Trueheart (Portland After Dark Book 1) (11 page)

Thomas laughed.

Then he laughed some more.

The red eyes behind the deer skull flared.

"If you are indeed her trusted counselor, Hunter, why would you need a spy? And a human one at that?"

"I but seek to serve my Queen."

"As do I." Thomas began to walk east again. "The ley track is yours, as I said. But we will make no bargain here today."

Hunter growled out a command, and one of the bogles showed its teeth, walking backward on the ley to flank Thomas like a panther stalking dinner. The bogle's skeletal hands twitched and clenched in anticipation.

"Oh no you don't." Thomas put his hand into the front of his duster, where the breast pocket concealed the half-dozen iron nails he'd carried for decades. "I'm not the prey you hunt today. I know the rules—the Hunt cannot take that which is not its quarry."

"The Queen's rules." If a deer skull could sneer, Thomas would have sworn it was doing so.

Thomas's head tilted. Was Hunter making a bid to rule the Unseelie? Why did he think Thomas was an important player in the Queen's court and seek him as an ally, however hostile? This required more thought, but right now it was time to rid himself of the immediate problem.

"
Our
Queen's rules
.
" Thomas grasped one of the nails, stifling a gasp at its raw, rasping burn in his palm. The cloth pocket was enough to insulate him from the metal's effect, but naked skin was another matter, especially when the rust bloomed. He blessed the little part of him that remained human and made touching iron possible, if painful.

"Take him." Hunter tried to turn his mount, but the directional force of the ley was too much even for that brutal beast. The bogle hurried backward even faster, leaping, trying to overcome the forward pull of the ley and overtake Thomas, who was running next to the ley.

A half-dozen more strides saw Thomas safely beyond the bogle's reach. He leapt onto the ley track itself, knelt, and stabbed the thick iron nail into the earth between himself and the bogle, then let go and flung himself backward away from the spike.

Too late he realized he should have jumped from the ley, instead of falling upon it.

There was a flash—not of light, but of energy that burned and flared—and then the ley reacted like a snake that had been cut in half, or a rope under tension. The energy frayed at the point where the cold iron intersected it, then snapped apart, jerking Hunter and his pack to the west, and Thomas to the east. The interrupted ley reeled them away from each other at tremendous speed, the broken ends retracting to their respective anchor points east and west.

Thomas heard Hunter cursing over the frightened, frustrated howls of his hounds. He shot backward through the firs on the flailing sizzle of magic. The eventual crash at the ley's next anchor point was going to hurt like a son of a bitch.

Like an eel thrashing in a net, he struggled to turn and face his direction of travel. Thomas had just made himself a target. He'd bested the Queen's Hunter, however briefly. The thought was bitter, especially when he saw the next anchor point zooming closer and closer: a massive, round rock, balanced on a creekside crag. He wrapped his head in his arms and waited for the world to explode.

M
ONDAY
WAS MORE OF A
Monday than it had ever been. Preoccupied with the strange events of Saturday, Tess worked doubly hard to restore her life to normal by focusing on paperwork and administrative tasks. Her files had never been so organized, her desk so clean, her calendar and email so up to date. She tried for the fifth time to reach the Morris family at home, but like all the other times, no one answered. She left the same voicemail as always, asking them to return her call as soon as possible. With each call, it was more difficult to keep the pleading urgency from her voice and remain professional. Perhaps the family simply wanted to put what had happened to Rory far behind them, but Tess needed to know.

As she completed each task and the end of the day drew closer, the more certain she became that she had to try and find Thomas. She had to see if he'd made it safely home after she'd abandoned him.

He had revealed himself a monster, and yet she was concerned about him.

All she needed to do was make sure he had returned, and then she could get back to her life without the cloud of dread and guilt hanging over her. It wouldn't necessarily mean she cared, or that she believed his wild tales of wicked fairies alive and well in Portland, or shared his drugged-out delusions.

Except...

Except
...

It all fit so neatly, Thomas's tale of the Unseelie Queen and her destructive, dangerous taste for young men. When added to the fact that Aaron's blood tests had never showed any unexpected or illegal substances, enchantment began to sound like a plausible explanation.

