Peyton's Ride (Riding With The Hunt, #1) (3 page)

“Turner, do not touch her. Step away from Peyton. Now.”  The large overhead door to the outside flew up on its tracks. He spun, weight on the balls of his feet to face the new, greater threat. “Both of you get out of here. But Turner, you touch her, and I’ll know. Keep your hands to yourself if you value them on the ends of your arms.”

Six men stood shoulder to shoulder in the massive bay doorway. Moonlight and shadows played over their features and hid their faces.

“Who the hell are those guys?” Peyton’s voice rang out. “And why is it suddenly dark?”

Turner answered her in a hushed tone, but he didn’t bother to listen to the words. All his focus narrowed down to the men in front of him. When the door to the showroom clicked closed, he let his guard relax marginally.

“Lose the glamour. Or stay the hell outta my shop.” Two long strides took him to the four-foot long crowbar he hid in the space between two tool boxes. The long piece of iron was meant for prying car engines. Not much use for motorcycles, but he liked to keep it around.

“Come on Ian, you know that is useless against us.” The tallest of the six moved into the light, and the glamour of shadows and smoke wreathed around his form dissipated. Well over six feet, with the lean body of a mega-distance runner, Brennan tossed his lit cigarette to the floor. His heavy boots clomped on the cement and hoop earrings hung from both ears, studs pierced his right eyebrow and the middle of his lower lip.

Ian held his ground. The myth of iron harming the Fae had been started and perpetuated by the Fae themselves. But being struck by a big-ass piece of metal would hurt anyone. And he’d use it on his old friend if he needed to. “What is the Hunt doing here? In backwoods Georgia?”

“We came to get you buddy. It’s time for you to come back. The Hunt isn’t the same without you.” Brennan cocked one blonde eyebrow high until it disappeared behind the fringe of dark hair draped over his forehead.

Ian snorted and released a bitter laugh. “If you recall, I left for good reason. You can’t have an unmated steed in rut running around like I was. Manannan made sure to remind me almost daily I wasn’t welcome.”

At some point in the life of a Fae steed, he went into rut. In times long past, the rut called out to his mate, a magic tether that brought two together. Weeks of merriment and celebration ensued for all members of the Hunt. But their numbers dwindled, and more and more, the blood diluted.

He’d gone into rut, and his mate had not appeared.

As the mating magic rode him, he went through females at an unprecedented rate and flew into uncontrollable rages. As he turned more and more feral, in his steed form, none could ride him.

The Hunt cloaked itself in a glamour that in this century took on the appearance of a motorcycle gang. And the Hunt was left with a motorcycle that drove down the road without a rider. They managed to conceal him for a few years, but eventually he’d been cast aside for the protection of the larger whole. The pain of being ostracized from his people hurt, and doubled up on the agony of knowing there was no mate for him. Destined to be a bachelor forever, with a sex drive that never abated and the stamina of ten human men, he’d been screwed. There was never enough pussy to satisfy him, because sex wasn’t all that he sought. His soul searched for the other created just for him, for that connection.

Manannan claimed being on his own would help him control his magic, and that the urge of the rut would fade with distance between himself and the Hunt. The leader had been right about the rut, but each day the ache in the center of his chest that needed the embrace of magic, a mate, and family, grew.

With the rate at which he aged, he figured he had another thousand years left on the planet. Those centuries stretched out in front of him in an interminable length he refused to examine closely. The thought of living alone for century upon century left him hollowed out and wretched.

Now, his oldest companions and compatriots had returned, and dangled their family ties in front of him. The outsider. Cast aside and left alone from all of Fairie but for a few pixies who’d almost killed Peyton.

The rut reawakened for her. For Peyton, after five long years of living and working in close vicinity to her, tonight, the Hunt came here, and his magic struggled and thrashed to claim her.

“It’s not that you weren’t welcome. He had to protect the whole. Manannan wears the weight of that decision every day. He is not a cruel man.” Brennan gestured to the men who accompanied him, and the glamour dissipated in full.

Daegus, Connor, Irial, Lonan, and Marcan all appeared before him, each the same as the last time he’d seen them. Each man carried a sense of danger and ferocity, the swords, daggers, spears, and shields of ancient warfare now formed into modern weaponry. Their chain mail and armor had been replaced with chaps and leather jackets.

