How (Not) to Soothe a Siren (Cindy Eller Book 9) (3 page)

Timothy and I looked at each other.

I shrugged one shoulder. “She’s right, I guess,” I said.

Mom snorted. Somehow, when she did that, she managed to make the sound almost ladylike. “You guess? You know I’m right. Come on, you’re not fifteen years old anymore. It’s OK for you to recognize when your old mother has a point.”

Timothy mouthed ‘old’ silently and rolled his eyes.

I agreed with the sentiment.

“Are you sure?” Timothy asked, plucking Asher from my arms to rub his face against his onesie-clad stomach. I noticed that it was the one my mother had made for him, bearing the words, “Grandma’s Boy”. “Can you spare the time?”

“Of course,” Mom said. I thought for a moment that she might roll her eyes in exasperation. “Kara is eight. She doesn’t exactly need me every second of the day. Now, my little grandbaby here does need me.” Her smile widened. “Plus, I miss having a little one of my own. It will be like old times again.”

“Sure,” I said dryly. “Old times—heading off into danger with a baby in tow.”

“Naturally,” Mom said smugly.

S
ummer at last had given up its last gasp and allowed Fall to take over the face of Faerie. The air was chilly and crisp, with the scents of rotting leaves, damp soil, and wood fire smoke in the air. The leaves had turned, creating a masterpiece of color that rivaled New England in all its autumnal splendor. Purples, reds, and golds dotted the woods that surrounded us, highlighted here and there with whites, silvers, and pinks. Wild, fall flowers dotted the dying meadows, splendid in arrays of waxy leaves and brilliant plumage. Even against the frost of night, these flowers were resilient and proud. They would only disappear when the snow covered their heads and put them to sleep for the winter.

Our horses trod carefully, their hooves leaving icy puddles in the muck of the roads. Even Faerie couldn’t prevent the inevitability of mud in this season. The dirt here was nearly black, which meant that our steeds, we, and all of our belongings were wearing a thick coating of the pervasive stuff. It caked onto the legs of our mounts, turning the feathering of their winter coats into clay-sodden wool. I felt a new wave of gratitude for Magic. Grooming the horses after a day’s journey would have been an unenviable task without the help of our friendly neighborhood powers.

Gealbhan, my big, bay gelding, turned his head to look back at me. He had been doing so all day, ever since he’d first caught glimpse of the tiny bundle that was riding in the baby sling across my chest. Gealbhan was could be a restive mount, eager to be moving and on the go. Today, though, he had been walking as if he were carrying a dragon’s egg or something equally fragile.

I had started the day wearing Asher in his sling, with him facing my chest. That hadn’t lasted for long. Asher seemed to enjoy facing out towards the world so he could see the world around us as it passed by. Our movements were punctuated with shrieking giggles and burbles, with the occasional moist raspberry. His tiny fists wind-milled and swung in constant motion. Having as many siblings as I did, I could appreciate that our son was a particularly happy baby.

I couldn’t help but turn my head to watch my mom, where she was riding on a big gray gelding.

“What?” she asked, catching my eye.

“I don’t remember ever seeing you on a horse before this,” I answered.

Mom pursed her lips. “I used to ride a little, before you were born. It has been a while, though.”

“I know you had a life before me,” I said, “but, it still feels weird to think about it.”

Mom tilted her head, a slight smile touching her lips. “I was practically a baby myself, when you were born,” she said, her voice nostalgic.

With a start, I realized that I was nearly twenty years older than she had been when I was born. I tried to remember what I had been doing with my life when I had been seventeen or eighteen. Not much, I realized. I’d been in college at the time. I hadn’t even started my first bakery job at that age.

It felt like lifetimes ago—more than one life time. So many things had changed over the years—taking me from child to Seraphim and now to mother. Did growing up always feel so surreal? As a child, my mother had seemed so old and grown up to me. Now, looking at her, all I could think of was how young she appeared to be. When my mom had been my age, I had already moved away from home, and here I was, mothering my first baby.

