent to retrieve me to Faery?”

“You continue to assume I am from Faery when I tell you I am not.” She winced at the lie. And she fooled herself to believe the blazon was not visible even with the highest agraffe secured. “I am on a mission.”

“Ah. A woman on a mission. And she wields a big stick, so watch out world!”

Ulrich scruffed a hand through his tangles of dark hair and offered a genuine grin. A missing tooth to the side of his front teeth spoke of certain battle. “You are not like most women.”

“Why say you such?”

“You are confidant and commanding.”

She bristled proudly at his expert observations.

“And…well, you do twinkle.”

“And you bleed.”

He touched the cut on his forehead and studied the minute flakes of blood on his fingers before dismissing it with a shrug. “A mere scuffle, which found the opponent most unfortunate.”

“You sure it was not a tangle with a prickle bush?”

“Would that it had been so. I hate bloody banshees.” He narrowed a suspicious gaze at her. “You’re not a banshee, are you?”

“No. Merely mort—like you. What of that bruise?”

Trembling fingers smoothed over the modena on the man’s face. He grimaced and shook his head. “If I told you a woman gave it to me, would you believe such foolery?”

Gossamyr shrugged. “A woman like myself?”

“I see your point.”

“Your insistence you see faeries and banshees leads me to wonder if you’ve the sight?”

“That dance changed everything. I’m still a bit dansey-headed from the whole event. I want Faery from my eyes!”

So he did see. Yet obviously it was not a gift he enjoyed.

Striding lightly, Gossamyr clicked her tongue to encourage the mule to pick up pace. It did not, and so she slowed.

“Now, explain to me why, if you are not a faery, your dress is so strange. Leaves for clothing? And those braies, they appear to be leather, but never have I seen so remarkable a color. Only the fair folk could fashion such a garment and make it strong and so flexible.”

Gossamyr smirked. The remarkable color was utterly average. Fashioned from frog skin, the amphi-leather was strong but flexible and comfortable.

“It would not be wise to be seen by any in a village or otherwise dressed in such a manner,” he stated. “Women conceal their forms with dresses and silly pointed hats. And sleeves. And shoes. Braies and hose are for men. As are weapons.”

She had not considered as much. Why had not Shinn? Of course, male and female were equals in Faery. Though Veridienne’s bestiary had detailed the misbalance between the sexes in the Otherside. For all Shinn’s visits to the Otherside, he should have known.

Gossamyr glanced over her attire. The fitted pourpoint stopped at her thighs. The weapon belt hung snugly across her hips. The Glamoursiège arms were carved in fire-forged applewood—faery wings upon a sword and shield; a holly vine wrapped about the sword signified the peaceable times. Amphi-leather braies wrapped her legs, and secured about her ankles a thin strip of leather kept the loose braies from catching on brambles or sticks.

The bestiary had illustrated mortal women wearing dresses sewn from ells of elaborate fabric trimmed with furs and jewels. Gossamyr wore gowns when it suited her—for balls and celebrations. Rarely though did such cumbersome garb suit her.

Had Veridienne insinuated herself to the Otherside with ease? But of course, her mother had known the ways of this world, for she had been born here. Gossamyr sensed now it would require much more than mere study of pictures and text for a rogue half-blood fée to find equal success.

Keep the blazon concealed.

“As well—” Ulrich leaned forward “—you travel alone, and are far too lovely to put off a man’s advances.”

“Let no man test my mettle unless he wishes to pull back a nub. Or, lose another tooth.”

Ulrich whistled through the space in his teeth. “I believe you, my lady. I believe you.”

She stepped through the grass and leaned in close to him. “Stop smiling.”

“Can’t.”

“Try.”

He spread his arms wide to exclaim, “Tis the bane of my existence, this smile.” He paced a grand circle about her, as if announcing to the masses an exciting performance. “For all the tragedy I have endured it did little to remove this false glee. For it is false. I feel only sadness in my heart.”

“Be that the reason for your mournful tune when first you approached?”

He stilled in his circle of footsteps. “You heard?”

“Your world is filled with echoes—er, this world.” She grimaced and punctuated her frustration by stabbing her staff into the ground with each word. “My world. The continent.”

“France?”

“Indeed.”

She caught his bemused grin. Far more appealing than his frown or shouted oaths. The sudden thought that this mortal appealed to her only vexed. You’ve no luxury to dally!

“As for my smile, women drop like flies in a swoon when they see my pearly chompers.”

“Are you sure it is not your smell?” Peering through the corner of her eye at him, Gossamyr teased, “Flies dropping in manure?”

He puffed out a protesting huff.

“Well, I am still standing,” she offered, unable to hide a playful grin.

“You, my lady—” he stabbed the air before her with a finger “—are not a woman.”

“I am so!”

“You are a faery.”

“The correct term is fée.”

“Fée, faery, banshee, witch! For all my troubles are caused by the like.” He kicked the dirt path and dust rose up about his parti-colored ankles.

Swoon? More like clap him with the tip of her staff. A banshee? Truly? Gossamyr knew of no root swamps—the banshees’ usual haunt—but the rift had increased the likelihood of mortals in Faery, as well it let out more from Faery to torment the Otherside.

This moment she likely stood near Netherdred territory.

“Have you a name, faery? Or would that be encroaching upon your person to inquire such? I do know should a faery give his name complete he would hand over his power.”

As well, a fée garnered much control over the mortal with his complete name. Jean César Ulrich Villon III. Quite the mouthful. Were she full-blooded, Gossamyr could work an erie upon his tongue to silence him.

“I am not afraid of your taunts.”

“Prove it with the gift of your name.”

A challenge? Such daring stirred her blood. She was beginning to like this man, despite his barmy nature.

“It is…” Gossamyr paused.

Never give your name to a mortal. They use magic, and can command your compliance by repeating it thrice. You will be beholden to their cruel wishes.

Caged and taunted, kept as a pet…

“My lady?”

A schusch of wind danced the leaves overhead into a rising cheer. Nearby, Fancy snuffled over a patch of clover.

“Twas only her name complete which would give away her power. The mortal had no means to discover that. “You may call me Gossamyr.”

“Gossamyr.” He whistled through the space in his teeth. “What sort of name be that? Gaelic? Irish? Not a bloody Scot, are you?”

“You talk too much.”

“And you are far too impudent for a woman.” He danced with his speech, as if it a natural extension of his thoughts. Into a circle about her, but too far for her to touch or even scent. “What be your destination? And whom have you left behind? Surely there is a father or husband who mourns your absence. And so alone.”

“I am not alone—achoo!—I am with you.”

He eyed her staff, held at shoulder level like a pike ready for launch. “Mayhap not. But there is something about me you should know.”

“What be that?”

A splay of his beringed fingers before him caught the fading sunlight in a rainbow of glints. Moving his hands like snakes slinking through the air, he bemused with his extravagant motions. “I have always had a weakness for sparkly things.” Another wink seemed to please him immensely.

Sparkly things? Gossamyr felt a strange warmth rise in her face. She lowered her staff and looked away so he could not see her discomfort. The blazon must be shed. Soon.

“I merely require direction to the next village,” she said. “Is it very large? I must purchase a swift horse and, as you suggest, some clothing.”

“Yes, I favor a fine dress of damask for you. And long red ribbons for the plaits in your hair.”

Gossamyr snorted and flipped the silver-tipped end of one of her thick plaits back over her shoulder. “Ribbons? Do you romance me, then? I’ll have you know I do not succumb to a man’s charm so easily—”

“Bloody hell!”

Gossamyr froze, the tone of Ulrich’s voice alerting her to the vibrations now obvious in the ground. Vibrations increasing in strength and moving toward them. She’d been so busy chaffering she hadn’t been paying attention.

“Don’t look now, Gossamyr, but you are soon to discover consorting with Jean César Ulrich Villon III is not for the faint of heart.”

Gossamyr did look. And what she saw loosed her demon-take-me smile.

The silhouette of a wide, squat figure barreled toward them. Dust plumed about it in a furious cloud. It wasn’t a man. It wasn’t even mortal.

Danger had arrived.

FOUR

Gossamyr swung her staff, bending into a defensive stance. She hooked the applewood parallel beneath her outstretched right arm. Peripheral vision sighted Ulrich, stalking up beside her, his fists bared and swinging for fight. “If you’ve not a bigger or pointier weapon, then stand back!”