The black smoke curled its tendrils around Daegus as it always had, condensed until his eyes glittered and shone like onyx marbles. Daegus held out his left hand to display the pattern etched into the skin on the palm. “She is here, Ian. Your mate.”

The bar clattered to the floor and pixy laughter reverberated in his ears. Hope, exhilaration, and a dizzying sense of fear overtook him.

A Fae who had come to them fully formed as an adult, birthed by the Hunt itself, Daegus served as Oracle, healer, and match maker. His tattoo was never wrong. The lines on his former compatriot’s hand formed a single word in the Fae tongue.

He grabbed the proffered appendage and traced the word with his finger. Roughly translated, it meant
“She who rides.”

The old fury of the rut crested, and he forced the hand away. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?” To his ears, he recognized the hope, the agony, and the terror in his voice. What if this wasn’t true, and it was all some kind of elaborate lie? Peyton couldn’t be his, could she?

If his dick had anything to say about it, she was.

Did he even want to return to the Hunt? He’d made a new life in Georgia. And what if she accepted him but not the Fae?

Lonan twirled a ten-inch knife on his finger, the point stuck in his flesh. “You sure about that, buddy? You don’t know any females that ride?”

P
eyton perched on a bar stool at the parts counter and fought the urge to bang her forehead over and over until she went unconscious. How humiliating. She was such a klutz. Slipping in nothing and bashing her head and elbow on the floor. If only she had an inter-dimensional time machine to whisk her away from Ian’s penetrating gaze. She’d go back in time and take ballet. Or piano. Something artistic and artsy-fartsy so she could be like those self-possessed interesting women she’d gone to college with. The ones who wore funky hats and dark-red lipstick and lugged enormous art portfolios with bits of paper poking out of the top.

Curiosity to know who the new arrivals were and why Ian had been so determined to send her out of the garage got her to her feet. Leaving well enough alone wasn’t good enough for her. The urge to plunge into people’s stories and unearth their secrets like an archeological dig had led her into law. So often she’d found the truth through what wasn’t said aloud, in the circle of family and friends and exes... and Ian had been in a damned big hurry to get her away from his guests.

A real-live motorcycle gang in Travers was something she didn’t want to miss. She stood, only to flop back down again when the room spun and she almost puked. Howie, the store manager, emerged from the employee break room with two instant ice packs in one hand.

At least the head injury had cured the worst of her urges to nibble on Ian. The cannibalism must have been transitory or part of a weird hormone surge, so that was good to know.

He held one to her head until she took control of the pack herself, and lifted her elbow up so he could slide a second one beneath the swollen joint. The overhead lighting shone off his wet, thick lips, and his breaths rasped in and out with heavy sucking sounds. A fine spray of spittle landed on her sleeve, and she scooted out of range.

Yuck.

“I am so sorry, Ms. Reynolds. We don’t allow customers in the garage for just this reason.” Coffee scented breath invaded her nostrils, and she leaned away.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Turner. I have no intention of filing suit. I insisted on following Mr. Coghlan into the garage area.” She kept her tone dry and settled her elbow into the cold gel as deep as the plastic pack allowed. Sometimes she hated being an attorney. People assumed she intended to sue them for ridiculous things. “Where is everyone? Isn’t the dealership still open?”

“Yes. Well. I’m going to call for an ambulance just in case. Head injuries can be tricky you know.” The short, portly man traipsed behind the counter and retrieved the handset to an ancient rotary phone. “I closed the store early. It’s been a slow day.”

“Don’t bother calling anyone. It’s already feeling better.” She probed the back of her head and noted the lump had shrunk by half. Weird, but welcome. “Why don’t you have a cell phone? That thing’s got to be fifty years old at least.”

He grimaced and revealed crooked, nicotine stained teeth. “Technology like wireless phones doesn’t like me. It’s why I ride a carbureted bike. Can’t keep the new fuel injected ones running.”

Apprehension trickled into her in a cold, disconcerting stream. She’d seen Howie use a cell phone plenty of times. The statement felt like a big, fat whopper of a lie. But it didn’t make any sense.