This was one of the times that living in Faerie was the opposite of living in the outside world. We had no destination in mind. We had set out knowing that, one way or another, Faerie would direct us where we needed to go. Whether the roads would carry us in the right direction, or if we would end up being guided by one of the ‘great animals’, as in old stories, it was nice to live in a literal fairytale. Faerie had seen fit to warn us, so now it was up to Faerie to guide us to where we were needed.

A deep, mournful sound reached our ears—something between a bellow and a roar. Of one accord, the horses drew to a halt. We turned in our saddles to face the east, and whatever might be heading towards us.

Nothing could have prepared me for what greeted our eyes. A man, at least I assumed by his stature that he was a man, rode towards us. He was cloaked all in thick furs, from his wolf-headed cloak-head, to the bear skin he wore as a robe. Bear claws and sharp fangs of various types hung from his body at all angles and odd places. I could not tell if the lower half of his face was covered by another fur—perhaps the skin of a porcupine of some sort?—or if he had a beard that would rival any dwarf’s pride and joy.

He looked like a Mountain Man, straight out of one of the old adventure stories I had read as a child. He was a Trapper John, a hulking Wildman.

Yet, the tingling in the air around him and his cloak of many creatures warned me not to judge too quickly. There was more to this man than greeted the eye. Magic fairly swarmed around him, making his form shimmer in my view in a mirage-like fashion.

If the man was strange, his mount was even stranger. It bore some kind of kinship, I supposed, to elk and moose, but it was far, far larger than any I had seen. Caribou and reindeer would have been proud to claim kindship with this massive beast. His proud antlers hung with hundreds of bells of all sizes and shapes. As he shook his head and bellowed again—the sound that had warned us of their approach—the bells sang out in a wild chorus. His coat was thick and a dark sort of mahogany above, while his undercoat, exposed at belly at legs, was a creamy thickness than any alpaca would have envied. His legs were thick and heavy, with a wide, cloven hoof, made for churning through ice and snow.

The creature’s eyes were a startling ice-color—just one shade darker than the snow beneath them.

I felt another one of those tremors in the Magic surrounding them and knew we were in the presence of one of the Old Ones. Fae, or ancient god, perhaps they had been forgotten long ago by the world of my birth, but the Magic that surrounded them was strong and ancient.

And this was to be our guide?

Clouds of steam snorted through the beast’s wide nostrils. His velveteen muzzle chomped against the restraining bridle he wore. The bridle itself was a bright red, like holly berries dropped into the snow. The heavy reins, two of them set in a double bridle, disappeared into the mountain of furs that was his rider.

“Bleh blah boo!” Asher chortled, reaching his arms out towards the apparition and opening and closing his fists in a demanding sort of way.

The mountain-man like creature raised his head and looked at us.

The hair rose on the back of my neck. His eyes were wild—yellow and split-pupiled like those of the steed he rode. There was nothing tame about those eyes. They were all-seeing. At once, I was sure that this was one of the oldest of the Old Ones—born of Wild Magic.

Why would such a creature come to guide us? Surely, he was too great of a being to come at the beck and call of Magic. It smacked faintly of asking a lion to fetch toilet paper.

Those strange, yellow eyes sparkled as I inclined my head, hoping that the gesture would be the polite way to acknowledge an Old One. The last thing I wanted to do was offend him.

He turned, assuming correctly that we would follow him.

My mother made a strangled sound, though soft enough that the creature wouldn’t hear her.

I raised my eyebrows at her. “What?”

“He’s Cernunnos,” my mother murmured, drawing her horse close to mine. “The First Huntsman.”

I glanced forward to the broad back of the man who rode before us. “How do you know that?” I asked.

My mother shook her head, her eyes growing distant. “Oh, I met him once… before.”

I knew at once that she was speaking of the time when she had lived in Faerie with my father—before she’d realized she was pregnant with me and had fled back to our world.

I had so many questions, but I knew better than to ask. My mother spoke of her time in Faerie rarely, and never just to satisfy my curiosity. I knew that she was happy now, with my stepfather, Stephan, but there were times I wondered if my parents still loved each other.