“I’ve the will to survive, my lady, so you stand back.”

“I know what I’m doing!”

“As do I!”

“Do stay out of my way!”

She spun to catch the bogie in the gut with the steel-hard staff. Impact shook her feet from the ground. Tottering two steps to the left, she found her balance.

Ulrich yelped. She spied him shaking a fist that obviously had more impact on himself than the bogie’s hindquarters.

The beast let out a yowl and gripped her staff. The span of that grip covered a third of the longstaff. Gossamyr leaned backward to counter the attack. Landing her derriere shocked stinging prinkles up and down her spine. Shaking the vibrations from her skull she leaped to her feet, drawing the staff before her in a half arc of warning.

Bogies were dumb as wood, but when enraged were difficult to contend. Usually they were more breath than roar—and oh, did their foul breath wield a malodorous bite. Their square bulky bodies were solid as stone, save, their bald, flat heads; the skull proved thinner than parchment. Only problem was climbing the mountain of bogie to reach the prize.

A vicious wind of foul breath and gnashing incisors rose up behind Gossamyr. She spun, prepared to defend. The bogie shrieked and tumbled midair, soaring over her head, and landed the ground behind her.

Gossamyr pierced Ulrich with a dagger of a look.

The man countered with his own cocky wink and a tilt of the crossbow he wielded. “I’m keeping my distance!”

Rolling and shrieking, the squat brown bogie stirred up the dirt from the ground in a billowing cloud. The crossbow quarrel—wedged in the bogie’s gut—splintered and was crushed to pulp. Now the beast lay prone, its skull level with Gossamyr’s shoulder.

“Leave him for me!” Gossamyr yelled. Levering her leg back to force momentum through her body, she swung hard, meeting wood to skull. The definite dull crunch of shattering skullbone thundered in her ears.

A deft twist of her staff placed it like a spear in Gossamyr’s palm. Stabbing it into the bogie’s eye, the applewood met with little resistance. The body shuddered, jittering the staff in her sure grip. The ground shook. The mule brayed. Yowls to stir up a slumbering swamp beast from a bed of muck assaulted the air. With a final shudder of stout hairy limbs, the bogie gave up the ghost. The stench of such finality coiled into the air, wilting the freshness with a heavy veil.

Brown matter oozed from the skull. Gossamyr tugged out her staff and tamped it on the ground to clean it off. The ooze clung.

“Nasty bit of business that,” Ulrich commented.

Heavy breaths panted over her lips, but a smile stole Gossamyr’s disgust. She had done it. Her first challenge—alone, without Shinn looking over her shoulder—and she had been successful. The thought to retreat hadn’t even occurred. Danger had approached and she had stood at the ready.

“Yes!” Gossamyr said in an elated whisper.

Crossbow tilted against his shoulder, Ulrich stomped over and studied the oozing carnage. “Now that shall leave a mark.”

Spinning on the insolent, Gossamyr landed her staff with a click aside the crossbow. “I am going to leave a mark on you should you persist in interfering.”

“My lady.” He pressed out a placating hand. “There was a challenge to be met!”

“Expertly mastered by me!”

“You? Ha!”

“You laugh? I—”

“It was my quarrel brought down the thing.”

“I killed the beast!”

“Yes, and with great savor, I note. The thing is dead as a doornail.” Ulrich strode to the mule and, flipping open a tattered saddlebag, poked about inside. Drawing out a small horn, he uncapped what Gossamyr guessed to be cleaning oil for the weapon.

The fetch fluttered down from the sky. She offered it a smart bow. Danger annihilated. Shinn would be pleased. Circling the beast to take in the carnage, the fetch then alighted into the crystal sky to twinclian in a shimmer of dust.

Unaware of the exchange, Ulrich tucked the oil horn inside the saddlebag and strapped the crossbow across Fancy’s back. So he had assisted. Next time she would not allow him such opportunity.

“I cannot promise to stand idly by should such need again arise.” Ulrich strode by Gossamyr, finger to lips in thought. “It is my manner, fair lady, to help when a damsel requires saving.”

Damsel? Gossamyr slid a look to the left then the right. Where be this damsel? She was the only—Ah. So he thought…?

She spread her shoulders back, lifting her chest. Fisting her fingers before her, she hissed, “Do I look like I need saving?”

Dancing blue eyes took in her obstinate pose in a quick cap-à-pie flight. “Actually…no.”

“Just so. In the future keep your mortal weapons to yourself.”

“Indeed? Mortal weapons. Ahum.” He assumed a haughty pose, thumbs hooked at the waist of his striped hose, one foot stretched forward and his body cocked at an angle. “So says the damsel with the sparkly throat.”

“I—” Gossamyr slapped a palm to her throat.

“I suppose I must thank you,” he added.

“For saving thee?”

He chuckled. “No, for reminding me of which I forget. There is a damsel in need of rescue. And she will not argue my help. I must be off.”

“Saving damsels? What sort of pitiful, unoriginal quest—” She stabbed a proud thumb into her pourpoint. “I’ve a mission to save the—”

“The what?” Mirth tickled Ulrich’s lips into a slippery smile and now his tone danced teasingly. “The world? Is not such a quest reserved for armored knights and champions wearing their lady’s favor on their sleeves?”

“I am not here to save your world. It is my world I…must save.” Bogies and blight! Very sly, Gossamyr. Really blending well. Why did she not simply reveal her fée origins and hold out her wrists for the chains?

“Ah! I see. There is a separation between our worlds. But since you claim not to be a faery, I can only then assume you speak of the minuscule world that populates the inside of your skull.”

Ulrich approached and made show of tilting his head this way and that as he looked into her eyes. A vicious preening. The look was so familiar, like that of a fellow fée who deemed Gossamyr lesser because of her half blood, and yet, the rank of her father elevated her above all. Fluttering beringed fingers near her head, he insulted with silent menace. “My master once treated a victim of psychomachia.”

“Psycho-what?”

“It is one who lives within their own mind. Entire worlds are invented. An extraordinary life is led walking through the imaginary world, while the victim’s very feet tread the earth of reality.”

Gossamyr stepped right up to the man to meet his mocking stare. The embroidered trim of his cape brushed her knees. Must and earth surrounded his air. No longer did anything about him appeal, not even his fine white teeth. “You. Are rude.”

“And you are most snappish. And much too close. Have you no sense of propriety? Back off, warrior woman.”

She hooked her hands at her hips and fixed him with the mongoose eye.

“Not at all the same,” Ulrich muttered as he stepped away and drew a glance down her form. A sorry shake of his head shook his loose curls. “In twenty years women have truly lost all their graces. Pity.”

“What do you mumble about now?”

“Nothing that concerns you, Faery Not.”

That moniker, most cruel, set Gossamyr to a stomp.

“Very well.” Ulrich slapped his arms across his chest and faced her again with that preening expression. “I promise to stand back and allow you all the glory next time we are set upon by supernatural beasties.”

“It was a bogie.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

Next time? Hmm…Very possible, considering they walked the edge of the Netherdred, and would soon have to cross through it to reach the mortal city of Paris.

A scan of the horizon sighted a line of lindens and a wispy ghost of smoke, likely a fire roasting a family’s evening meal. The distant yowl from a night creature gave her wonder to the rampant wolves her mother had documented in the bestiary. Not so vicious as a Netherdog, frequently found wandering the sandy borders of the marsh roots, but certainly ferocious. She’d had no time to gather expectations of her journey, but already it proved more perilous than she might have imagined.

Adventure? Yes, please. She could stand down any threat that challenged.

I hope, a small voice deep inside whispered.

“I wonder what it was doing here?” she said with a glance to the block of bogie lying in a growing puddle of brown ooze. “Is it common for bogies to charge from out of nowhere? Such creatures generally keep to cinder caves and the night. For all the rage it possessed, one would think we’d done it a grievance.”

“Do you wish me to answer according to my world?” Ulrich tugged at the saddlebag, secured to Fancy’s flank. “As opposed to your skull world?”

With a glance to the battleground, peppered with brown bogie blood, Ulrich let out a heavy exhalation. He squeezed an eye shut at the blast of setting sun that beamed him in the face. “Never, in my extremely pitiful life, have I seen one of those things. Said life being much too short of late. Or be it too long?” A tilt of his head revealed the modena on his cheek. “But I trust you have encountered such? You knew exactly how to take the thing out.”