And of course there was what she'd seen when she looked through the hole in the stone. The beast with Thomas's eyes.

It was dark when Tess left her office for the night. During the walk to her Jeep, she tried to convince herself she didn't mean to go to Old Town to look for Thomas, but by the time she fitted the key in the car door, she was already thinking about the route she would take. She'd stay in her car as much as possible; look for a glimpse of him on the streets surrounding Underbridge. Damn it, now she was using his word for the market neighborhood. She shook her head hard, and locked the car door as she climbed into the driver's seat.

Naturally, it began to rain, which would only make her task more difficult. She turned the windshield wipers on low as she pulled out of her parking spot. Nervous twitches cramped her stomach, half-belief fighting with rational thought and guilty conscience. It was the most awful emotional stew she'd ever experienced.

Street after street revealed no Thomas. In the steady drizzle, people walked quickly, hoods up, or heads down. No one bothered with umbrellas—those were for tourists. Twice she drove past the Skidmore Fountain and parked for a few minutes, watching people come and go in the area of Saturday Market. No Thomas, though she saw the languid young man who Thomas had all but called a rapist.

There was nothing for it but to get out and check the market on foot. She found on-street parking only a block away and slung her bag across her body, putting her car keys in the pocket of her trousers.

The shops were already shut or closing. In this part of town, even the eateries rarely stayed open much after seven in the evening. There simply wasn't a dinner rush once the commuters left work for the night. The solitude seemed even more pronounced, especially now that she was watching every step. She tried to tell herself she was foolish to be so frightened, but the hairs lifting on the back of her neck told her something atavistic and instinctual instead. The languid young man leaned against a pillar supporting the market's archway and lifted his chin in greeting. His arms were folded over his chest. The sight of him sent a jolt of adrenaline through her. Thomas's warnings had done that much for her awareness, but her imagination was doing the rest.

Tess paused at the fountain, listening to the splash of water and waiting for her heartbeat to slow. No need to frighten herself further. All the same, she kept her eyes on him. She fished in the outer flap pocket of her bag for a stick of gum, feigning nonchalance.

Her fingers found Thomas's beach stone instead and flinched back as if she'd been burned.

"I don't believe in magic," she whispered, but she was trembling.

Maybe you should. You can't explain how Thomas looked the way he did, not with any science, not with any college degree, not with anything you know except hallucinogens, and you weren't taking anything, not even caffeine.

"A rock is just a rock." Even so, she pulled the little stone from her purse and tucked it into her jacket pocket, keeping her hand closed around it loosely.

The young man straightened from the pillar as she walked away from the fountain. Tess pretended not to know him, not even to see him, but remained aware of him all the same. It was Thomas she sought, not a charmer who would tell her what he thought she wanted to hear.

The blackness under the bridge seemed to bulge from beneath the structure, beckoning, mocking. She could see people milling—more than she remembered from previous visits—as she approached. The burn barrel glowed, and the men stood around it, their faces lit from beneath. The fortuneteller sat at her tiny table, hands leafing through her deck, though no one came to have their fortune told. Tess put her back to a bridge support pillar, clutching her bag close, feeling more uneasy than she'd ever felt around street people. Thomas's claims had stuck in her mind, and the past two sleep-deprived, guilt-ridden nights had taken their toll.

Her gaze traveled over the market area, scanning for Thomas's broad shoulders and long coat. She didn't see him right away, but that didn't necessarily mean he hadn't made it safely home. She decided if she didn't find him in five minutes, she'd start asking questions. Nearby, two men haggled over the cost of a soft hat, just one among many strewn over a plaid wool blanket the seller sat behind.

To her left, the fortuneteller had half turned away, shoulder lifted, shutting out Tess. The hanging edge of the dark cloth on her small table rippled in a slow breeze that Tess could not feel. That disparity triggered something in her subconscious, and she scooted back into the shadows, out of easy view.

The rock was heavy in her pocket, slowly warming to her skin. She turned it in her fingers, feeling the hole in its center.