Strange, to think of myself as the product of an epic love story.

Even after everything I had been through—even after becoming the Seraphim of Faerie—I still felt like I was nothing special. I was ordinary.

At least these days I knew it was my own voice in my head that said so.

Mom watched the Huntsman with an expression of rapt fascination on her face. It was easy to picture her as the confident seventeen-year-old who had broken the Laws and crossed into Faerie.

A gust of icy wind blew down on us. I shivered as I wrapped Asher’s blanket more snugly around him. However postponed, winter was here in full force. I could taste the promise of snow on that whiff of icy wind. I looked down at my son, who was now sleeping in a boneless sprawl across my chest. His little mouth drooped open. He made soft squeaking sounds as he slumbered.

“Is he warm enough?” Timothy asked, slowing down his horse to rise alongside me. He craned his neck to peer into the little cocoon I had made for our son.

I nodded. “He’s asleep,” I said.

Timothy shivered slightly. “There are days I envy your fire Magic,” he said. “Though, I suppose it means I shouldn’t worry about you and Asher being warm enough.”

I reached out and took his hand. Even through his gloves, I could feel the cold that permeated his body. I coaxed a little of my heat—a little of the fire that dwelled in me—out to him, hoping that I wouldn’t end up burning us both up in the effort.

Timothy’s mouth opened slightly as he let out a long, deep breath. “Oh, that’s nice,” he murmured, appreciatively. “I’m warm all the way down to my toes.”

“That’s one of the perks to being married to a furnace,” I said. I waggled my fingers as I looked around at the rest of our small group. “Anyone else need some? I’m packing heat here.”

My mother rolled her eyes. “I’m warm enough, thank you,” she said. “I’m sure I will take you up on it later, if we’re still out here when the storm breaks.”

I closed my eyes for a moment. I could feel the familiar tingle of my connection to Faerie.

“I think we’re safe from the storm,” I said, opening my eyes again. “It won’t hit until after sundown. I hope we’ll find some sort of shelter before then.”

“I think we will,” Timothy said. “Our guide seems to know exactly where he’s going.” He nodded towards where the Huntsman rode his strange steed, silently stalking through the snow.

I smoothed Asher’s blanket. “Timothy,” I murmured. “Why him? Why would Faerie send one of the Old Ones to guide us?”

Timothy shook his head, but the way his forehead puckered around the scar that slashed across his face, I could tell that he, too was concerned. “I think this threat is greater than we anticipated,” he said, his voice so low that there was no chance that anyone else could hear him.

Despite the softness of his voice, I saw the Huntsman turn slightly in our direction. His wild eyes stared through me.

My breath hissed through my teeth. Once again, I had to remind myself that I was Seraphim. I wasn’t a scared little girl anymore.

As long as those strange, yellow eyes stared at me, I couldn’t move. There was something arresting about that feral gaze. He seemed to read into my soul. I fought the urge to cross my arms around myself in a moment of unwanted soul-intimacy.

He turned back to the road. I slumped forward as much as the baby strapped to my chest would allow me.

Timothy reached out to touch my arm. “Are you OK?” he asked, his face full of concern.

I nodded, feeling as breathless as if I had just completed a marathon or three.

“You met the gaze of the Huntsman,” Timothy whispered. I though he sounded as flummoxed as I felt. “He must have deigned you worthy.”

I raised my eyebrows. “What?”

“The Huntsman hunts evil,” Timothy murmured. “He destroys anything that is impure. No one can meet his gaze without facing his judgement.”

“Well, that would have been nice to know,” I huffed. “Why am I the last one to know about this guy?”

Timothy shook his head. “You know him. We studied him together, back when your father had tutors teaching us—remember? He has another name.” His voice dropped even lower. I could scarcely hear his whisper. “Herne.”

I swallowed hard. I didn’t need to look ahead to know that the Huntsman was looking back at us again. My mouth felt dry.