“Training.”

“Oh? Did I miss something in my schooling? Attack and conquer abecedarian?”

She delivered him a sneer to match—nay, defy—his mockery. “Just answer me this: are we close to a village? I tire, and have worked up a hunger.”

“One would never guess from the brilliant sparkle you put out.”

His constant reminder she glimmered troubled. A touch to her throat discovered the highest agraffe was open. The carved bone clasp had broken, most likely during the fight.

“A village? Indeed, Aparjon lies just ahead. But tell me, why do you not simply fly there? Ah!” He made show of bending and peering around to study her shoulders. Gossamyr twisted her back away from his view. “No wings!”

“We have already discussed this.”

“Indeed. Not a faery.” Now his jesting tone returned and that brilliant smile flashed like a beam of sunlight. “But plenty faeries do not have wings.”

“How know you such?”

“Every child learns the facts before they are out of infant skirts.” He made a merry skip and danced around Gossamyr. “Faeries come in all manner of shape, size and wing. Some walk amongst the mortals undiscovered, some flitter up to a man’s ear to stand inside it. But one thing they all have in common is a glimmer—” he drew his palm between them in a curtain of fluttering fingers “—that sheen of the unnatural.”

The blazon.

“Though, I must say, you do appear a trifle…faded.”

“What mean you by that?”

Ulrich pointed to the hem of Gossamyr’s pourpoint. “Your clothing. The leaves look as though they are fading. More so than when we first met.”

Gossamyr touched a curve of supple hornbeam at her waist. Indeed, the leaf had lost some of its glossy resilience. The arachnagoss threading was strong, but no more so than the outer layers it stitched together. She smoothed a hand over her braies. They felt secure; amphi-leather was virtually indestructible, even a fire-forged blade must draw a precise line to cut through.

A bend of her arm tugged a crack in the leaves at her shoulder.

“I must make haste,” she said and picked up her pace along the dirt path.

“And so I shall hurry alongside you, Faery Not.”

They walked onward, Ulrich leading Fancy as he ventured first. His strides were light, jumping to kick a stone in the path, as free as the air made Gossamyr feel. When he finally spoke, though, he sounded suspicious. “You are quite skilled in defense and attack.”

She smirked. “And you are adept at getting in the way.”

“Why, thank you, fair lady. It is a skill. Pity ’twas my last quarrel. Though, rest assured, I can hold steel to the enemy should the need arise. That is…if I had steel.” He patted his hips and scanned the ground. “I seem to have misplaced my dagger a few leagues back.”

“Would that be when you won the prize dripping down your forehead?”

“Do you think it will leave a mark?” He touched the wound.

Ever changing, the man’s moods. From suspicion, to anger, to a teasing charm. Despite the danger his learning of her origins could pose, Gossamyr found it difficult to dislike the man. For he tread the earth as if he had wings. To have him accompany her even a short distance could prove a boon. She would study him, prepare for future contact with mortals. They weren’t so different from the fée. Even his deep voice she had grown accustomed to.

“So, Gossamyr who isn’t from Faery, I did notice you were particularly surprised at your success over the beast.”

Gossamyr tripped ahead, enjoying the warm air skim her bared flesh. Right, was the only feeling she could summon. She spun in a dancer’s twirl and rejoined Ulrich’s side. “It is the first time I have engaged in hand-to-hand combat.”

“Ah. Well then, good show, Faery Not.”

“Don’t name me that—achoo!” Halted in her tracks, Gossamyr grasped her head.

“Touché!” Turning to walk backward Ulrich smiled at her. The gap in his teeth distorted his mirth. “So you like to dance?”

Skipping, Gossamyr shrugged and offered an unexpected “I think so!”

“You take marvel at your own wonder.”

“It is just, the air…I feel light.”

“Pray tell what the air is like whence you hail?”

“Not like here,” she called out and jumped to the grass to skip through the cool blades.

Flight had ever alluded her, no matter how often she had attempted it. Which had been often in the rose garden behind the castle buttery. Mince had once witnessed her fruitless attempts and had laughingly joined in. The matron’s small wings, attached to a generously rounded body, had served little more than to lift her shoulders. She could not leave the ground, either. It had bonded them in laughter, and a smirking confession from Gossamyr, which revealed her jealousy of the winged ones.

“You are the daughter of Lord de Wintershinn,” Mince had stated simply. “You needn’t envy; you are envied.”

Mayhap. But Gossamyr had not missed a single averted gaze or cruel stare in her lifetime. Envy hurt. And the only way to overcome was to prove herself. She needn’t the Wintershinn name to stand proud; to defeat the Red Lady would prove her worth and perhaps put to rest the suspicious whispers.

She spun now, and leaped into the path immediately before Ulrich. He had no wings, and yet, he took to the air in his strides. And that made him all the more appealing.

“The dirt from the fight,” Ulrich commented as he angled forward to study her. “It covers your face.”

Gossamyr wiggled her nose. Another sneeze tormented.

“It is bone,” he said of her dirty covering. “It hides your glimmer.”

“Bone?”

“That means good.”

“Then why not say good?”

“For the same reason you say mortal. We have our own slangs, do we not?” A click of his tongue beckoned Fancy onward.

Gossamyr paralleled him but a leap to his left. He suspected; she knew that he did.

“I wager you are safe from wonder so long as you do not favor bathing. Though your clothing—”

“Will be changed anon. I need only locate a seamstress. Mayhap something bright, like yours.” She glanced over Ulrich’s attire. The cloak swung merrily with his strides, intermittently revealing the tight striped hose he wore.

“I’m afraid a change of costume won’t be so easy in Aparjon,” he said. “’Tis a very small village, as most villages are. It is not fortified, which will prove bone. Our entry will not be questioned. If I recall from my travels there is a stable behind the one lone tavern that rents out to riders. Plead to Luck to find a horse for purchase, especially a swift one. As well, it may be difficult to get a room for the night.” He turned and scanned back down the road.

“Dead as a doornail,” Gossamyr reassured. And who decided when a doornail was dead? “What lends you to believe I wish to stay the night in the next village?”

“You said you were tired?”

“Yes, but a rest and some hearty fare will serve. I am off to Paris.”

“Indeed?”

Ulrich handed Gossamyr Fancy’s reins and skipped ahead, turning to walk widdershins in front of her. His cloak billowed as he gestured and filled the air with the rumbling tones Gossamyr found she favored more and more.

“I cannot resist questioning when there is so much of interest about you, fair lady. Whence do you hail? And, skill aside, what finds a lone woman trekking to Paris with so little fear of danger?”

“I am in search of a…woman. She goes by the moniker of the Red Lady.”

She picked up her pace in hopes of the man stumbling, but he tread backward with ease. His arms pumping, his robe splayed open with each stride, to reveal long legs and ankle-high suede boots with pointed toes.

“And where in Paris does she reside?”

“I know naught.”

“Paris is a big city. Mayhap I can help you locate her?”

“How might you discover a woman you’ve never met?”

“I found you.”

“But you weren’t—”

“I’ve a location spell that may be of use.”

A spell? Caution fired. “You said you are not a wizard.”

“That I am not.”

The last thing Gossamyr needed was to align herself with a practicer of magic. She had come to stop the damaging effects done to Enchantment, not contribute.

“But I did pay attention when His Most Magical—er, my former patron—needed to locate a lost dream or dragon.”

“You practice magic?”

“Not enough to make it real.”

But did his attempts tap Enchantment? And with the rift, the damage caused was increased immeasurably. Mayhap choosing to share the road with this man had been a mistake. Where was the fetch? If Ulrich proved a threat, would Shinn intervene?

Quickening her footsteps, she commented, “I fear the woman I seek be more dangerous than a fire-breathing dragon.”

“You say so?”

“I’ve said enough. We must keep to ourselves. We’ve only to accompany one another to the next village.”

“You’re not keen on friendship, eh?”

Gossamyr shrugged. Not with a man who practiced magic.

Mince was the only friend she had ever known. Not even a good friend if one considered Shinn paid her as nursemaid. Gossamyr had been schooled and trained exclusively by her father, and kept from most situations that would see her surrounded by vindictive fée. The few times she went to market or escaped to participate in a tournament were such wonders. There were food stands offering honeyed petals and toadstools carved like miniature castles. Lavender creams and smoky beetles enticed. Children were rare, but few ran about laughing and playing challenging games. Women dressed gaily and men ogled them with soused grins. Brownies socialized with hobs and the curiously tall dryad would draw a lingering stare. Who could be bothered to look for a friend?