This is ridiculous. I'll just...I'll prove I'm right. Thomas worked a trick of some sort.

Tess brought the stone to her right eye and looked at the fortuneteller through the hole. But she wasn't the fifty-something woman with gray hair. She was a squat, hook-nosed crone with hair like forest lichen, and a cluster of moths clinging to her clothing, creeping slowly over her, wings vibrating, antennae sweeping back and forth like exotic fans. The deck of cards was no longer a familiar tarot. It was a collection of brown leaves, dried petals, torn butterfly wings, and what looked like sheets of translucent skin.

Tess turned away, stifling a gasp. Her heart jolted into her throat. She heard ragged breathing and tried to calm herself.

Laughter and a shower of sparks at the burn barrel caught her attention, and she lifted the stone once more, looking at the men who, to her naked eye, seemed to be pulling apart paperbacks and phone books for fuel in the rainy night. The creatures surrounding the barrel—what had Thomas called them, during his two minutes of recitation at the seaside—redcaps?—were squat manlings, not as tall as her shoulder, with teeth like tigers' and eyes the same red as their fire. Suspended above their burning barrel was a battered cauldron, bubbling away with something darkly viscous.
They would probably have dyed their caps in your blood just for speaking to them.
They were dunking what looked like wool beanie caps in the cauldron, and watching the fabric drip.

Tess's gorge rose.

"Thomas," she squeaked. "Oh, God, Thomas."

It was easier with the stone away from her eye, and yet ever so much worse at the same time. Better to know, or better to remain ignorant of what the market truly was, here in Underbridge when the humans had departed? She turned away from the redcaps and looked across to where someone was shaking out a blanket. Through the stone, she saw an incredible, prismatic net like a bedewed spiderweb lofting through the air, shaking free glinting dust like Sunday-school Christmas glitter art and leaving behind petals and butterflies. The creature doing the shaking was spindly as a birch sapling, and as pale, with hair like silver twigs and eyes as blank and luminous as drops of dew.

A fat toad at the creature's feet sneezed and hopped out of reach of the slow-falling sparkle. A man squatted just a few feet away, staring upward in adoration. Traveling sparks of slow, bluish light worked their way along the seams of his clothing, but otherwise he appeared human.

Without the stone, she saw a street woman and her waddling little dog, and a man wrapped in a rough coat made from a blanket.

Such horror, and such delight.

"Now, where'd you get a clever toy like that one, sweetling?"

The drawling voice startled her, and the guilty need for secrecy made her thrust her hand behind her back. Her head flicked to the voice, and she found the slouching, handsome young man again.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Tess took a firm grip on her purse and shouldered her way past him, intending to return to her Jeep. She needed a safe place behind locked doors to process what she had seen, and the prickles that rose on her skin at the sight of the young man urged her to hurry.

He pointed with his chin as he wrapped his long fingers around her upper arm. "That toy, there. Your little spyglass. Why don't you let me take a look through it, too, see what you were seeing. Must have been something special."

"Let go of me." Tess fought the pull of his hand as he began to drag her arm from behind her back. She broke away and put distance between them, glancing behind her but not taking her eyes off him longer than a second. Swiftly she transferred the stone to her other hand, and brought it to her eye.
I have to know, I have to...

Like a double exposure of nightmare sandwiched over sweet dream, Tess saw something lanky and animalistic—legs like a horse's, even to the hoofed hand that somehow could bend to grip her upper arm. The thing was a dark, wet gray, with streaks of black through its hide, and a white shock of hair like a forelock falling across a shifting face. Her eyes fought for dominance—young man, horseface, long nose, white teeth, drowsy sexy smile—all streaming with water that shone like slime in the glow of the streetlight.

Protruding from the bluejeaned pelvis and horse hip was a nightmare phallus. It bobbed erect, knobbed and immensely long, a collar of dank waterweed dangling from its midpoint.

Screaming Thomas's name, Tess ran, heedless of the direction. She knew without looking that the thing was following her, and it was fast. She dodged like a rabbit, dashing across the blanket full of hats, wondering with a terrified thrill what the hats actually were.