Add to that the fact they’d spoken many times when she visited the dealership about his motorcycle. He rode it because he loved it. Technology had nothing to do with it.

She waited until he turned his back and eased down off the stool. The wobbles in her legs were gone, and her elbow no longer throbbed. An intense, sudden need to get away from Howie and closer to Ian sprang to life.

Ian represented safety, and Howie...something... else.

The first few steps she managed a steady walk, but before she’d closed half the distance to the garage, she’d sped up to a run. Her fingers closed around the metal handle.

Cold seeped into her shoulder and the sharp stab of blades sunk into her flesh.

“Ian!”

Through the glass pane, she glimpsed a group of inhuman creatures like those found in the pages of a story book. Her story book, in fact. The book she’d begged her mother to read her every night at bed time.

All fairy tales unlike those preferred by other little girls. The fairy tales she liked told stories of ogres, leprechauns, phookas, Underhill, and the plight of those who fell into the trap of the Fae. Bloody, scary, and full of wild magic. Edith worried over her obsession with the book. But Peyton’d found it at a library book sale and never let it go.

She’d even taken it with her to college. The stories that captivated her the most were those of the Wild Hunt and its members, the maidens and country folk swept up in its wake and taken along for the ride of their lives with the Fae, the spirits of the dead, and all the raucous inhuman creatures in the Hunt’s ranks.

The Wild Hunt had come to Georgia.

Those monks she’d said a prayer to must be having a big ole party where they were hitting the sauce pretty hard. ‘Cause this was off the charts.

A huge black horse with a mane that flowed in non-existent wind reared on its hind legs. A man comprised of smoke and the glint of steel grinned, his body amorphous and changing. The twinkle of tiny, flitting lights, moving with intelligence and intent, circled the group. Two men so tall they had to be over seven feet, each with hair that flowed over their backs to their waist, brandished long, thin swords. A black ram pawed the ground, almost as large as the horse, with red eyes and flames under its hooves. Grey, white, and black coated hounds surrounded the legs of a man all in green who threw his head back and laughed. The last man wore leather from head to toe, and held a bloody curved knife in one hand, a battle axe in the other. All were terrifying in their own right, but she knew if she ran to the horse, she would be safe.

They turned as one and stared at her.

She tried to remember if she’d ever smoked crack or dropped acid or something that would explain the obvious hallucination.

Shock at what she’d seen through the door clouded out the pain in her shoulder until the shards of agony doubled.  Wrenched around to face her attacker, she struck out with her fist and managed to connect a solid blow to his chin.

Gobbets of slobber flew from an oversized lower lip, and beady yellow eyes regarded her with cold hunger. The creature’s thick trunk-like legs were exposed by a filthy loin cloth.

An oversized hand tipped with talons that dripped with her blood struck out toward her cheek, but she ducked and scrambled across the floor on all fours.

The hollow clang of the door smashing into the wall registered, but fear drowned out a momentary burst of hope when the icy leather of the creature’s fist wrapped around her calf. The bellow of an enraged horse reached her ears, and she toppled a bar stool in an attempt to obtain a weapon. The stool rolled in a half circle, and the fingers gripping her leg scratched deep furrows into the muscle before lifting away.

When she realized she’d been freed, she gained her feet, hobbled away, and concealed herself behind the counter. The clack and ring of hooves on cement mixed with hungry roars, a horse trumpeting, and the metallic clatter of what she assumed to be motorcycles falling over onto the show room floor.

All those pretty bikes were gonna be dented up. At least it wasn’t her fault.

Blood ran down her leg and back in a sticky red flow. The new leather jacket and chaps she wore had done little to protect her from the knife-sharp nails on her assailant’s hands. She shuddered, cold wracking her frame. Something inhuman attacked her, an enormous ring curved through its pig-like snout. Enormous tusks sprouted from its lower jaw, and it clutched a cleaver in its free hand. Dread overrode any pain from her injuries as she recalled some of the more gruesome stories in her book. The ones where the fairies ate people and each other. Whole scores of the sidhe were carnivorous, cannibalistic, and bloodthirsty.