Besides, Gossamyr was ever studied from afar—like a curious bug—but rarely approached with a smile.

You are half-blooded, and that is fine. You are the daughter of Lord de Wintershinn. They know you will ascend to the throne one day, and they respect you, for you are of Shinn’s bloodline. Still, the fée will never completely accept you. It is best you avoid the central markets in Glamoursiège. Half bloods, while rare, are cruelly teased.

Unless a fée was attracted to her because of her mixed blood.

You are exotic, Gossamyr.

He is a Rougethorn. They dabble in magic….

“I say—” Ulrich turned and rejoined her at her side “—that a man can never have too many friends.”

“I am not a man.”

“You fight like one.”

“Bespell your tongue to silence,” she hissed and then under her breath murmured, “Or I shall do it for you.”

“I’ve rudimentary knowledge of magic. Would that I could bespell myself!” he called out grandly. “’Twould be akin to smiling myself into a swoon!”

But Gossamyr wasn’t listening. Evening traced the atmosphere with an orange line on the horizon. Surrounding gray illumination loomed. An eyelash moon slit the sky. Soon the countryside would be black. A unique experience, for the light bugs that populated the Spiral forest produced such illumination Gossamyr had never found herself to fright because of darkness. She sensed mortals viewed the world in a darker shade. Were there light bugs in this realm? The compulsion to cling to this final moment of sparse light, to see all—and remember—overwhelmed. For soon she would see that darker shade, as well.

That is why you must be of haste! No time to rest this night. Leave the mortal to his foul magic and be off.

A line of fire-ravaged treetops frosted the western horizon with a macabre lace. To the right, a creaking windmill chomped on the silence, wood bearing against wood, commanded by the wind. Crickets chirred and long grasses schussed. Evening sounded much the same, and that was, as Ulrich might say, bone.

“Achoo!”

“Sneeze on Tuesday—”

“clobber a stranger,” Gossamyr finished the childhood rhyme.

“So touchy, my lady. I’d fare to wager we are strangers no longer.”

“What happens when one sneezes on the morrow?”

“Sneeze for a letter. And Thursday sneeze for something better. Mayhap by Thursday you’ll have shed your sparkle?”

“Or even better, I’ll have shed one mule and its jabbering passenger.”

Jabbery? Indeed! Why the nerve of the…the…well, Ulrich wasn’t exactly sure what Gossamyr was.

Feisty, fine and female. Mayhap a faery?

The woman who strode in skipping steps ahead of him by ten paces was like no woman he had ever before known. Or seen. Or dreamed of. Well, mayhap he had dreamed a tempting siren once or twice—hell, dozens of times. But never had she been so skilled in the martial arts. Killing bogies? She had moved without thought, swinging that beautiful carved stick of hers and taking out the bogie with but one stroke. Masterful.

His rusted crossbow had been less than splendid when matched against the woman’s mettle. Made him feel a bit lacking.

On the other hand, with a traveling mate of such skill, he could pay heed to that which required attention. Ulrich patted Fancy’s withers and slid his hand back to smooth over the saddlebag. A certain hum, much like the throat of a purring cat, vibrated against his palm. Safe. But for how long? Would his quest be ended most violently before he had opportunity to save the damsel?

Or was it already too late? So little remained the same. It had all changed. Everything. Twenty years had been stolen!

He should have been there to save her, his sweet Rhiana. Instead, he had been…dancing. That hellacious toadstool ring!

Ah, but he would have Rhiana back. And he would die trying.

But he mustn’t think overmuch of his quest. For one brief thought—just back the road a ways—had called up the bogie. Myriad strange and malevolent evils could sense him, even—he suspected—hear his thoughts.

What should happen if he were to dip into the saddlebag and draw the thing out into view? He’d barely avoided death last eve when the wailing white ladies had followed him through the mist-fogged swamp. Not being corporeal they could not touch him, but such hadn’t prevented them from flinging sticks and stones and the like at him. And finding target with each attack. Recall prickled the hairs all over his body to alert. And the realization this quest was insane.

How to locate what he sought? Was this feeling—a calling that led him toward Paris—sure?

What a task, what a task.

An ally from Faery would make all the difference.

Ulrich eyed the sure, muscular form striding ahead of Fancy. She was as a man in strength and prowess but with the curves and beauty of a siren. Those double plaits of summer-wheat hair tipped in delicate bone clasps beat at her back with each lilting stride. And the clothing! Braies and pourpoint? Leaves? No mortal man or woman could fashion such. And that glimmer, it almost seemed to form a pattern under her jaw and down her neck. Did it spread across her chest?

She was a faery; he sensed it. For he could lately see the damned things. A gift of the dance. How to give it back?

A man should like to have a confident fighter at his side if he had set to an insane quest that would surely bring about many more a challenge.

As well, a faery would attract the one thing he most needed to find.

FIVE

The iridescent fetch was not to be seen against the dull flatness of night. Must have twinclianed to Faery. The quiet warmth of protection Gossamyr felt whenever she sighted the dragon fly tremored for reignition. Sure, she could stand off a bogie, but…

But…she wondered now if Mince was asking for her absence. What must her maid think? Did she fear for Gossamyr, all alone in a strange land? Mayhap Shinn had not mentioned her departure. And if he had, only the facts—details were unnecessary. Surely, Mince worried.

Something so insignificant as a sigh now felt a heavy burden as Gossamyr marched along the rutted path alongside her mortal traveling companion. She kept turning to look back, thinking to spy the marble castle from the corner of her eye. She didn’t like feeling this way. Uncomfortable. At a loss. For all purposes she should charge ahead, thinking only of the task. All of Faery relied upon her defeat of the Red Lady.

“All,” she murmured. “That is…quite many.”

So many, she wondered now if Shinn had made a wise choice.

It was not a choice! You begged.

Yes.

I hope you discover the solace to the ache that has been your nemesis.

He knew. It had been time to set her free. If only to fulfill the personal quest she sought before settling upon the Glamoursiège throne. To experience the Otherside, and to claim victory.

Ahead, torches flickered and wobbled along the path. Night had settled, completely blacking the sky save for spots of starlight.

Gossamyr skipped ahead. About a shout down the road an equipage with two armored destriers in the lead pondered slowly forth. Both carried torches. Following, a carriage and a large covered wagon behind, trailed by yet more mounted riders. Every corner of the carriage was hung with yet another torch.

“What is that?” She turned to Ulrich. “Royalty?”

“Unlikely.” A bounce on his toes scanned the coming caravan. “No banners or coats of arms that I can see. It is likely a traveling merchant who has just passed through Aparjon. We should move from the road.”

Gossamyr stabbed her staff into the red clay. “Why?”

A chuffing breath preceded Ulrich’s sharp retort, “Do you wish to be trampled?”

Gossamyr held her tongue. She held no position here in the Otherside. While normally her equipage would command the road, she was supposed to be lying low. Waylaying suspicion. Besides, a mule and a dancing fool could hardly be considered an equipage. A touch to her neck; she spread her fingers down over her collarbones. Darkness hid her blazon.

Leaping from the path, she landed Fancy’s side and gave the mule’s neck a smooth of her palm. “Will they be dangerous?”

“Not unless provoked.” Ulrich eyed her suspiciously. “You, er…won’t provoke them?”

Did he think her so unhinged? “Not unless they give reason for such.”

“Of course. I should expect nothing less from a bogie-killer. Just…do not speak,” he muttered in low tones as the equipage neared. Iron-bound wheels creaked under the load and armor clanked with the pace of the horses.

The mounted men leading the band were attired in black armor with black leather straps and polished silver buckles that glinted with torchlight. Black leather braies and boots blended with the velvet-black hide of the horses.

“Perhaps not a merchant,” Ulrich whispered over Gossamyr’s shoulder. “Not with an armored escort. Stand back and allow them passage. It is safest.”

Solemn in expression, the men’s eyes turned to Gossamyr and Ulrich as they slowed to pass by. The lead rider wore a bascinet helmet sporting a brilliant red plume. Gossamyr looked boldly into the dark eyes of the man. A chill touched her breast. Malevolence followed her gaze, but offered not a word. Only when he had to turn away or force himself to twist in the saddle did their contact break. Not friendly, but neither did she feel threatened. They would offer no challenge so long as they were not pressed.

An entire band of mortals!

Eager to take it all in, she propped her chin on the hand she fisted about her staff and watched as the carriage approached. Filigreed iron lanterns dangling at the four corners of the boxy vehicle glittered across the highly polished wood body. Simple narrow red flags hung limp in the lacking breeze; the fabric ends were frayed and dirtied from the road. The carriage rumbled slowly, the uneven path likely joggling the passengers inside to a jaw-jarring clatter.

Light from inside the carriage box set the heavy window hangings to an eerie glow. As a hand pulled back a curtain, Gossamyr’s heartbeats quickened. A female peered out—her eyes were rimmed in thick kohl and bejeweled at the corners with glittering red stones.

“The Red—” Gossamyr choked on her declaration as she rushed the carriage.

“No!” Ulrich shouted.

A call from one of the leaders brought the equipage to a halt. Hoofbeats pounded up from the rear, drawing a half-dozen mounted men to defense.

Gossamyr gasped in the dust of the sudden upheaval as she slapped a hand to the carriage window and clung. The woman inside, not at all frightened by Gossamyr’s hasty approach, stared curiously down at her. Long red hair slipped around her neck and dangled upon exposed upper curves of her pale breasts.

“It is she!” Gossamyr cried. “The succubus!” She stretched to touch, to grope, but her reach was shortened. Someone grabbed her about the waist and jerked her away, legs flailing and staff swiping the air.

“Settle.” Ulrich held her. Gossamyr struggled, but the sudden dismount of the rear guards, and the barricade they formed before the carriage—crossbows to the ready—halted her in Ulrich’s arms. “What do you think to do?” Ulrich hissed in her ear. “We are outnumbered with long pointy, sharp weapons. The woman is but a bit of damask and lace.”

The woman in the carriage now leaned out the window. Gossamyr saw there was not a mark of the banished on her face. A very obvious mark that no one should miss. And her hair was but a rusty shade of red, not brilliant as a ruby or the blood of a slaughtered hare.

“I thought she was the Red Lady,” Gossamyr said under her breath. A foolish act on her part to approach so boldly. “She is not.”

The mounted rider who had held her stare appeared at their side. The sixteen-hand destrier unnerved Fancy with a snort of warning, and the mule backed away.

The tip of a sword drew up under Gossamyr’s chin. “Mean you my lady harm?”

“I plead mercy,” Ulrich said with a stunning swipe of his hand to deflect the blade from Gossamyr’s neck. He approached the barricade and addressed the woman in the carriage over the warning crossbows. “Forgive me, my lady, for the rudeness of my, er—” he turned to Gossamyr and shot a glance up and down her body “—my sister.”

Gossamyr gaped, stepped up to defend—but was stopped by the leader’s sword. Leery of mortal steel, she kept still. Two dark eyes peered out from the narrow slit on the helmet, holding her more fiercely than a blade to her shoulder.

“You see, my lady,” Ulrich continued. He managed, after a bow, to gain access between two of the men barricading the carriage, insinuating himself right next to the lady’s window.

The woman propped a hand on the window ledge and, fascinated by Ulrich’s gesticulating confession, gave him her full attention.

“She is daft,” Ulrich explained with a wide stretch of his arms to encompass the enormity of his statement. “Luna-touched. She meant you no harm. Just a little difficult to keep…calm when the light of the moon threatens her very soul.”

“I see,” the lady replied in throaty tones that slipped into Gossamyr’s ear so smoothly, she settled, and stepped back from the threatening sword. But not too far. A half circle of weapons were to her back. Kohl-lined eyes peered carefully at her. “She is dressed oddly.”

Now Gossamyr gripped her pourpoint, trying to clasp the broken agraffe. It was too dark to make out details, so long as she stood out of the lantern’s glow.

“My family indulges her whims,” Ulrich explained. “Fancies herself a forest warrior, at times. Others, we must chase her cross the meadow to place a stitch of clothes to her naked back.”

Blight that!

“How troubling,” the lady said. Her eyes sought Gossamyr’s secrets. So dark, and moving up and down, and along every portion of her being. “Yet you allow her a weapon? Might she not injure herself?”

“Oh, she does! The occasional hit to her head knocks her out for but a time. Blessed relief, I tell you, from tending her idiotic antics.”

“I am standing right here!” Enough. Gossamyr would not allow them to make jest of her with such falsities. She knew what Ulrich attempted; but his suggestion she was a lackwit only drew more attention to her than masking it. She nodded toward what looked now to be a cage all covered over with a tapestry tied at each of the four corners. “What is in the attached carriage?”

“Allow her to approach me. Guards,” the woman commanded lazily. “Step back. I see no harm so long as her brother stands beside her. I want to look upon madness.”

Bloody elves. So now she was mad?

Yet, the woman announced her desire with such passion it shot a prinkle up Gossamyr’s neck. And not a favorable prinkle.

Eyeing the covered cage, Gossamyr stepped cautiously past the men who smelt of horseflesh and sweat, and who clinked with every cumbersome step. Stealth avoided them, but, it mattered little; they could take her down with fight. She was no match to four men on their feet and wielding weapons. But if need be, she would give them a challenge. Oh, indeed.

Ulrich slid close as Gossamyr approached the carriage. His cheek brushed hers as he whispered, “Caution, Gossamyr. We want to walk away. I do not favor a sword to my gullet.”

He did not leave her side, remaining just behind her shoulder. A presence that somehow stilled Gossamyr’s apprehensions, almost as if grounding that part of her that wished to fly. With a glance to the well-armored men who stood but a leap to either side of her, Gossamyr then stepped up to the carriage. She did not get so close this time. Her enthusiasm must be restrained. This woman was not the Red Lady.

A movement from inside the cage alerted Gossamyr. Her sudden jerk to look to the side was met with a shing of steel as two swords were released from their sheaths and placed to threaten.

“Relax,” the woman said to her men. “She is but a troubled girl.”

Wincing at the bright light that beamed across her face, Gossamyr ducked her head to better view the woman. A small ruby had been pressed to the corner of each eye, distracting with each glint of lamplight. Her lips were glossed with an unnatural substance that also shimmered in the light. When she opened her mouth in a wondering observation, it revealed a row of small, thin teeth, almost as a fox’s foreteeth. Sharp and made for exact cutting.

“Your costume is most creative,” the lady commented. The sound of her voice reminded Gossamyr of the ungraspable past. A piece of mortal, whole and deep, very similar to Veridienne’s voice.

Forgetting her interest in the cage, Gossamyr merely stood there, betaken by the woman’s unnatural allure.

“It grows cold for her.” Ulrich made a move behind her. Gossamyr turned to ask of his concern only to see the swing of his dark cape billow toward and around her shoulders. He fastened the embroidered peacock agraffe at her neck and pulled the hood up over her plaited hair. “I shouldn’t wish my sister to take a chill.”

He’d covered her blazon.

He had not—he was…touching her. Mortal touched. A fearsome condition whispered by those who would never dare to visit the Otherside. The touch of a mortal makes you shiver, and the shiver never leaves, eventually it eats away a faery’s wings.

But Ulrich’s hands were not cold, rather warm. Instead of a shiver, Gossamyr smiled as a relaxing loosen of her shoulders chased back her fears.

“Where do you journey?” the lady asked.

“The next village,” Gossamyr replied.

“It is dangerous.”

“I crave danger.”

“Do you?” A chuckle again revealed those vicious little teeth. “But there are Armagnacs.”

“You saw them?” Ulrich asked.

Sensing his sudden tension by a squeeze of his hand to her shoulder, Gossamyr peered cautiously out of the corner of her eye toward the direction they traveled.

“Indeed,” the leader said from his mount. “We exited the city as a score of mounted Armagnacs, wearied and hungry, crept in.”

“Mayhap we shall pass around the village,” Ulrich said.

“It would be wise.”

“Do you journey for a convent?” the lady asked.

“Oh, indeed,” Ulrich spoke in Gossamyr’s stead. “The best place for my sister, you understand. She is marveled too easily. ’Tis why she became so excited to see you, my lady. If I may be so bold, your beauty rivals quite any woman my sister has yet to lay eyes upon. Mine, as well.”

Oh, but he was laying it on thick. It took all her strength not to swing about and knock him silent with a club of her staff.

“You like marvels, do you?” the woman asked Gossamyr. “Mayhap you wish to see what I’ve in my cage?”

Gossamyr followed the slender finger that pointed out from the carriage and behind. Lace threaded through with glinting strands of silver fell over her narrow wrist. Gorgeous, the mortal vestments.

“Yes, please,” Gossamyr cooed. And then she found herself shaking her head. Snapping out from a strange fog. Almost as if a faery erie. Blight, what was this? ’Twas as if she was mesmerized by the woman. The mortal passion?

No! Concentrate. She was merely tired and hungry.

“What is behind the tapestries?”

“Look at me,” the lady beckoned.

Spots of brilliant gold dotted her deep brown eyes. Gossamyr found herself leaning forward, to better scent. An indefinable odor, not like any flower or even the must of mortal earth, surrounded her. Almost cold, like the depths of a dark cave oozing with dribbles of ice water.

“Your eyes are brown,” the woman commented. As if it were uncommon. “Have you ever…” She leaned forward, clasping the rim of the carriage door with long fingers painted with rust-colored designs that swirled across her entire hand.

Gossamyr swayed closer.

“…looked into violet eyes?”

Struck by an unseen force, Gossamyr pressed a hand over the agraffe at her neck.

“Do you believe in faeries?”

“Wh-what?” A step back found her tumbling into Ulrich’s arms.

“We should leave you to your travels,” Ulrich said as he righted Gossamyr. “My sister tires. We need seek shelter.”

Ignoring Ulrich entirely, the woman announced in spectacular breaths, “I’ve a faery in my cage. Do you wish to see it?”

“A f-faery?” Finding herself quite unable to stand upright, Gossamyr clung to her staff. They keep them caged to display in market squares. This woman had captured a fée?

Teetering her gaze between the covered cart and the woman’s sharp smirking mouth, Gossamyr fought a sudden rise of fear. “I—I don’t think I believe in faeries. No, of course not.” She stiffened, locking her knees to remain upright. “This is the mortal realm. So many…mortals. Faeries are nonsense and so much blather. We are off, brother?”

“First you must look!” The woman’s head withdrew from the window and moments later Gossamyr heard her call from the rear of the carriage, “Draw back the curtains!”

Utterly gasping for breath, Gossamyr fought to settle her racing pulse. Intuitive caution could not dispel the hard compulsion to seek the truth.

Using Ulrich to steady her on the left side, Gossamyr, much against her better judgment, but compelled by her curiosity, walked toward the cage. The armored men cautiously parted to allow her access. Mortal steel clinked; horses snorted. She ran a palm over the heavy tapestry; the weave was tight and heavy. The fabric pushed in through two thick poles—two of many dozens that caged whatever it was inside.

Fear dried her throat. Horror stilled her heart. Not a faery. It cannot be!

“Are you ready?” the lady whispered so loudly Gossamyr heard it as a scream.

“My sister—” Ulrich started.

“I am!” Gossamyr declared.

With little fanfare the tapestry curtain was drawn back and flipped over the corner of the cage. The contents were not initially visible, for a sheer curtain that glimmered like faery dust hung from top to the floor of the cage. The rear lanterns, while boldly kissing the woman’s cruel grimace, barely lit the fore of the cage.

Steel glinted and one of the men poked his sword through the curtain and bars. A cry of pain pierced Gossamyr’s breast. A female voice. Something within the cage shuffled into the torch glow. A frail, thin figure…indeed, a woman, clad in tattered brown cloth. And there!

Gossamyr let out a cry.

“Quite remarkable, yes?”

Gossamyr swung a look to the heartless woman peering out from the rear window. She kept a faery chained inside this foul cage!

Gripping the wood poles, Gossamyr scanned the poor creature. Bones were visible through her pale flesh. Arms clasped about her legs, the creature shivered. Not a creature, but your own kind! She would not meet Gossamyr’s eyes. Just as well. Sure Ulrich’s cloak concealed her blazon, Gossamyr could not know if another fée would recognize her. The cage floor was littered with crushed hay and the glimmer of faery dust. One wing swept a lazy trail across the poles Gossamyr held. The wing was limp, colorless, and a tear rent through the upper section. Unable to divine a scent, beyond the rotting straw, Gossamyr swallowed. Lifeless, or almost so.

“I usually charge admission to look upon my pretty faery,” the lady announced. “But I won’t ask one so troubled to sacrifice.”

“Troubled?” Gossamyr swung around. Ulrich’s arm barred her from approaching the rear of the carriage. “The only troubled one I can see is you, my lady! How dare you? She is not yours to own or display or to destroy!”

“Gossamyr,” Ulrich cautioned.

“Your name is Gossamyr?” The lady’s fox teeth parted and her tongue ran along them. “Unusual. Not a French name. Will you turn about for me?”

“I will not move another footstep until you release this poor creature!”

The clomps of heavy hooves rounded behind Gossamyr and Ulrich. The caravan leader marched his horse warningly close. Sword drawn and eyes keen to her, with a flick of his weapon he bid her turn.

“We thank you for revealing your prize, my lady.” Ulrich tugged Gossamyr’s shoulder. “Best we leave you to your path.”

“You cannot own this faery,” Gossamyr hissed, “nor treat it as a beast!”

“I cannot see,” the woman directed the man on the horse. “Her cape must be lifted.”

Caught up in Ulrich’s arms, Gossamyr struggled against his firm grip. She swung out her staff, clipping the shoulder armor of one of the men. Forced backward by a line of drawn swords, she held her staff to the ready.

“Let us pass, my lady,” Ulrich called. “It is the moonlight; she is so troubled.”

“Indeed.”

Gossamyr clenched her teeth. Ulrich tugged her backward, away from the carriage. She followed, but held a hard eye to any who would challenge her. Indeed, she knew it foolish to have reacted so, but in that moment her heart had led her.

The armored men, forming a shield before the carriage and cart stood with weapons aimed for Gossamyr’s retreat. Ulrich turned and, dragging her along by the clutched ends of the cloak, began to jog across the grasses.

“Release me!” She kicked at him and managed to free herself.

He landed her body, a foot to her shoulder and bent over her face. “Cease!” he hissed. “You wish to lose your head?”

Twenty paces away the caravan began to move.

“She has no right,” Gossamyr growled. Unmoving, she found she had no desire to leap up and run attack upon the carriage. For much as she wanted to believe she could win any challenge, the threat of so many mortal weapons becalmed her bravado. “The fée are not animals. Did you see her? She was close to death. Her wings…oh…”

“Stand up.” With Ulrich’s offer, Gossamyr clasped his hand and stood. “I know naught what you are about, my lady. But I can wager a guess.”

She lifted a defiant chin. In the darkness it was difficult to determine whether he jested or spoke a challenge.

“We shall be off, without further mention—”

She jerked from his touch.

Beneath the wool cloak, she felt the hem of her pourpoint fall away from her waist. “Oh!” She clutched the fabric, hearing the dried leaves crumble.

“You are falling apart at the seams,” he said. “Tough bit of luck.”

Blight! Her father had not been jesting when he’d said the Disenchantment takes quickly.

Apprehensions brewing, Gossamyr eyed the caravan that wobbled off down the road. Oh, but she had looked upon Disenchantment. Pale and shivering and in chains. Let it not be so cruel to her!

A testing bend of knee determined her leathers still held. The tough material should hold. But who knew what the Disenchantment could do? Had Shinn known she would literally lose the clothing from her body?

Gossamyr jerked as Ulrich moved aside the cloak to look her over. The sweeping movement of the wool ripped the back of her pourpoint. Quickly, she pressed a hand to her chest.

A low whistle punctuated his astonishment. Ulrich tugged the cloak tightly over her groping arms and secured the perimeter with a scanning eye, though the night could not allow him distance. “You need proper attire, fair lady. Most urgently.”

“There may be a seamstress in the next village.”

“You heard the knight; Armagnacs have entered Aparjon. We will do well to pass around the city.”

“But—”

“You are too quick to fight, my lady. I will not risk my neck standing aside you as we enter an embattled city.”

He removed the saddlebag from his shoulder and carefully placed it across the mule’s flanks. “We must make haste. I would let you ride behind me.”

“Behind you?” She had never shared a mount with anyone. Why, there was barely room on the beast for Ulrich’s long limbs and overstuffed saddlebag and the crossbow. “Impossible.”

“You are a bit of a spoiled one, eh?”

“What?”

He turned, one arm propped at his waist, the other hand tapping impatiently upon Fancy’s back. “I said, you are spoiled.”

“You think I’ve gone bad? Do I…do I smell?” She attempted to scent her immediate air but only smelled the coolness of the night and a faint tang, which she attributed to Fancy.

“Spoiled, as in rotten. Everyone jumps to your whim. The princess demands her pleasures. Whatever you should ask is given.”

“What be wrong with that?” She stabbed her staff into the ground.

They both looked to the ground to spy the clump of dry hornbeam fluttering out from beneath the cloak. Flakes of the enchanted, disarrayed and damaged.

“What is it I have heard about Faery finery and coin?” Ulrich pressed a wondering finger to his chin. Glee sparkled in his eyes, Gossamyr sensed, for it was dark save for the carriage lanterns bobbing down the road. Private as it should have been, he enjoyed her humiliation immensely. “It disperses to dust once introduced to the mortal realm.” He toed the flakes of her decimated pourpoint. They disintegrated to a glitter of dust.

Gossamyr nodded. “Very well. Be there another village close?”

“Pray there is. Now mount behind me. I promise I shall not attempt to befriend you along the way.”

“Splendid.”

“Though I wager it shall be difficult to ignore a naked rider clinging to my waist.”

“I am not naked.”

“Steal not my hope, my lady.”

The sky thinned and receded. A flutter of his wings proved ponderous. Never before had he felt as though the world might…slip away. That his footsteps would not take hold on a path simply not there. ’Twas as if he were falling through the roots.

Images from the fetch proved Gossamyr had successfully arrived in the Otherside. She had even found a companion for the road. Shinn was not overconcerned a mortal traveled at her side; the man would prove a boon. As well, Gossamyr had easily managed the attacking bogie. He would have expected nothing less. The vision of the caged fée had disturbed him perhaps more deeply than it had affected his daughter. She was strong. Capable. Not a single reason for any mortal to cage her.

And yet with every breath, Shinn felt the shiver that had become his bane more deeply. Mortal touched. The result? His mortal passion. A sweet punishment. And so much he had reaped from that risk. Greatest of all, his child.

Gossamyr was gone from him. Gone. Child of mine.

Should he have told her more? Revealed—

He just…he wanted her to return to him. But Gossamyr’s truth would prevent that. She must never learn her truth. For if she continued to Believe she would Belong.

Clutching the curved crystal doorpull that opened into Gossamyr’s bedchamber, Shinn stood for a breath, blinking, struggling to find hold. The spice roses Mince cut daily for her room seeped into him, cloying and powerful. Gossamyr’s scent.

He had set his only daughter off on a dangerous mission. It had been the right choice.

There had been no real choice. Shinn had known for some time Gossamyr would be called to the Otherside. The mortal passion was ever persistent. He could not interfere. Would Gossamyr sacrifice to remain on the Otherside? Would she wish to do so?

“It is the bargain we made, Veridienne. For your home, you must sacrifice.”

“I sacrificed my home for you, Shinn! To love you.”

“I acknowledge that, but to have it back, you must—”

“Very well. I will do it. I will…leave her.”

“Oh!” At Shinn’s sigh Mince popped her head up from the floor by the bed. “Lord Wintershinn.” She tugged at her tight blue gown, pulling it snugly over two gentle rolls on her stomach. Her small wings fluttered madly as she backed away. Eyes not meeting his, the rumpled fée backed right into the armoire and bent a wing.

“Is there something amiss, Mince?” Shinn strode by the bed. His fingertips grazed the cold, precise marble and danced through the hanging bed curtains. Nothing out of ordinary. He walked to the window where the long arachnagoss sheers fluttered on the breeze. He turned abruptly, catching Mince in the act of shutting the armoire—on a finger. “Are you looking for something?”

“Looking? Me?” The syllables shook more rapidly than her telltale wings. “Why ask you that, my lord? Oh, no, just…tidying up a bit. What of you? You’re not looking for Gossamyr?”

“Nay.”

“Marvelous. Oh! Er, fine. Just fine.”

Now he understood. Mince sought Gossamyr.

“I’m out to the yard.”

“What for?”

“Oh? To check…for something. Erm, the peacocks must be shooed from the roses.”

“She is gone, Mince.”

“She?” The matron paused by the door, turning to him with delicate fingers curled into one another. “Who, Lord Wintershinn?”

“Gossamyr has gone to the Otherside.”

“No, I—I just saw her. I’m sure she’s here somewhere, swinging from the roots—I’ll start there, my lord. She never disappears for overlong.”

“I sent her.”

Mince gaped, seeming to momentarily choke on her own breath. “W-why? How?” she breathed. “Did you…tell her everything?”

“She seeks the Red Lady. I sent her through a Passage. You know her truth will keep her from returning to me.”

“Oh! But she needs to know! You’ve sent her to face the very woman—Oh, dear.”

SIX

Forgoing the village of Aparjon for what Ulrich claimed to be another not three leagues to the east, the duo plodded through unmarked grasses and followed a low rabbit-ravaged hedgerow for some distance until a narrower, lesser traveled road attracted them. There were no trees as far as she could see. The world was very silent. Eerily so.

Ulrich called ahead to Gossamyr. “We should seek shelter for the night, ’tis nearing matins.”

“You don’t think we’ll make the village?”

“Likely not.”

Sensing the man’s exhaustion, Gossamyr conceded. “Very well.”

Tugging Ulrich’s cloak about her shoulders seemed to hold the crumbling pourpoint together. She hoped. She had dismounted earlier and now walked, finding the exercise more fitting than joggling along on the miserable old mule. She sensed the beast tread alongside the Infernal, and did not wish to put more of a burden on it than necessary.

The fetch preceded her at a clever distance. She had ever thought fetches only recorded noteworthy events. Mayhap Shinn missed her as much as she was beginning to miss him? To have the fetch follow her at all times?

Miss her father? It had been but part of a day.

The only thing she missed right now was the illumination of Faery. This mortal night clung to Gossamyr on all sides. Crickets chirped and unseen rodents scampered along the grassy borders of the rutted path. She could not see Ulrich for the gloom, but judged him less than twenty paces behind her.

His suggestion to stop was not entirely unwarranted. She did feel the strain of her journey tug at the muscles in her calves and shoulders. Yet the struggle to stride freely while keeping the cloak wrapped—blight!

Gossamyr dropped the ends of the cloak and let the sweeping fabric dangle. If her garments were to fall off, then so shall it be. For she wanted to skip, to revel in this atmosphere that welcomed like a warm embrace.

“Oh, Hades, be gone.”

Gossamyr smirked at Ulrich’s hissed remark. The man had babbled most of the way. He had a strange compulsion to compare things, or rather label them as either “the same” or “not the same.” She could not figure what he was about. But she had to confess, having a companion eased a bit of her growing discomfort. Alone in a new land. Physically capable, but…her thoughts had begun to return to a place of safety.

She missed Mince. The matron was ever there, a companion, a confidante. A willing foil when Shinn would question Gossamyr’s day, and she had snuck off to tournament. And always there to bring her whatever she may request, to know before Gossamyr spoke her need.

Spoiled? Never before had she heard that term to describe one who is given all she needs. Such as a lady who travels with a cagedfaery in tow?

Hmm…not like that. Nor did she smell.

An eerie feeling of disquiet shimmied about Gossamyr’s body. It wasn’t as though she were frightened by the darkness. Nor could she summon worry for any beastie that might leap out from the shadows at her. In truth, a tiny niggling at encountering further outcasts from the Netherdred did bother. Unfamiliar, this world. And yet, intriguing. Horizontal and stretching for leagues that fell off the horizon as if the Edge. Mayhap it was an edge? Veridienne had detailed the stretch of France in her bestiary. It was edged by a vast ocean—tribe Mer-de-Soleil territory; merfolk and selkies and kelpies abounded there. But she had no measurement for distance in this land. Unless it was down. So she must rely on Ulrich’s navigation.

Many Faery tribes inhabited the realm the mortals called France: the Rougethorns, the Wisogoths, the Quinmarks, just a few. Yes, a huge nation, and she but an itty speck skipping toward sure danger. If she wasn’t careful she might lose her grip and fall—as she had once amidst the tangle of roots that reticulated about Glamoursiège. Avenall—her Rougethorn; ever charming and chivalrous—had caught her then.

Who would catch her now?

“No.” Ulrich’s voice had receded. “Not now. A crossroads? Wicked luck. Now this is the same.”

With every step Gossamyr felt the world close about her as if the cloak wrapped tightly against her flesh. Enchantment sluiced from her pores; she could feel it as a tangible prick. An ache hummed in her heart, a central tremor that called from the shadows of mortality. Home, it whispered. Embrace it.

No, no, no! Home was Faery. Not here.

Gossamyr fought back the invisible enemy, but the ache did settle to a fine pulse, ever there. ’Twas the mortal passion, vying to wend into her veins.

“Be damned with you all!”

Gossamyr stopped and swung about. Neither Fancy nor Ulrich were in sight. But she could hear him…talking to someone?

“I beseech thee to allow me passage. No? Very well, that way. Yes, follow my direction. You there, follow the finger. Up, up and away with you. Bloody saints, I shall be here all through the night!”

“Ulrich?” Gossamyr stepped cautiously through the sooty darkness. The whisper of a breeze through the long reeds that lined the path danced them to a crisp shimmy. Her bare feet made not a sound on the dirt road. The cloak whipped out behind her.

She spied Fancy, unloosed and grazing over a patch of clover. Another outburst from Ulrich stirred Gossamyr to a trot, her staff held horizontal and shoulder level, ready to spear.

“Another? Be patient; wait your turn. This way. Not so pushy!”

“Ulrich?” Now Gossamyr could make out the gray outlines of Ulrich’s head, bowed and swaying as if in deep thought. She veered from her approach as he swung out a hand and pointed starward.

“You. Yes, you next!”

“Whom are you speaking to?” There was not another person in the vicinity. To be sure, Gossamyr turned a complete circle—staff cutting the night—scanning the circumference. Scentless, the air. Strange, she did neither smell the dirt or grass. She noted they stood at a crossroad, Ulrich exact center.

When she turned back to him his body jerked, as if tugged from behind, and he leaped about to face the empty darkness.

Could it be a creature from the Netherdred? One who stood yet on the Faery side of the rift, invisible yet capable of affecting the Otherside? She should be able to see anything that stood in Faery if it connected with this world. Why could she not—

“If you cannot afford me the virtue of patience,” Ulrich announced to no one, “I shall see you to Hades where you belong. Be gone!”

“Ulrich!” She leaped forward and gripped the man by the shoulders. If he had succumbed to a glamour, perhaps her contact could unloose him. Because he was rigid and jumpy and jerking in her grasp, her fingers could not maintain hold. The vexing cloak impeded her and she toppled, but caught herself with the staff. “You speak to the night. What is to you, man? Be you luna-touched?”

“Get me free from here,” he growled. A flick of his head to the left and he addressed another unseen entity. “Heaven? You who takes your own life asks very much!”

“Is it the Netherdred?” she pleaded.

“I know not of nether dreads—only the dreads that stand before me. Ah! I must concentrate!”

The man had stepped into a realm that frightened even Gossamyr. She could feel not a presence. No smell or sound could be pulled from the confusion of the moment. She tugged Ulrich’s arm, but resistance tensed in her grasp. And yet, the man did not pull himself from her. ’Twas is if he were bestiffened.

Banshees? she wondered. No, they were visible figments of white wailing women. Ghosts? She had not experience with the sort; ghosts aligned themselves with wizards, witches and forbidden magic.

“I have not the leisure for you all,” Ulrich shouted and twisted from Gossamyr’s hold. “I will die of old age to send you each in his turn. Faery Not, pull harder!”

“I am trying,” Gossamyr said. She clutched him about the waist and planted her toes in the loose dirt. It was as if he were being held to the center of the roads, fixed with nails pounded through the soles of his soft-bottomed shoes. Yet she felt not a single presence. “What is it? A spectral creature I cannot see?”

“Hundreds,” Ulrich cried. “Take my hands.”

Twisting under his outstretched arm, Gossamyr seized the man’s hands. Though the darkness shadowed features, the agony on his face showed strongly. As their palms joined, Gossamyr felt cold tremor through her forearms and up her shoulders.

Horrors! A chill greater than winter’s bite trickled through her bones. “I can feel them,” she uttered.

Pushing with all her might, she succeeded in moving Ulrich from the center of the crossed roads while he shouted and protested with the unseen forces. Together they shuffled backward. Her toes stepped onto grass. Fancy snorted and clopped from their way. Finally, Ulrich tripped and went down. Gossamyr fell forward onto his chest, collapsing with a huff. The distinctive rip of dried leaves sounded.

Breath wheezed from Ulrich’s lungs. Reaching back, Gossamyr felt over her pourpoint. A rent down the center, up to her midsection, she determined.

Now even the crickets silenced. Dark surrounded; the eyelash moon ignored this little crossroad. Lying atop Ulrich, Gossamyr grew aware of his breaths, short and hot. The chill had slithered off as if it had not bitten her so sharply. The man had been assaulted in a manner she could not comprehend. But that she had rescued him from an unseen assailant seemed apparent.

She gave a jerk of her head to swish back the heavy corner of the cloak from her face. “Are you fine and well?”

A burst of laughter shook him beneath her.

Gossamyr bent her legs and knelt over him, trying to assess his condition. Eyes closed, and his breathing still fast, was all she could remark. No cold—yet she had felt his flesh to be as ice when gripping his hands. She scented not blood, but when she thought to touch his face—check for wounds—she recalled the bruise. A touch would not be welcome to his tender flesh.

Pushing up, Gossamyr stood and struggled with the cumbersome cloak. The heavy fabric twisted between her legs. “Blight!”

Ulrich remained on his back. Short bursts of laughter continued, so she judged him safe. But sound?

Plodding up from behind, Fancy nudged her warm nose into Gossamyr’s palm. With contact, fear flowed out from her. A glance to the crossroads sighted only stillness. Whatever had threatened was now gone. She took a breath and expelled it in a lip-fluttering blast.

“The saddlebag,” Ulrich asked in a gasping voice as his laughter settled. “Is it safe?”

“Exactly where it should be.” Gossamyr bent and this time stroked aside a clump of hair from Ulrich’s temple. No fear in touching this mortal. Secretly, she felt daring to do so. “What happened to you?”

“A damned crossroads,” he said in a tone that blamed her for not guessing the obvious. Moving up to prop on his elbows, he blew out a bluster of breath. “I wasn’t paying attention, and walked right into the center of the infernal place. Hell would be most pleased to open a tavern right there.” He gestured forcefully toward the spot he had stood. “Plenty of doomed souls for the taking.”

“What has a crossroads to do with whatever it was that tormented you?”

“You don’t know?”

She shook her head. “When we joined hands I felt something…so icy, I could have frozen.”

“Ah. Yes. The chill of death. Do not faeries have their lost souls? Suicides and murders? They gather at crossroads.”

“Who?”

“The souls! Lost and misdirected souls wandering a purgatorial nightmare. They convene at crossroads because that is where we mortals bury the forsaken.”

“Ghosts?”

“Not exactly. Souls, Gossamyr. Souls. Disembodied and searching.”

She turned to look over the place where Ulrich had battled. Souls? The revenants cannot commence the final twinclian without an essence. “Like…revenants?”

“I know not what a revenant is.”

“They are—”Skeletal flying beasts with wings. She clasped both elbows. Better to keep that information to herself. “Why could I not see them? Did you see them?”

“Not in a physical way. But believe me, I felt their icy, possessive bones everywhere. Had you not dragged me away I would have been trapped until dawn guiding those damned souls to Hades. So horribly the same!”

“Guiding them? I do not understand. Be this magic?”

“Far from it. Let’s walk, shall we?”

Ulrich stood. Bell-wavering forward a few steps, he turned and groped Fancy’s flanks to steady. Had she not known him sober Gossamyr would have guessed him soused. “Distance, my lady, we need to get Jean César Ulrich Villon III far from this horrific place. I can yet feel them leering at me, waiting for me to stumble back onto their domain.”

She squinted, yet sighted nothing but gray shadows upon darkness. A chirr of crickets resumed their night symphony, and a snort from Fancy drew her attention around.

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